Thinking Straight (10 page)

“And who else?”

“What?”

“Who else do you blame?”

Charles blinked. “No one.”

“Not Ray?”

“No! Ray was lost. He couldn't be blamed, not by me, not for anything.”

“Not Leland?”

Several kids turned to look at the unfortunate fourth in our SafeZone club. So that was Leland.

“No. Not Leland. I can't blame Leland for his weaknesses. It's not my place to judge.”

Weakness? There was some kind of weakness of Leland's that had to do with Ray? You know where my mind went; they must have been lovers. Or wanted to be. Whatever. And my breakfast companion Marie had done something that—according to what Charles had said this morning—was in Leland's best interests, whether Leland agreed that it was nor not. But what?

The Saint already knew what it was, of course; it was old news to her. So she went on pinning Charles to the floor. Wall. Cross. Whatever it was he was begging to be pinned to. She said, “Do you blame God?”

Silence. Now, this was interesting. Everyone seemed to think so, for now all eyes were back on Charles. There was a tense moment, and then Charles was out of his chair and on his knees. “Jesus, Savior, forgive me!”

Holy shit. I'm not repeating myself. I'm not repeating myself.

I had started listening to this little confession of Charles's thinking it was all about me. It wasn't about me at all. It was about my role, though. My role as the gay roommate of Charles Courtney.

And suddenly it was all about me again.

“Taylor, come forward, please.” The voice from the throne.

In a trance, I moved toward her.

She handed me a pad and pen she had reached for after I'd stood up, and said, “What would you like to say to Charles?”

I wrote, “I'm not Jesus. Charles isn't talking to me,” and Mrs. Harnett read it aloud.

“Does Jesus work through us, Taylor? Nod or shake your head.”

Nod. Of course he does.

“Then what would you say to Charles?”

I looked at Charles, who had raised his wet face to look at me. I knew what he wanted to hear. Or see. But I had a question first. I wrote, “What happens if you fail with me, too?” Mrs. Harnett read this silently and gave me, I swear, a look of interested respect. Or maybe it was concern; how many suicides could there be in her group before she got into trouble? Kinda gives a new meaning to
Straight to God.
Anyway, she read it aloud for Charles.

Charles started to speak, had to stop, and started again. “I would pray for guidance. I would pray for the strength to lean on Jesus. I would ask God to show me what to do and what not to do. I would pray for the safekeeping of your soul and know that I can't provide that for you.”

One side of my brain was thinking, What a drama queen. The other was thinking, I've misjudged him. He's really sincere. He really believed that prayer he prayed last night, the one thanking God for me. He meant it. He was goddamned fucking honest. And he desperately needs a second chance.

I was still staring at him when Mrs. Harnett asked me, “Is there something else you'd like to say to Charles?” She held the pad out to me and I took it.

I wrote, “If I were Jesus, I would forgive you.”

She looked at it but didn't read it aloud. “Take it to him,” she said.

I walked back to where Charles was still kneeling on the floor. He read it and started sobbing. He stood up and wrapped me in his arms and dropped tears all over my shoulder.

WTF? I mean, What The Fuck? (Which is worse—IM or what it means?) What am I supposed to do with this?

What
could
I do? I hugged him back. Everyone in the room stood up and started clapping. I heard, “Praise the Lord!” and “Thank you, Jesus!” and “Amen!” It was like being at a revival, or at least the way I'd always imagined a revival would be. And I have a little confession of my own to make. It felt great.

Hell, it felt fucking fantastic. Before I knew it, I was getting a little misty. Not sobbing like my new best friend Charles, but still…I don't remember who pulled away first; not sure it matters, anyway. But I do remember being on such a high that I had a hard time focusing on anything that was said, by anyone, for several minutes afterward. Everyone turned in their Bibles to the different places the Saint called out, and she asked some kids to read, but I couldn't tell you what the verses were. My own thoughts kept preempting the regular programming. They ran something like this:

1. Charles turned himself in.
   
2. Charles
   didn't
   turn
   me
   in.
   
3. The Saint didn't ask him if he'd seen anything worth interrupting, or even if he'd had a reason to suspect that he would.
   
4. Charles has a trustworthy spirit; Proverbs says so.
   
5. The Saint might just be okay.
   

When I started listening once again, a girl was standing, reading from her Bible. I had been able to focus just well enough to turn to the references the Saint had been calling out, so I was open to Hebrews. She was reading chapter 4, starting at verse 12, the one about the sword of God being sharp enough to divide soul and spirit, not to mention bones, joints, and other unmentioned body parts. The sword knows our thoughts, actions, attitudes—it knows what's in our hearts, and we can't hide anything from it. In fact, it leaves us cut open in a way that lets those we might have injured see into our hearts as well.

I was sort of familiar with this text, but I'd never really understood this bit. I mean, what's the difference between soul and spirit? How can the two be divided? And as for a sword being able to judge…It was some kind of metaphor, I'd figured that out. But it all seemed kind of jumbled.

The girl who'd been reading sat down again, and the Saint let several seconds go by before she said, “All of these verses we've just been listening to can help us to understand what Charles is going through. But I think these verses from Hebrews are the clearest. Who would like to offer their thoughts?”

Marie, the girl from breakfast, raised her hand. The Saint called on her, and Marie said, “God saw that Charles's faith was too focused on himself. On what he thought he could do on his own. So he had Charles break a Program Rule that affected Taylor. Then God's sword cut into Charles so that everyone could see what was wrong.”

I hated what Marie said. In fact, I was getting to hate Marie. She'd tried like hell at breakfast to get at Charles, and she was at it again. It was like she needed to cut him down to her size.

The Saint smiled in a knowing kind of way and asked the group, “Could this have had such an effect on Charles if his heart had not been open?” No one said anything. I had to stand up for him. I raised my hand.

The Saint blinked at me. “Taylor, you're in SafeZone. You can't take an active role in the discussion this evening.”

What the hell had I been doing before, then, during the “Charles Tells All” routine? I picked up the pad of paper, still at my feet from before, and held it aloft.

Such a sad smile she gave me. “I'm sorry, Taylor. We can't allow that. It was necessary to call on you earlier for Charles's sake. That was a decision I made. But it was an exception. Anyone else?”

I didn't know whether I was more confused or more hurt. Here I'd been thinking this was all about love and connection and good will, but I'm obviously not to be included in all that wonderfulness. I'm on the outside.

I decided what I felt was anger. I barely heard the Saint call the name Nate, but when everyone turned to look at him, I turned with them. I almost didn't; I mean, if I was ostracized, then I may as well just go sit at the back of the room, and I was thinking of doing just that. But before I could decide, Nate started to talk. And when I turned, I realized it was Shorty. From the laundry room.

“God's sword is part of God. And when we invite God into our lives, the sword comes, too. If we don't know that at the start, it isn't long before we figure it out. Because we get cut by it. And we don't always know where it's likely to cut, because we can't always see into our own hearts as clearly as God does. Some people shut themselves away from God when they get cut because they thought it was going to be all sweetness and light and it isn't.”

“Do you think Charles will turn away?”

Nate shook his head. “No. Charles wants to be cut.” Most of the kids giggled nervously. Perhaps Charles had a reputation for spiritual masochism? Nate looked around and smiled. “I guess that sounded funny. What I mean is, he wants God to cut away anything that isn't righteous. And the fact that Taylor forgave him will encourage him to keep his heart open.”

Well. Shorty may like ribald lyrics, but he's also a mean hand at applying scripture. And maybe at understanding Charles. Charles wanted to be righteous, that's certain, and he was trying to be just that when he interrupted my Contemplation. But if I understood Shorty, Charles himself didn't know at the time that it was actually lack of faith that made him interrupt me. So in comes God with his sword to cut Charles open.

Was that me? Was I God's sword? I mean, I'd reminded him what the Program Rule was. I'd practically accused him of sniffing my cum-covered tissues, too.

And then I'd forgiven him.

Maybe Jesus really does work through us. I'd meant that nod earlier, but it was mostly pro forma, something I'd been told and hadn't really questioned. Now it seemed real.

Other people were talking but I wasn't listening. Again. I was still staring at Shorty. I'm not sure when he realized it, but finally he looked back at me. And winked. And then smiled. And then turned to look at whoever was speaking.

Okay, so what was that all about? It was almost like he was letting me know he didn't take any of this seriously. But I was taking it very seriously. And he must have meant what he'd said. It made so much sense. And it was so true.

Now I was really confused. I felt like I was on some kind of roller-coaster ride. One minute I'm isolated and can't communicate, the next I'm in the middle of a really moving little scene, then I'm isolated again. Then I'm really getting high on this idea that I'd been used by God to help Charles, mostly because of what Shorty said, and then Shorty winks at me and takes me down from that spiritual height again. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized I was still thinking of him as Shorty, but I wasn't yet convinced he deserved any better.

Suddenly I needed to know how the other SafeZone kids were feeling. As soon as I could do it without sticking out like a sore thumb, I glanced at Monica Moon. She had this look on her face like, “I hate this. I don't want to be here. I don't want to know what any of these people think, and I refuse to listen to what they say. I hate everything. And maybe everyone.”

Sheldon's expression, when I could look at him, was like, “Please get me through this. Help me survive.”

Getting a chance to stare at Leland was more of a challenge. No one around him was saying anything, so the group didn't turn his way. It wasn't until the end of the session that I got my chance. And I didn't know what to make of it. He was still rocking in his chair, even though everyone else had stood up, but he wasn't staring into space. He was looking at Shorty. And somehow I knew that Shorty knew it. In fact, as I watched, on his way toward the door to leave, Shorty walked behind Leland. With the smallest gesture, he barely raised his hand and laid it, just for a second, on Leland's shoulder. Half of Leland's mouth twitched into a smile.

On the way back to our room, I was feeling pretty overwhelmed. I'd seen and felt so many conflicting things that I was falling back into that place where, like, nobody was real. Nobody was honest. I couldn't count on anybody to be what they seemed to be.

Except maybe Charles. Just outside our doorway, he stopped and turned to me. He extended his hand for me to shake, so I did, and he said, “Thank you.”

Yup. Masochist. Righteous. But honest about it. All I could do was nod.

Christ! I wanted to talk to Will so badly! He has this wit, this quirky way of looking at things, that ties everything together. Here, the good and the bad, the serious and the funny, all seem to be sharply divided. It's like there's a time for this and a time for that, and don't mix them.

Will mixes them. Will can talk about serious stuff, but something about the way he brings lightness into it makes it go in that much deeper. He's all about connection, not separation. And, man, did I feel separated.

Back in the room I sat at my desk and leaned on my folded arms. Behind me I heard Charles say, “I'm going to the bathroom. You should come now so you won't be in there alone.”

I lifted my head and stared at him, trying to project what I was thinking: “You're overdoing things again, Charles. You're not responsible for me, or for the kids who don't look for a yellow sticker before they talk to me.”

He must have gotten it. He shrugged and left. And I leaned my head on my arms again.

I was beginning to get this SafeZone thing. On the one hand, it was a kind of protection. I wasn't expected to know what to say or not to say, or to understand yet what all the little unwritten rules were. Not talking had kept me from being embarrassed sometimes, but more important it'd kept me from saying some things I'd regret. Things I'd get into trouble for.