Wayward Son (14 page)

Mikey turned toward the counter, where another too-perky-for-this-early airline employee waited. He readjusted his backpack and stepped forward. Time to get this show on the road….

M
IKEY
’
S
FLIGHT
landed on time, and it wasn’t until he’d followed his fellow passengers off the plane and into the terminal that he realized he’d forgotten to do any research about this end of the trip. He hadn’t been in the Orlando airport since he was a kid, and nothing looked even vaguely familiar.

A man and woman dressed in khaki shorts and brightly colored T-shirts brushed past him. Each of them had a rolling carry-on in one hand and a firm grip on a small child with the other, and Mikey seized on the opportunity and followed them. Either they were locals headed home or, more likely, they were tourists bound for a theme park or three, but either way there was no way those two small bags would have held everything they needed for themselves and the kids. They would need baggage claim, and that would get Mikey somewhere near where he could find a taxi, if nothing else.

The family followed the crowd onto a train not too different from the monorail at Disney. As he grabbed a pole and held on for the ride, Mikey wondered if another Disney hopeful like him had taken out his frustrations on the airport design. Or maybe the airport people just figured they’d get the fun started early, he thought, watching the little kids stare out the windows, eyes wide with wonder even though the view was nothing but concrete and airplanes.

The train pulled to a stop, and Mikey followed the cute kids and their parents until he caught sight of a sign for taxis. His stomach rumbled, the bagel and coffee he’d had back in Atlanta only a distant memory, but he didn’t see anywhere to get food. Not wanting to get waylaid on his trip, he decided he’d ask if he could tip his driver a little extra to pull through a drive-through and headed straight for the doors outside.

The oppressive Florida heat hit him like a brick wall, bringing with it the full realization of what he was about to do. Talking to his father face to face had seemed courageous and necessary the night before. In the glaring midday sunlight, anxiety pushed its way back in.

By sheer force of will, Mikey dragged his feet over to join the taxi line. A half-dozen people stood between him and a too-short ride to his father’s office. The expansive sanctuary in which the Reverend Robert O’Malley brought his version of God’s word to his flock would be quiet and empty, but Mikey knew the halls of the adjacent building would be bustling with activity. Office staff, music directors, television and radio technicians, and the other ministers who handled youth programming, chapel services, and most of the actual business of pastoring the huge congregation would all be hard at work. His father would be seated behind his giant mahogany desk, surrounded by sumptuous leather furniture, expensive but tasteful artwork, and a wall of bookshelves filled with Bibles, concordances, and the printed works of dozens of conservative religious leaders—including three authored by Reverend O’Malley himself.

“Hey, kid, you’re up.”

Mikey blinked away the image of his father and moved toward the taxi that waited for him. He didn’t need to hold on to the image. He’d see the real thing in person soon enough.

M
IKEY
’
S
PHONE
buzzed as the taxi pulled through the gates at the campus of the Orange Grove Fellowship Church. He was surprised he’d managed to get that far before someone called to check up on him. The display read COCO LAMÉ, but he just ignored the call and turned the ringer off so he wouldn’t be interrupted. He knew Cory and the others meant well, but this was something he needed to do on his own.

Well, mostly on his own. The one text he’d sent from the cab had been to Kitty, his former roommate and friend. She’d been thrilled he was in town and told him of course he could stay with her. She’d be off work at four, so they made arrangements to meet at a shopping center near the Disney complex.

He’d given up on the idea of getting something to eat on the drive in from the airport. His stomach had rebelled at the thought.

The taxi wound its way up the curving driveway, the tall spire above the main sanctuary rising on their right side. Mikey slid forward in his seat. “The office is straight ahead,” he said. “That’s where I’m going.”

The driver nodded. “I seen this place on TV sometimes,” he drawled out. “Hadn’t brought no one out here, though. Didn’t know it was so big.”

Mikey shook his head. “Just big enough to get lost in,” he murmured.

He didn’t know if the driver heard him, but the man fell silent as he pulled the taxi up to the office door. “Thirty-six eighty,” he said, and Mikey winced as he pulled two twenties out of his wallet and held them out for the man to grab.

“Thanks.”

Mikey popped the door and slid out. The faint scent of oranges on the air brought up a flood of memories. True to its name, the church had been built on a former orange grove, and the fruit trees still lined the edges of the property. Mikey vaguely remembered the open fields that had stood here when they’d first arrived from Atlanta fourteen years earlier and, more clearly, the construction that had gone on for over a year to build the sanctuary and offices. He’d been fascinated, like any little boy, by the dump trucks and the men in hard hats and work boots. Only a little boy’s interest, though. Puberty hadn’t hit until after the work was done.

Shouldering his backpack and steeling his nerve, Mikey walked up to the large double doors and pulled one open. A blast of chilly air from inside made him shiver at the contrast with the sauna-like atmosphere on his side of the door. A flash of memory surfaced, of reading Dante in one of his high school English classes, and the vision of sinners frozen in ice in the ninth circle of hell. He shook off the thought. He was nervous enough about this visit without pulling in random, if apt, literary references to make things worse.

He stepped inside and didn’t allow himself to hesitate, crossing the richly carpeted floor in a few long strides to stop in front of the reception desk. A pretty young woman with her blond hair swept into a neat updo and wearing a high-collared white blouse flashed white teeth at him. “Good morning. Welcome to Orange Grove. May I help you?”

He didn’t recognize her, which was good. Dealing with any of the people who knew him through his father would’ve made things more difficult. “I hope so,” he said, forcing a smile in return. “I’m here to see Reverend O’Malley. I don’t have an appointment, but I’m pretty sure he’ll make the time.”

The woman’s smile faltered. “He has a full schedule today, but let me call to see if he has any time available. May I have your name, please?”

Mikey held on to the smile, but barely. “I’m Michael,” he replied. “His son.”

A
FEW
minutes later, Mikey stood outside the wide wooden doors of his father’s office. He knocked, and the familiar voice from inside called for him to come in.

Mikey pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him. The office looked just like he remembered, all dark wood and leather furniture, and his father sat in his usual spot, looking up at Mikey over the top of a pair of reading glasses that hadn’t been there the last time Mikey saw him.

“Well, come on in,” his father said, waving a hand at the seats across from him. “Considering how long it’s been since we heard from you, I’m guessing it must be something pretty important to get you to set foot in this building at all, much less come all the way from Atlanta to do it.”

And if that didn’t just set the tone…. Mikey sighed, and some of the tension ran out of his body. His father never had been one for beating around the bush. Mikey slid his backpack off his shoulders as he crossed the room and set it down on the floor next to him when he slid into one of the chairs.

“Hi, Dad,” he managed, and Rev. O’Malley raised an eyebrow at him before putting down the pen he still held and taking off the glasses.

“Hello, Michael.” His father never had cared for Mikey’s preferred nickname. “Do you need money?”

Yep. Direct
. Mikey almost laughed. “No, I don’t need money.”

Robert leaned forward and folded his hands together on the desktop. “Well, after the letter you sent us, somehow I don’t think you’re here to beg forgiveness and rejoin the fold.”

Mikey did laugh then, short and rueful. “You’re right,” he agreed. “None of that has changed. I’m still gay. I’m still living in Atlanta, and I’m still going to art school.”

“All right, then.” Robert leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “If it’s not money or a retraction, then what can I help you with?”

“I think it’s more what I can help you with,” Mikey shot back. “I’m pretty sure you’re about to be the target of a shakedown, with me as the weapon. At least if what my lawyer is telling me is accurate.”

Now that got Robert’s attention. He sat up straight and pinned Mikey with a look. “Maybe you should start at the beginning.”

Mikey nodded. “Maybe I should.”

A
N
HOUR
later, after a lot of explanations, questions, and answers—the ones Mikey could provide, at least—Robert was on the phone with his lawyer, and Mikey stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the church grounds. The remaining fruit trees encircled a pond with a fountain in the center, and a few birds floated on the surface, painting a picture of serenity and peace. Mikey needed that after their discussion. His father’s demeanor had been supportive, even protective, rather than the castigation Mikey had feared, but that didn’t keep Mikey’s stomach from continuing to churn. The lack of lunch wasn’t helping matters.

The sound of the phone receiver hitting the cradle prompted Mikey to turn back from the window. Robert had stood for his call, pacing back and forth behind his desk, but instead of dropping into his chair, he was rolling down his sleeves and buttoning his cuffs.

“Warren wants to meet in an hour,” he said. “I haven’t had lunch yet. You hungry?”

“Starved.” The word spilled out before Mikey realized it. It had been years since his father had appeared so… comfortable around him. His last few visits with his parents had been formal and polite at best, and even before he’d first brought up the word “gay,” almost two years earlier, they’d never exactly been all that affectionate.

Though as Mikey considered further, he couldn’t remember the last time it had just been him and his father. He’d mostly spent time with them at home, and his mother had always been there too.

“There’s a pretty decent diner a couple of blocks from Warren’s office,” Robert said as he reached for the suit jacket draped across the back of his chair. “I’ll just tell Emma I’ll be out for a while.”

Mikey remembered what the receptionist had told him. “I thought your schedule was full today?”

Robert chuckled and slipped on the jacket. “Standard line,” he admitted. “I’d have people in and out all day without a gatekeeper. Not that I don’t have work to do”—he waved a hand at his desk, where several file folders sat on the surface—“but it’s nothing urgent at the moment.” He grinned. “Let’s get going. I could use something fried right about now.”

Mikey wondered if he’d slipped into an alternate dimension. His father treating him like a normal person? Like a friend? Walking away from his desk in the middle of the day and heading out to eat, at a diner, even?

At a loss for words, he just nodded and followed his father out the door.

T
HE
DINER
was nothing like Mikey expected. Sure, diner and greasy spoon and all that, but he’d seen some of the high-end places with “diner” in the name around Orlando. Tourist traps made to look like something out of a movie, with high prices and mediocre food.

Mama’s Diner looked like the real deal. Tucked into a tiny space between an auto body shop and a Laundromat, the building had the façade of a true ’50s-era diner, but suitably faded with age. The patchwork quilt of a parking lot showed only the slightest hint that there might once have been lines for spaces painted on the surface, but they’d long faded away or been covered up. As the car bumped over a pothole and pulled in to one of the few available spaces in the surprisingly full lot, Mikey wondered why he’d never been here before. They’d eaten out plenty when he was younger, but usually at some high-end place that barely allowed the presence of children or at the country club that his mother’s great-grandfather had cofounded.

Since when did the Reverend Robert J. O’Malley eat in dilapidated diners on the wrong side of the tracks?

Mikey didn’t dare ask that question. He had his father’s attention, at least, and he wasn’t going to get run off until this stuff was settled.
We’ll eat, talk to the lawyer, and then I’ll get the next flight I can or stay with Kitty, depending
, he thought, loose gravel crunching under his sneakers as they walked toward the door.

And call home and tell them where the hell you are
, another part of his brain piped up. He sighed mentally. Yeah, he’d better do that, or Riley would send out the troops. And considering the most likely candidates for that job would probably be Jimmy and/or Cory…. Well, if nothing else, it would be entertaining to see them take on his father, even if would likely mean the end to whatever fragile truce they had going on now.

Inside the diner was much like the outside, though somewhat more updated. The well-worn black counter and tabletops stood in contrast to the much more pristine stools and booths, which Riley supposed made sense considering the bright red vinyl upholstery would require much more upkeep. Vintage license plates, framed photos of people Mikey didn’t recognize, and the occasional vintage movie poster covered the walls, and a pass-through to the kitchen brought a bit of smoke and the smell of cooking grease into the dining area.