Blackbird (22 page)

“Good. Tell me” – Daniel studied his knees – “have you continued to experience these, these unnatural desires?”

Here it was: the bridge I’d told myself I would cross when I got to it. My stomach felt like lead. I took a deep breath.

“Yes. And I’ve accepted them. I’m gay.”

Dad began to cry with renewed vigor. Mom’s sneer curled further. “You probably think you’re real cute,” she said, “going to Daniel with this ‘I think I’m a homosexual’ crap, and now sittin’ here and tellin’ us you’ve
accepted
that you’re gay.”

“No, Mother, I don’t think – ”

She clamped her fist over her belly.

“Lord ha’ mercy today! I don’t know what I coulda done to give birth to a per
vert
.”

“Mother, I am not a pervert.” I hated the way my voice sounded: weak and whiny and childish.

“You are!
Pervert
!”

Dad sobbed out loud. Mom put a hand on his heaving shoulder and shot me a crippling glance.

“Mom … Mother …” I could hear my own voice breaking, feel tears hot behind my eyes. “I can’t help what I am.” I tried so hard to speak calmly. I didn’t want to sound like some hysterical child, even though I felt exactly like some hysterical child. “And I am gay.”

Dad wailed again. Mom’s eyes narrowed to shiny slits.

“You’re doing this to hurt us!” she accused.

“No!” I’d never in my life felt so helpless, so weak. How could I cause this kind of pain, just by being what I am? I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody. God, I was just trying to be. “No. I love you.”

“You don’t.”

“Mother!”

“You can’t. Say you love us, and then do somethin’ like this.”

“Mother.” I was crying by this time, just couldn’t hold it back.

“It’s not something I’m doing. It’s something I am. I just
am
.”

“It’s wrong, Johnnie Ray. God don’t like it. It’s dirty and sinful and it’s just plain wrong.”

I felt nauseated; I thought I might vomit.

“It’s of Satan, Johnnie Ray. You have to fight it.”

“I can’t.”

“You can!” she said with a finality that let me know it was from God’s lips to hers. “Jesus will help you.”

“Oh, Mother – ”

“Have you asked him? Have you asked the Savior to help you?”

“Yes.” I hadn’t exactly asked him personally. But I thought of the time Daniel had prayed over me, and assumed that counted. “Yes, I have. And Daniel” – I gestured toward the youth minister, sitting in beatific calm across from us – “he laid hands on me and prayed for me. But it didn’t work. It didn’t work.” I hoped that perhaps Mom would take God’s lack of immediate action as evidence that the Lord didn’t mind. Fat chance.

“And have you prayed every day for help? Every day?”

“No,” I had to admit. “Not every day.” Not once, actually.

“No?” A look of utter incredulity tilted my mother’s face. “And why not? Don’t you want to be normal?”

Normal? Didn’t I want to be normal? Well, did I? Most days, if you asked me if I really wanted to be anything else than what I was, I’d have probably paused, given the matter a few moments’ thought, and said no. But that frightening Saturday night, when my mother asked the musical question, “Don’t you want to be normal?” all I could think was that I certainly didn’t want more of this.

I didn’t want my own parents wishing I’d never been born, didn’t want them to hurt and cry and think me sick and godless (and tell me so to my face). I couldn’t help thinking perhaps it might be better to have your father break your face and get it over with, though I couldn’t say I exactly wanted that, either.

But did I want to be normal?

From where I was sitting, the alternative looked unbearable.

Don’t you want to be normal?

“I – I guess so.”

“You
guess
so?”

“Yes.” I finally relented. “Yes, I do.”

Dad looked up, his eyes bloody red, and spoke coherently for the first time since I’d come home.

“Of course you do, son. You’re no pervert. No son of mine is gonna be a pervert. You’re just a little confused, that’s all.”

Confused? Daddy (I thought), you don’t know from confused.

“I’m afraid what we’re dealing with here is more serious than just confusion,” Daniel said. “I’m convinced that this is a case of possession by unclean spirits.”

“What?” Mom, Dad, and I said in chorus.

“You’re saying I’m possessed? Like in
The Exorcist
?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I don’t believe that,” Mom said with finality.

“Oh, there’s any amount of Biblical precedent here.” Daniel opened the Bible I have never seen him without and turned quickly to a page marked with a little slip of paper – he’d obviously done some homework. “Book of Mark, chapter five, verse two: ‘And when he was come out of the ship, immediately there met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit.’ And yudda yudda yudda, verse nine: ‘And he asked him, What is thy name? And he answered, saying, My name is Legion: for we are many.’

“And yudda yudda.” He moved his finger down the page. “And verse eleven: ‘Now there was there nigh unto the mountains a great herd of swine feeding. And all the devils besought him, saying, Send us into the swine, that we may enter into them. And forthwith Jesus gave them leave. And the unclean spirits went out, and entered into the swine.’ Also Luke, chapter eight – ”

“I don’t know about this unclean spirits mess,” Mom said, giving me a vigorous version of her trademark finger-wag, “but I know this: you can beat this thing. I know you can. You just. Have. To pray!” Mom punctuated her words with slaps to the top of the coffee table. “Pray. Every day. Read your Bible. Every day.” She was beginning to sound like Billy Graham via Daniel Levine. “Trust the Lord to help you. And he
will
, Johnnie Ray. He! Will!”

“Yes.” I felt broken, battered, as if I’d just been beat up by a drunken motorcycle gang.

“You just have to give girls a chance, son,” my father added. “You just haven’t given girls a chance. What about that nice Cherie? I thought for sure you had somethin’ nice going with her.”

It’s what you wanted to think, Daddy. (I thought that to myself, but didn’t dare say it. I could think of nothing whatever to say.)

My God, what was I supposed to do? Somehow make myself want girls the way I just naturally wanted guys? From what I knew on the subject, girls were not supposed to be an acquired taste, like oysters on the half-shell. Daniel says I’m demon-possessed, and Dad says give girls a chance. Give girls a chance, he tells me. All we are saying, is give girls a chance. How could anyone think it was that simple?

“I can’t do it.”

“What?” Mom sat up rigid again; Dad started to sniffle.

“I can’t do it alone,” I said. “I know I can’t. I just can’t.”

“You won’t be alone!” Mom almost screamed it. “Jesus will help you.”

“If I may suggest something” – Daniel raised an inquiring index finger – “Johnnie Ray might well be right.”

“What?” Mom clutched at her belly again.

“As I’ve said, this seems to be a clear case of unclean spirits.

There are instances – the story of Legion, for example – in which these spirits are so strong, or so numerous, that it is difficult if not impossible for the afflicted to heal himself through prayer, or even for the average minister like myself to help the victim.”

“Oh my Jesus,” Mom said, “what can we do?”

“I have a friend,” said Daniel. “His name is Solomon Hunt, and his spiritual gift is in the deliverance from unclean spirits. He’s often able to help where others can’t.”

“Deliverance from – you’re talking about exorcism here, aren’t you?” I said. I wasn’t sure I liked the direction this conversation was moving in.

“It’s similar, I suppose, but – ”

“You really think this Solomon could help?” Dad swabbed at his nose with a sopping handkerchief.

“Yes, I do. I’ve seen him help others. I could set up an appointment with Solomon – ”

“When?” Mom asked.

“As early as, say, tomorrow after church.”

“The sooner the better,” Mom said.

And that (as they say) was that.

Before Daniel finally took his leave, the four of us joined hands and sang “Yield Not to Temptation.”

Chapter Twenty

Monday evening, the day after my deliverance from unclean spirits, while Mom was washing the dinner dishes (humming “Yield Not to Temptation”), the telephone rang. I was sitting in the living room, pretending to read the newspaper (and I never read the newspaper – too depressing), but actually contemplating my recent past and immediate future. I picked up the phone halfway through the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Don’t say anything.” Efrem, speaking in a conspiratorial stage whisper. “We have to talk. Sneak out of the house around midnight and meet me at El Taco, okay? If you’ll be there, say ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid you have the wrong number.’”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

“Who’s on the phone?” Mom called from the kitchen before the receiver had even left my hand.

“Wrong number.”

Luckily, Mom and Dad can always be counted on to be in bed well before ten o’clock. The sound of Dad’s snoring filled the house by eleven. Since I had to walk all the way to El Taco, I was glad to have the extra time. The place was practically deserted except for Efrem, who was sitting alone in a back booth sipping a large soft drink. His face was almost back to normal. Except for the fact that he looked as if he hadn’t smiled since the Accident and might in fact never smile again.

“Hi.”

He almost smiled when he saw me.

“Sit down. It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too.” I hadn’t seen Efrem since I’d left him at the hospital, right after the Accident. He hadn’t been back to school in going on three weeks, and after my initial visit to the hospital, Mom and Dad had informed me that maybe it might be better for me not to spend time with Efrem for a while. Just in case homosexuality was contagious, I suppose. I’d called a couple of times, but Efrem’s father had answered the phone and said that Efrem was asleep, no matter what time I called.

“You look pretty good,” I said.

“All things considered.” One side of Efrem’s mouth went up, but it wasn’t really a smile exactly.

“Yeah. How are things at home?”

“Oh, fabulous. My father has neither spoken to me nor looked me in the face since – well, since. And Mom just looks at me as if I’ve died and she’s in mourning. It’s a barrel of laughs. In case you haven’t heard, I’ve been officially cured by the power of the Holy Spirit, yuk yuk, but I don’t think either of my folks are really buying it.”

“Did you get the deliverance treatment, too?”

“No. Daniel prayed over me right there in my hospital room; and after he was finished, I told them it worked, I was cured and I’d go and sin no more. And you know, I think they all wanted to believe it so much that they decided to go ahead and pretend to believe it.

I guess now the trick is not to think about it very much. How about you? You got delivered?”

“So they tell me.”

“So? Tell.”

The waitress came over. She was a girl I knew of but didn’t exactly know from school. She dyed her hair red, and was known as something of a slut. I think her name was Gloria something.

“You want something?”

“Who, me? No, not for me, thanks.” I’d completely forgotten to bring my wallet. All I had on me was my house key.

“Bring him a large Dr. Pepper, and we’ll share a large order of onion rings. On me,” he said.

“Thanks. Anyway, about the deliverance.”

It wasn’t anything like I expected. There were none of the trappings of mystic metaphysics I thought I’d see. No dark rooms with flocks of lighted candles; no incense, no splashing of holy water – well, these were Baptists, after all. It was done in Solomon Hunt’s living room in Canoga Park. The afternoon was hot and smoggy and the atmosphere was not in the least bit metaphysical, as far as I could tell.

Neither, in my opinion, was Solomon Hunt himself. Solomon Hunt did not, as I had assumed, look like Max von Sydow in
The Exorcist
. He looked more like Richard Thomas in
The Waltons
. He answered the door wearing jeans, a “Maranatha” t-shirt, and no shoes.

He looked about the same age as Marshall, and to tell you the truth, he was almost as cute. Not the most encouraging first reaction for a guy who’s come to be cured of thinking guys are cute. Daniel had, of course, accompanied Mom, Dad, and me on the two-hour drive to the Hunts’ house, and we all sat down as Solomon’s wife, a pretty young woman who looked like she could have just as easily been Solomon’s sister, asked if anybody wanted coffee. Nobody did.

Daniel made introductions all around, and as I shook Solomon Hunt’s hand, I noticed that he had one of the strongest handshakes I’d ever felt, and that his eyes were so light a blue that they almost looked blind, useless; they seemed to look through me and out into nothing at all.

Solomon took both my hands in his.

“Let us pray.” He closed his eyes tight. “Lord Jesus” – he held the first syllable of Jesus way out, and bit off the second – “let your blessed Holy Spirit be with us here this day, and give us your precious healing pow-ah. I pray in the name of Jay-zuss. Ayyy-men.”

Mom and Dad and Daniel amen’d back. It occurred to me that this Solomon person had watched entirely too many Billy Graham crusades on TV. He had quite a well-developed sense of the dramatic, and an obviously affected in again/out again Boston Clam Chowder accent. I’d walked into this thing with a certain skepticism. I wasn’t any too sure I really wanted to be cured of my homosexuality; and I certainly didn’t believe this young man (who looked more like a J.C. student than a great Deliverer) could cure me even if I
was
sure I wanted it.

I’d only agreed to come at all out of utter depression. I knew there was no way I could make myself straight. I like guys. I like liking guys. So if somebody could actually pray me into active heterosexuality, I was willing to let them. It could only make life simpler. I could settle down with Cherie Baker (or someone an awful lot like her) and sire many children. Besides, considering my parents’ reaction to the news of what they (wrongly) believed to be unnatural desires as yet not acted upon, what real choice did I have? Unfortunately, I wasn’t so sure I was going to be able to keep a straight face through much of Solomon Hunt’s Jay-zussing all over the place.