Thinking Straight (23 page)

Nate: “Exactly! Is it possible that homosexuality could reasonably have been considered sinful then because of what it would have meant to the rest of the community, whereas today things are different?”

Jessica: “It's possible…Like the shellfish and the mixed fibers…And the slavery!”

Nate turns to me. “Taylor, did you want to come to this program?”

I shake my head vigorously.

He hands me my pad. “Why were you sent?”

I write, “Because I'm gay. They want me to change.”

To the group Nate says, “We've changed our minds about a lot of things that were once sacred laws because they don't apply in our time. If people could see that homosexuality was a sin but isn't any longer, would Taylor have been sent here?”

A few voices say, “No.”

“Would Ray have died like that?”

“No.”

“Would there be less hate in the world, and more love?”

“Yes!”

“What must we do?”

“Establish and maintain loving connection in everything we do.”

“Why? What must not fail?”

“Understanding that the path to God is love.”

Nate takes my pad and pen and sets them down, and then he takes my hand and Jessica's. All around the circle, kids take each other's hands, and they bow their heads. So I do, too.

There's no sound. No words.

I've never felt anything like this in my life. There's something like an electric current passing around the circle through our hands, and we are one. All one person. Some gay, some not; some boys, some girls; some forceful like Dawn, and some gentle like Danielle; some obstinate like Jamie, and some brilliant like Nate; all one. And that great feeling I'd had on Monday night after Charles had begged forgiveness? That was real, but it was only a shadow of this.

We can't stay any longer and still get back to our rooms in time, but what a high to leave on. They decide the next meeting isn't until Sunday night, and it makes me sad to think that maybe not all these same kids will be there. Maybe I won't even be there.

Nate walks with me to the door, his arm around my shoulders. “Taylor, I can't promise that every meeting will be like this one. I've been saving that topic for a special occasion, and you were it. Mostly we get high on the chance to be open about God, like they did in the first century. In secret meetings. Outside the rule book, outside the program. And that's a great high, too.” He slaps my back. “I'll, uh, deal with the paper you used tonight, by the way.”

I smile and nod; thanks.

Everyone is leaving one at a time, silently. Nate hangs back, I suppose to lock the door, and I head back alone toward my room. As I round a corner I see Danielle not far ahead of me, so I slow down; it would be better not to overtake her. She turns to look around her, sees me, waves, and moves on.

And I see that she's pregnant.

Charles is at his desk, hunched over a pad of paper. Writing a letter, it looks like. And for the first time I remember that I'm allowed to write home once a week. Maybe this weekend; I haven't been here quite a week yet, after all, impossible though that seems.

He can't ask me where I've been—or, he can't expect an answer—so we just nod at each other. It looks as though he's trying to shield whatever he's writing so I won't see what it is. What do I care? I practically throw myself on my bed and lean against the wall, hands behind my head, and watch my roommate. Charles the honest. Charles the true. Charles the tender. Imagine him always asking Danielle to accompany him, and she's pregnant. And not by him.

This has been one of the two most amazing evenings of my life, and I can't talk about it. The other, of course, was the first time I was with Will. Come to think of it, I didn't do much talking about that one, either.

I can't talk, but I can feel. And the thing that makes both that evening and this one so wonderful is love.

T
he next time I get a chance to talk is during my noon meeting with Harnett. She's got my third MI, which has almost nothing in it. Just that I was angry about being in SafeZone and about having my room searched. I have no idea whether she's planning to take the sticker off or make me do more time, and I'm in a strange mood 'cause it looked like there might just maybe have been someone Nate talked to at break today, but I couldn't be sure.

I shut the door and sit when she says to. Then she says, “Have you spoken since our meeting yesterday?” I shake my head. “Were you tempted?”

Was I? Sure, I was angry when I realized I couldn't speak at the circle, but that's different. Finally I shrug; it's a compromise.

“And have you had time to think about the things you wrote in here?” And she holds up the MI. I nod. “You may take the sticker off now.” I do, and she takes it away from me. “Where have those thoughts led you?”

One thing I'd been thinking about a lot since my circle meeting is that discussion we had about sin, and I was wondering if Harnett did something that felt like sin to me but that led to something good, was it sin? And how much credit or blame does she deserve?

I tell her, “You're in a weird spot. I mean, your role. It's like you have to teach, but you can't teach anything important just by telling. So I don't even know how much of what I've thought about is what you intended, or if any of it's coming to me the way you expected it to.”

She sits back in her chair, nods slowly two or three times, and closes her eyes. I almost get the feeling she's about to cry. Finally she opens her eyes again and says, “What has come into your heart?”

“Love. I felt lots of love last night when no one wanted to say anything to make me feel bad. Well, almost no one.”

Her smile is so personal, I don't think she knows she's doing it. “And what's the lesson? Can you articulate it?”

“I can't be humble just by deciding to be humble. And I can't love just by deciding to do that, either. And I can't do any of it alone.”

“You need God?”

Well, what I was thinking was, I needed the other kids, but she isn't wrong. So I say yes.

She digs in her desk for a minute and comes up with a digital camera. And before I can believe she's going to, she takes my picture. I'd forgotten about that; Strickland had done that last Sunday before he'd turned me over to Charles. It takes a minute for her to upload the image to her computer, and while she's working on it, she tells me that there may be other photos as well. It's to show us residents how even our facial expressions change when we let the Program help us. When she turns the screen so I can see it, both shots of me are there.

“Take a good look at these two faces,” she says. Then, “What do you see? How are they different?”

The first one looks pretty much like I'd expect. “Fuck you” was what I'd wanted to communicate, and I had. The second one—well, it's much harder to describe. But I try. “It's like I've gone from hating the world to being puzzled by it.”

“Would it be fair to say that the puzzled one also looks open?”

I look again. “Yeah. I mean, yes, ma'am. It does.” I kind of hate to admit it to her. But it does.

She turns the screen back and closes the program. “Taylor, you are at a crucial point right now. Before, you were stuck. But now you're in motion. At the moment you're moving in the right direction for you; and as a result, you're moving toward God.”

She waits to see if I have anything to say, but I don't. Not yet. So she says, “I told you yesterday that you'd impressed your brothers and sisters. And I think you believed I was talking about the way you delivered your Public Apology. Yes?”

Funny; when Nate had used that phrase last night, it hadn't sounded like it had capital letters. “Yes.”

“There's another way you've impressed those who have been here a while and those who have returned. The expression in the image I just took of you is one we don't usually see in residents until well into their stay, if at all. I tell you this because there are people who will say something about this rapid progress. Some of them will say it in honest respect, and some will say it with a derogatory tone. And you must listen to none of them. If you do, you run the danger of getting stuck again. It wouldn't be in the same place, but our lives must be a constant movement toward God. We can't afford to let pride or anger or anything hold on to us, pin us down. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

I do, actually. “Yes, ma'am.”

“If you feel you're getting stuck, don't limit your struggles to your own prayers. God works through others to help us. Talk to me, talk to Charles, talk to John, talk to Nate. We all love you, Taylor. And we're all here to help each other.” We sit there and breathe for a few seconds. “Would you like to say anything at this point?”

“I'm wondering why my room was searched.”

The look on her face is not what I expect. Smug, righteous, maybe even saccharin, I would have understood. Instead what I see is something like apprehension, or fear. Just for a second. Just for a split second. Then she says, “Why do you think?”

“Nothing was missing, so I'm thinking it was to leave something.”

“Like what?” Her back is up a little; maybe she thinks I mean they bugged the room?

“Like a message. Like, be afraid. Be very afraid.”

“Are you afraid, Taylor?”

“I don't think so.”

“Do you know what a metaphor is?”

“It's like an example, something that represents something else.”

“That's right. And it isn't only a room that could be searched.”

“So…you mean, like, searching my heart?”

“Anyone's. Doesn't Charles have a heart, too?”

“Charles's heart doesn't need searching.”

“Taylor, everyone's heart needs searching. Including yours.”

“But
you
can't do that.”

“But we can help you, or Charles, to do it for yourself. And none of us can predict when it's going to happen to us next.”

“So you're not going to tell me.”

“I think I already have.”

I look hard at her. I don't think she knows why it was searched, or whether it was me or Charles who was supposed to get the message, and I don't think she knew it had even happened until I put it in my MI. I think she invented a reason that might maybe just possibly make sense—that comparison between searching rooms and searching hearts. All things considered, this last response of hers seems pretty lame. But if she doesn't know, then it won't do any good to try and worm any more out of her. Plus it wouldn't help to…um…get stuck on that, would it?

 

Again, no sign of Will during afternoon break, and I manage to get Nate alone to ask about this morning; no Will then, either. He's been carrying my note around, and I get the sense it's beginning to weigh on him; what if it's found?

After the break Sean pulls me into the office and asks me to work with a guy I haven't even spoken to yet. I've noticed him a few times, mostly in the break yard and in some corner of the Fellowship room. He's wiry, angry looking, a tough kid. Quite a few tattoos.

Sean says, “His name is Terry. Terrence. He may tell you to call him T, but don't do it. We're trying to get him to leave that FI behind him.”

A gang handle, I wonder? “Sean, I'm not sure I'm the best person to deal with this guy.”

“Nate says you are.” Like that puts an end to it. “He's out of SafeZone, but he's struggling.”

“What's he in here for?”

“That's not supposed to matter.”

“Maybe not, but most times it does anyway.”

He ignores me. “I need you to show him how to clean the dryers.”

Oh boy. My favorite. “Why me?”

“I've got to work with a new kid. Even more of a problem—I mean, someone who's struggling even more than Terry. You'll need to stay with him to make sure it's done right.”

“Why does it need to be done at all? I just did it earlier this week. And nobody stayed with me.”

“Taylor, cut it out, will you? Just do it? Besides, you didn't do all of them, and you know where you stopped.”

I sigh. “Where's the doohickus?”

Somehow Sean knows exactly what this is and fetches it from a cabinet, and I take it out onto the floor and look around for Terry. He's slouching, hands in his pockets, as he leans against a dryer about as far away from everyone else as he can get. If I think the clothing we have to wear here isn't the real me, it's even less the real him. It seems like he's willing the prescribed stuff to fall right off his body.

“Wish me luck,” I throw over my shoulder at Sean, and head toward Terry. He sees me coming but looks away like I'm of absolutely no consequence to him.

“Hi,” I say, holding my hand out. “I'm Taylor.” He looks at me but totally ignores my outstretched hand. “Fine,” I say, and shrug. “I didn't ask for you, either, y'know. But we're stuck with each other.”

He scowls at me a second and then looks away again. I try another tack. Sarcasm, though I have to hide it in here. “‘See how good and how pleasant it is for brothers to live together in unity!' Psalm one thirty-three.”

He moves his jaw like he's chewing on gum or maybe tobacco, glances at the clock on the wall, and says, “Leave me the ‘eff' alone. T two fifty-three.”

At first I don't get it. But when I do, I laugh. It looks like he's trying not to.

“Okay,” I tell him when I think I have his attention, even though he's still not looking at me. “I'm a T too, y'know. For
Taylor.
But some people don't call me Taylor. Some people call me Ty.” I can see Will's face looking at me over Terry's shoulder, tongue nearly protruding through his cheek. “So what if they don't want you to call yourself T in here? Do them one better. How about if I call you Rye?”

He looks at me like he's trying to pretend he's not interested. “Rye?”

“Sure. R-y-e. Covers a few bases.
R
and
y
are the last two letters of the name
Terry.
Put an
e
on the end, and either you've got a kind of bread or a grain they make liquor out of. Make them wonder. Plus it sounds like w-r-y, which strikes me as something along the lines of how you'd like people to see you.”

“Rye.” I can't tell whether he's making fun of me or giving the idea serious consideration.

“Look, why don't you mull that over while I show you how to use the magic wand?” I wave the doohickus in the air toward the dryers.

He gets in a few more gnaws on his nonexistent gum and then says, “Fine. So show me.”

He catches on to the routine right away. I even manage to get a few grumbled phrases out of him about how he's helped his black-sheep uncle work on car engines, making it clear that cleaning out dryers isn't much of a challenge for him.

We get to one dryer that has an OUT OF ORDER sign on it. He unplugs it anyway, which he should, but after he's cleaned it he opens the door to the tumbling chamber and plays with it a little. Then he walks around behind the machine, lifts off a panel, and pokes around.

“I could fix this.”

“Why don't you?”

He looks at me and then over at Sean across the room. “Captain Bligh there would have a friggin' cow.”

I'm amazed he has that literary reference at his command, but I try not to show it. “Why don't you start on the next machine and I'll ask.” Rye shrugs (see how I've incorporated his new name already?) and moves on, and I head over to Sean.

I say, “Terry thinks he can fix that broken dryer. Is it okay if he has a try?”

“The repairman will be here next Tuesday.”

“So what have we got to lose?”

“If he makes a mess of it, the repairman will know. The center will be in trouble with its maintenance contract.”

“Sean, it's the one thing the guy has that he thinks we value, and he volunteered. I think it's worth the risk.”

He stands there looking torn; he knows it's a good idea, but he's afraid, I can tell. I know him now. So I say, “If he screws it up, you can blame me.” And I walk away like it's a done deal.

Someone, maybe Machiavelli, maybe the Little Prince, once said something about not giving an order you know will be disobeyed. Rye is already up to his elbows in dryer parts by the time I get back to him.

“Find the problem?” I ask, like I have any idea what he's doing.

Teeth gritted in effort, arm deep into the dryer innards, he grunts and then says, “Get me a long screwdriver. Phillips head.”