Thinking Straight (6 page)

He set the sheet back down on the desk and looked around the room.

“Is this your luggage beside the bed over there? Just nod or shake your head.”

I nodded. It was mine. Full of clothing that Mom had had to buy especially for this incarceration, complete with name tags that read T. ADAMS. Not much of my own stuff met the standards of this place.

“And here's the map Charles left for you.” He leaned over to the other side of the desk and picked it up. “Did he show you what room your Prayer Meeting would be in this evening?”

Nod.

“Good. Now, you might want to take a few minutes to collect yourself before you go there.”

A few minutes? How about a few days? How about a few years?

“God loves you, Taylor. God wants you to learn how to love him. We'll show you how.”

Before I knew what was happening he moved forward and took me into his arms. We stood there like that, him totally wrapped around me, my arms hanging limp. And he just held me.

I don't know why, and I don't even know if I had a choice, but I reached around and hugged him back. I wanted to cry again. This was the man who had torn me apart, and yet his embrace felt so tender, so loving. I wished he could hold me forever.

He pushed me away rather abruptly, cleared his throat, said, “Don't close the door,” and left me there.

Limp, wrung out, I sat on the side of the bed where my luggage was for some amount of time that isn't clear to me now. Finally I decided I may as well unpack. Everything on the left side of the room seemed to be mine, so I opened my bags, took things out, and stuffed them into drawers. Then I found the bathroom and took a long time, mind empty as I sat there. Then I remembered I wasn't supposed to be in a bathroom for more than five minutes for “elimination” or fifteen for “cleansing and grooming.” I'd already exceeded both.

But who would know? Nevertheless, I got up, washed my hands and face, and went back to my room.

Standing in the middle of the room, not seeing anything, I wondered how in hell I was going to just show up at an in-progress Prayer Meeting, wearing my warning label, eyes puffy and face blotchy from crying, and sit there silently in a room full of strangers I would be living with for weeks.

I couldn't do it. Plus I felt completely drained. So I stripped, threw my clothes in a corner, found my pajama bottoms and put them on, and crawled into bed. Didn't even turn the light out.

I must have been in some other universe, some other dimension. At any rate I was deeply asleep, face to the wall, so that when Charles called my name, I heard it being repeated, louder and louder, before I realized I had to respond to it.

I turned over and half sat up.

“Taylor, this is not what you were supposed to do. You were supposed to go to Prayer Meeting. Believe me, your absence was noticed.” Something about his voice, some edge, seemed like an overreaction to this misdeed of mine. Like he took it personally somehow. SOHF. Oops. Should I give up counting demerits yet? Translation: Sense Of Humor Failure.

A number of retorts came to mind, and I think I even opened my mouth.

“Don't speak!”

Oh yeah.

“Are you wearing pajama pants?”

Nod.

Charles moved over to my bureau and started pawing through things. He found what he was looking for—my pajama top—and brought it over to me.

He held it out. “Here. You have to wear the full set. You know that. It's in the Booklet.”

I tried to glare at him, but I doubt it came across quite as fierce as I wanted. I snatched the top from him and put it on while he watched.

Before I could throw myself back onto the bed and dive under the sheets, he said, “Pray with me.”

“What?”

His hand shot into the air so quickly that I thought he was going to strike me, but he just held it up, palm out, and gave me this hard stare—reminding me, by not speaking, not to speak.

Then he said, “Pray with me. You missed Prayer Meeting. But you need God now more than you ever have before, and praying is the best way to acknowledge his presence. It's how we open our hearts so he can heal us.”

I just stared at him, but he wasn't backing down. I heaved a shaky sigh and got out of bed.

Charles went to the desks and pulled first my chair out and then his. He knelt in front of his, elbows on the wooden seat, and looked at me. I sighed again and went to my own chair. He closed his eyes, so I figured it was safe to close mine. Maybe I could fall asleep again.

But no. He prayed aloud.

“Almighty Father, thank you for bringing Taylor to us. Thank you for loving him enough to bring him here, and thank you for giving me the chance to show him the power your love has. To show him the miracles it can bring. To reaffirm in my own heart the steps I have taken toward you.

“Open Taylor's heart the way you have opened mine. Let him see the light so he will know the right path to take. Let all of us here be examples for him, to support his faith and give meaning to his longing. He longs for you, Father. Help him to understand that, to use this time fully and well, to cross the bridge we are all on, to reach the other side in joy and rapture and fulfillment. Amen.”

He didn't get up right away, so I didn't either. I guessed that he was giving me time to speak silently and say my own prayer. So I did.

God, I know you love me. And you know I love you. I don't know why you've brought me here, unless it's some kind of test. Can I live with these people and still be the person you made me? Can I believe, despite everything I'll go through here, that you don't make mistakes? Is this like what happened to Job? Do I have to prove that my love for you is more important than anything they can do to me here?

I waited. If this was a Job test, I knew better than to expect any kind of sign. But I focused my mind hard on loving God. And I felt a warm glow. More tender than Reverend Bartle's hug. Deeper even than the sweet peace of being with Will. I smiled.

And then I stood and went back to bed, leaving Charles there worshiping at the altar of his desk chair. God and I had an understanding. And the gift he'd given me was that since I wasn't allowed to speak, I didn't even have to tell Charles about it. He couldn't even ask. It was between me and God.

Charles had thanked God for me, and he was right to do that. He just didn't understand the reason. I was going to show him another path.

I
woke up to this piercing ringing noise, sitting bolt upright before I knew where I was. Charles sat up in his own bed, hair whorled in a couple of places where his head had been on the pillow but the hair was too short to be really messed up. He got out of bed before I did, rubbed his face and exhaled, and then knelt on the floor.

Was this part of what my daily routine was supposed to be? I couldn't remember seeing it written anyplace. Maybe it was just Charles. I got up and went to find my bathroom kit and a towel, knowing that if I did something wrong he'd tell me.

Without even looking up, Charles said, “Don't go to the bathroom without me.” And then he knelt there another couple of minutes while I leaned on my desk, getting irritated. Did I really have to obey him like this? I was afraid I did.

Finally he stood and grabbed his own kit and towel. “You probably don't want to wear a yellow tag on your pajamas or on your shoulder. If I'm with you I'll be able to explain to anyone that you can't speak.”

I shrugged; fine. I followed him to the shower room, adjacent to the toilet room, with an archway between. It was full of stalls like the ones in the toilet room, but longer, with a little space near the door that stayed dry enough to hang your clothes. The space was evidently designed for some compromise between privacy and revelation. I couldn't gawk at the other naked guys, but I didn't have quite enough privacy to—well, to enjoy myself in here.

The towels were huge—I think they called them bath sheets—and we were expected to wrap them under our arms tightly before we stepped out of the shower stalls.

Back in the room, before I could do so much as look for underwear, Charles closed the door and said, “Let me show you how we dress.”

Was he kidding me with this? But he selected some clothing for himself and threw it on the bed, and I did the same, and then he pulled at something on the wall between our beds that I hadn't noticed before. A thin curtain was suspended from a track in the ceiling, and Charles pulled it across.

“Only when we're both dressed does the curtain go back again. If you finish first, you can start making your bed.”

Wow. Did they really think the sight of Charles's naked body would drive me over the edge of self-control? Or maybe the sight of mine…SorG? I mean, Straight or Gay?

Suddenly I really wanted to know. Why was Charles here? I knew the Program included kids who'd been caught on drugs and some kids who were violent or drank a lot. What had been Charles's sin?

I dressed quickly, in my new clothes, which were not my style—khakis, leather belt, knit polo shirt. I was making my bed when Charles said, “I'm about to pull the curtain back. If it's too soon, clear your throat.” I was silent.

When the curtain was pressed once again against the wall, I glanced at Charles's bed. Not made yet. Good; I was ahead of him. I finished quickly and went to my desk. There was a pad of paper there, and a pen. It was for me to use if I had to say something I couldn't communicate with hand gestures. Well, all right, it was supposed to be for emergencies, but that's a relative term. I wrote, “Why are you in here?”

When he turned away from his bed and saw me holding it up to him, he froze. I will always remember the expression on his face after he read it, because it was the only honest one I ever expected to see there. It had fear in it, and admission. It told me all I needed to know.

Gotcha.

He said, “You're supposed to do that only in emergencies.” He wouldn't look at me. If he had, he'd have seen that I knew. Instead he looked at my shoulder, saw it was missing something, and pointed to the page of yellow labels on my desk. I shrugged and slapped one onto my shirt.

Without speaking he jerked his head in a follow-me kind of way, and he led the way to breakfast. He herded me silently through the line, pointing at trays and silverware and napkins, and I followed him to an empty table for four. What else was I going to do?

We'd been there just long enough for Charles to say a quiet grace that I guess was supposed to apply to both of us when two girls sat down in the other two chairs. They saw my yellow sticker—looked for it, or so it seemed to me—and asked Charles how he was. The smile that appeared suddenly on his face was a lie.

“Happy and grateful,” he replied. “Jessica Rifkin, Marie Downs, this is Taylor Adams. Today's his first full day with us, and as you can see he's in SafeZone. He's my new roommate.” To me he said, “Jessica and Marie are roommates, too.”

I tried to look at them without looking at them; didn't want to draw attention to myself too soon in this place. Marie was one of those girls who, for sure, will be in one sorority or another at college. You know the type? Dark hair pulled back on one side with a plastic tortoiseshell barrette; white blouse with one of those collars that has round edges that meet in the middle when you button it all the way up, which of course she did. Something prissy about her. Just missed being pretty. Jessica seemed more normal, at least in my terms, though she was definitely plain-looking. Longish light brown hair, no particular style to it. She's the one who got the conversation going, while Marie watched Charles closely.

“You were so quiet in Prayer Meeting last night,” Jessica said, and I couldn't quite tell whether her glance at him was more concerned or inquisitive. Did she know something interesting about Charles? What was special about last night's meeting, other than the fact that I didn't show up?

Charles didn't look at her. “I just had a lot to talk with God about.” He reached for the jar of maple syrup, watching the stream of it intently as it cascaded down the stack of pancakes on his plate. Then he held it out to me, his glance questioning.

I had pancakes, too, so I reached for it. He must have been watching my face closely, 'cause when my mouth opened to thank him he withdrew his arm a little. Instantly I understood the warning. I nodded and held out my hand for the syrup.

But Jessica wasn't done with him. “We're supposed to be sharing our communication with God. In Prayer Meeting. Do you need some coaching, brother? Are there secrets that need to see the light?”

I glanced at her sharply, feeling—to my total surprise—defensive for Charles. At least he'd treated me decently so far. But I couldn't speak. So all I could do was notice that the smile plastered on Charles's face seemed to hurt him. But his voice, hard but clothed in something soft, cut her off at the proverbial knees.

“Why, sister, I'm touched at your concern. Thank you. But no, nothing God and I were talking about at the meeting was secret. Nothing you don't know.”

I looked at her, thinking, Take that, sister Jessica. Then I sat back, a rather stunning idea occurring.

Whoa. Could this be deliberate on their part? Are they playing “good cop, bad cop” with me? Is this just a ploy to get me on Charles's side somehow? So I looked at him again, assessing.

No. Don't think so. He looked genuinely uncomfortable, and uncomfortable knowing that was how he looked. No one could fake that. Don't be so suspicious, I told myself. Silently, of course. So I went back to my original suspicions. They were bad enough: lying, brainwashing, mind control, hypocrisy.

At least Jessica showed a true color, even if it was an ugly shade of passive-aggressive. But her voice, as well as her words when she asked Charles if he needed “coaching,” had sounded spooky. Haunted. Haunting, that's for sure.

Their conversation changed rather abruptly, which I was sure was okay with Charles, when Marie said, “I've been trying to reach out to Leland, but he hasn't been very responsive. Any hints you can give me, Charles?”

For just a second, Charles stopped chewing. Maybe it wasn't so okay after all. But he didn't look up from his plate, and he sounded calm enough when he said, “Leland may need a little more time. He might not be ready to see that what you did was in his best interests.”

“You've been talking with him, then?”

Charles's head snapped up. I wasn't sure if it was anger or fear in his eyes, but all he said was, “Sister, you know that Leland is in SafeZone again.” Then his voice got really pointed. “If anyone is speaking to him now, especially about what happened, it would be irresponsible. We must all help him to preserve his current parameters. Perhaps now is not the best time for you to be reaching out to him.”

Jessica looked like she had an opinion about this, but before she could get it out, there was a woman smiling down at me. She wasn't very tall, but something about the way she had her hair pulled back made her seem—I don't know, stern or something. And there was this streak of white, almost two inches wide, that swept up from her forehead adding to the effect. The rest of her hair was pretty dark, though there were a few shots of white in it. She might have been pretty, but it was hard to tell with that hairstyle, and with the way her face seemed pulled tight.

Charles practically jumped to his feet, so I figured I had to stand as well.

The woman said, “Taylor, I know you're in SafeZone, so let me just introduce myself to you. I'm Mrs. Harnett, and I'm the staff leader for your group. I'm sorry I couldn't be here yesterday to meet you, but I had to be elsewhere.”

I nearly said, “That's okay,” but Charles was boring a hole into the side of my head, so I remembered in time and just nodded.

“As your staff leader, I'm here to help you in any way I can. Please stop by my office before you report to your first assignment. Charles will show you where it is. God bless you, Taylor.”

And she left. It was only at that point that I noticed that Marie and Jessica had not stood when Charles and I had. I made a mental note to review the rules about how “men” and “women” were expected to act with one another, if only so I would know what was going on.

I kind of wanted the interrupted conversation to continue; it had been making Charles uncomfortable in one way or another, and I'd been thinking that might be a useful thing to know how to do. But evidently Charles wanted to talk about other things.

“Have you both got companions for Friday's barbeque dinner?” He pushed a forkful of pancake into his mouth.

“Marie hasn't. But I'm sure she will.” Jessica's smile was as big as Mrs. Harnett's, but it didn't look warm. “What about you, Charles?”

He nodded, and when he had swallowed he said, “Danielle has agreed to go with me.”

I swear Marie's tongue nearly poked through her cheek as she took over from Jessica. “That will be nice. The two of you must be getting to know each other quite well. Hasn't she accompanied you a number of times now?”

He didn't look at her. “If you recall, sister, Andrea went with me to the lake for our Fourth of July picnic.” He stabbed the last bit of pancake and ate it with the last piece of bacon on his plate, and then he looked at my empty plate. “You must have been hungry, Taylor. Why don't you finish your juice, and then we'll go to Mrs. Harnett's office.”

I was dying—dying!—to ask Charles what was behind the questions those girls had been asking. What was the link between Charles and Leland, if any? What had Marie done to the guy? And who was this Danielle person? Marie had made it sound as though seeing too much of her would be, like, frowned upon. And she'd done that mostly by making it sound like the opposite.

Christ, I hoped everyone wasn't going to be like this. Would anyone actually say what they meant around here? Would
anything
be real?

It wouldn't be Mrs. Harnett, from what I could tell. She thanked Charles for his escort service, dismissed him, shut her office door, and steered me to a chair with an iron grip on my shoulder.

She walked around her desk and didn't speak until she was settled in her chair, from which she gave me her full attention.

“Welcome to Straight to God, Taylor. We're pleased to have you here. I trust you've studied your Booklet? Just nod if it's true.” I nodded. “Good, good. So you're familiar with the Program Rules. They may seem strict, but let me assure you that if they were any less strict they wouldn't be nearly as helpful to you. Can you understand that, Taylor?”

She smiled and waited. I came so close to shrugging, but the last thing I wanted was another session in the chapel with Reverend Bartle. Not even for another one of his hugs. On the other hand, I didn't want to lie. Can a nod be a lie if the answer is no? Actually, though, I did understand. Maybe not in the way she meant—I understood that I wanted out of this place, and anything that would help that was okay by me—but I nodded, saying inside my head, You bet, lady.

“Then please remember that at times when the rules may seem a little harsh. Do you understand what your MI is?”

I nodded, saying in my head, Yeah, but I don't think you do. After all, the thing was so incorrectly named.

“Good. Then I'm sure you also know that you will write four of them a week, at least for now. You will submit them to me.” She reached into a desk drawer and handed me four large envelopes. “Start today. While you're in SafeZone, you'll be required to spend two hours of quiet time alone in your room from four to six o'clock. With the door open, remember. This would be an ideal time to write your first MI. Then seal it in one of these envelopes and put it in the basket mounted on the wall beside my office door on your way to dinner this evening. I'll expect the next one tomorrow night, and then one on Thursday and one on Saturday. Always in the basket sometime before dinner.” She was scribbling as she spoke. “Any questions about that schedule?”