Inclination (15 page)

I’m lying there
in the dark on a bedroom floor, my face bruised and swollen from an apparent
gay bashing, my side still stiff and sore. I’m listening to a hundred-year-old
love song and holding hands with a boy I’m pretty sure I’m falling for. It’s
all kind of unreal, and I crack a puzzled smile. David can’t see my smile, as
he’s staring up at the flickering light on the ceiling, but I know God can see
it. I think maybe He put it on my face. And I think maybe He smiles back.

It’s Good Friday
and I’m not going to Mass.

It’s Good Friday
and I’m not going to Mass!
Aaaahhhh
!

I’m trying very hard
to interpret this…this change in
activity
…
on Good Friday as a further exploration of Christ’s meaning in my life. I’m not
sure if it’s working.

The
non-denominational church that David’s family now attends is not offering Good
Friday services.

No Good Friday
services? What? Are you freaking kidding me?

“
The philosophy of the
Journeys Worship Center is that Good Friday is a day for deep personal
reflection, and not necessarily for formal services.” That had been David’s
explanation for this glaring oversight.

Again,
Aaaahhhh
!

Before I left
last night, David told me that in the previous two years the Journeys Worship
Center had held performance-based services on Good Friday—not even slightly
formal ones—that focused on Christian musical guest performers and allowed
ample time for individual prayer. This year, however, Pastor Sutton, the
minister of his church, is calling for individuals to reach out to the community
on Good Friday, to give aid of some sort, as Jesus would have done.

The Wedgewood
Town Hall holds an annual “Good Friday Service Day” in the town center, which
has recently been renamed “Wedgewood Serves Day,” a politically correct name in
terms of welcoming the non-Christian contingent to the charitable event. On
Wedgewood Serves Day the event at center ring, ironically held under a big top
type of tent on the front lawn of the town hall, is a huge town-wide yard sale.
Its profits go to local victims of domestic violence. The three downtown hair
salons offer free haircuts for children, where donations will be accepted, and
there’s a massive picnic featuring bagged lunches donated by the local Shop and
Save Big grocery store. All along the edges of the tent are carnival types of
games for kids that accept donations but are offered at no charge. I’ve never
participated in these events in the past, as I’d always been sequestered in the
Good Friday services at St. Mark’s.

This year, for
the first time, Mom and Dad decide to take the girls to Wedgewood Serves Day.
They tell me it’s time they showed the girls something beyond just Jesus’s
words, like the sort of action that Jesus would have taken. Each of the girls
have selected a small pile of toys to part with that they will sell at the
charitable yard sale, and Mom and Dad and I brought up the pile of unused
furniture and art from the other basement storage room—the one I don’t sleep
in. I help Dad load it all into his car and Mom’s minivan.

I, on the other
hand, will be doing a charity walk with David. The walk starts and ends at the
Wedgewood Serves Day Headquarters downtown, and its course takes a winding path
through the Church Street Historic District, around the reservoir, and back
through the upscale neighborhoods. In all, the walk is five miles long, and
most of the walkers have already gotten pledges from friends and neighbors.
People who sign up to walk on the day of the race can pay twenty-five dollars
to join in, which is my plan. All of the money will be donated to a college
scholarship fund for local needy students.

When I get to the
Wedgewood Town Hall, a stately white building with pillars that fits the image
of what a town hall should look like, David is already there along with Sarah,
Beth, Lenny, and Cam. They’re at the sign-up table handing in their pledge
money.

Sarah sees me
first. “
Heya
, Anthony!! Over here!!” She’s probably
one of the nicest, friendliest girls I’ve ever met, and before I faced my own
conflict I’d labeled her as
weird
and
hadn’t given her the time of day. And knowing what I do now about her sexuality
and mine, and the Church’s teachings on it, I still can’t help but wonder if
the Jesus I love would condemn a person with a heart of gold like Sarah. Never
releasing Beth’s hand, she manages to hug me. “Now, all you have to do is sign
up for the walk right here and pay the twenty-five dollars to participate, ‘
kay
?”

I follow her to
the table where a few kids from Wedgewood High School are volunteering.

“Hi, Anthony. So
glad you decided to walk today,” a small brown-haired girl who is also a junior
says. I’m not sure of her name but I think it might be Ashley. When in doubt,
Ashley is a fairly safe guess for a girl’s name, as there are six
Ashleys
in my class at school.

Beside her is
Lindsey Rosen, who I know from my AP classes. I’d never spoken a word to her
either, except for maybe asking if I could borrow her White-out. “Hi Lindsey.
You volunteering here too?” Plus, Lindsey’s Jewish, and up until now I thought
she’d missed the religious boat, big time. Now I’m starting to think maybe
there are more than one boats.

“I volunteer
every year, Anthony. My parents are the chair people of this event, so my
brother and I have been working this table since I was in second grade. Last
year Wedgewood Serves Day brought in nearly eight thousand dollars.”

I remember that
she has an older brother who has severe problems with his vision; Sammy’s his
name, I think. He’s also very smart—and in most classes I heard through the
grapevine that he has a
paraeducator
work with him. I
haven’t made much of an effort to befriend him, either. I guess maybe for too
long, my head’s been buried deep in an Our Way hole.

I glance around in
search of Sammy and see him sitting with a group of little kids, introducing
them to his guide dog. Lindsey catches me looking. “He got the guide dog when
he turned eighteen in the fall. It’s made a huge difference in his mobility.
Our family is very lucky he was able to get one.”

She’s a very
loving sister, I decide, and realize the Italian Catholic Del
Vecchio
girls do not have a corner on the loving sisters
market.

Right then David
sees me, and I can tell he’s trying to act cool and not rush to my side.
Instead, at-school-David points at me casually, looks at his watch as if I’m
late, and then saunters over, but I didn’t miss the way his eyes got really big
when he first saw me.

“You made it,
dude.”

“What did you
expect? I don’t exactly have any other plans.” My words sound more sarcastic
than I planned.

For a second,
David appears a bit injured. He glances at the ground and then rubs his nose a
few times, but he seems to shrug it off easily. “Um…yeah. Come on over and say
hi to Len and Cam. We usually all walk together, with Sarah and Bethany.”

I follow him over
to the start/finish line where our little group has congregated.

“Ready to speed
walk, Del
Vecchio
?” Cam asks, his red hair sticking
up like a rooster’s tail feathers. “Can’t let these old geezers beat us in a
five-mile walk.”

One of the “old
geezers”, an elderly woman with a visor and a pair of serious running sneakers,
leans over toward Cam and elbows him in the ribs. “This old geezer is
gonna
kick your teenage bottom in this race!”

Cam rolls his
eyes and replies, “Grandma, first of all it’s not a race and second, we’re
gonna
be way faster!”

“I’ll see you eat
your words,
Cammy
.”

“I’ll see you eat
my dust, Grammy!” Neither of them laughs but I can still tell they are teasing
each other. Within a few minutes we’re all walking.

And it’s fun. It
feels good to join up with a community of people who want to help others, the
same way I do. There’s camaraderie and there’s the awareness that we’re acting
in the best interest of the community, which is cool. As we make our way past
the old historic houses, and then past St. Marks’s Church, I hold my breath and
wait to feel the anticipated profound sense of loss that I’m not in that church
building praying. And I
do
feel a
degree of hollowness, but these new friends of mine have very long legs, and
it’s simply too hard to keep up with them to spend much time dwelling on what
I’m missing out on at St. Mark’s. By the
time we speed-walk past Cameron’s grandmother on the side of the reservoir,
I’ve left the hollow feeling behind on Church Street, and I’m laughing and
joking around with Lenny, Cam, David and the girls.

Because it’s
Easter and I don’t want to hurt or disappoint Mom and Dad or the girls, I go
with them to St. Elizabeth’s for Mass after they dismantle (maybe it’s time I
started adding words to my SAT list again) their Easter Baskets. I don’t partake in Holy Communion, which
stings, but I refuse to be a complete hypocrite. I said goodbye to sharing in
the body of Christ and I won’t waver on my stance until I’ve decided the path
I’m going to take in regard to my gay Christianity.

And I’m fine. I
handle the entire Mass with a measured degree of grace—in other words, I don’t
start crying—until the end.

Until the
recessional song.

Jesus Christ is risen today, Alleluia!



Our triumphant holy day, Alleluia!



Who did once upon the cross, Alleluia!



Suffer to redeem our loss. Alleluia!

Tears fill my eyes, but I keep singing.

But the pains which he endured, Alleluia!



Our salvation have procured; Alleluia!

Now above the sky he’s king, Alleluia!



Where the angels ever sing. Alleluia!

I glance down the
pew at my little sisters who resemble pastel-colored Easter eggs in their brand
new spring dresses. They stand in a row between my mother and father, sweetly
singing “Jesus Christ is Risen Today” like four perfect angels.

I’m not holy like them anymore.

The recognition of this fact hits me hard.

But I think I’m figuring out where I fit with God.

This spontaneous realization is some consolation to
me.

In an effort to
hold back my tears, I sniff, probably too noisily, and my parents and sisters
stop singing for a second to look at me. I meet each set of worried brown eyes,
one by one, offer my best lopsided grin, and ask just loud enough for my little
sisters to hear, “Who’s
gonna
share their jelly beans
with their big bro?”

After I see their
smiles, I join in with the full congregation for the final verse.

Sing we to our God above, Alleluia!



Praise eternal as his love; Alleluia!



Praise him, all you heavenly host, Alleluia!



Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Alleluia!

Before we head
over to St. Mark’s, Mom and Dad ask me to sit down at the kitchen table with
them, as they have something they want to discuss. I’m already freaking out
about the meeting with Father Joseph and
Rinaldo
and
his family, and I’m not up for a pep talk on the subject, which is what I
assume my parents have in mind.

“Anthony,” my mom
begins, her eyes on Dad, not me, “as you know we have been making an effort to
find another church that meets our needs as a family. We dislike leaving you here alone on Sunday
mornings to go to church. It doesn’t
feel right to us.”

Dad takes it from
here. “We didn’t want to make a big change—aside from the fact that we have
switched from St. Mark’s to St. Elizabeth’s—prior to Easter. Mainly for the
girls’ sakes.” He appears nervous in a way I’ve never before seen. I don’t
interrupt and remind him that
they
don’t have to leave the Catholic Church—
I’m
the one with the conflict.

Mom reads my
mind; she’s always been good at that. “And we know that you feel as if you are
the only one who needs to make a change, but we need you to know that our
Christianity is closely tied to our beliefs about family. We will never forsake
Jesus Christ, but we are willing and
we
actually want
to make changes so that we can continue to worship with
you…and someday with your future husband, as well.”

I feel my
expected blush coming on, so I choose this moment to study an odd-shaped piece
of Lulu’s torn-off toast from breakfast that ended up on the kitchen floor. But
it’s super weird to hear my mother say, “your future husband”.

Dad takes my hand
and then takes Mom’s hand before he says anything else. (My parents are into
physical gestures that let us kids know that we are part of a cohesive unit.)
“We’ve compiled a short list of Christian churches in the area—a couple local
community churches, an Episcopal church, a Unitarian Universalist organization,
and a non-denominational worship center—none are at all opposed to
homosexuality as a practice, in terms of their understanding of scripture. I
must mention that the Catholic Church is not alone in its belief that same-sex
relationships are incompatible with Christianity. To be frank, your mom and I
were quite disheartened to realize this, but, as I said, we managed to come up
with a list of four. Tony, we thought that each Sunday, starting next weekend,
we, as a family, would check out a different church on the list. You know, to
see if one feels like the best place for us to worship. If one feels right,
we’ll stick around for closer investigation.”

I don’t know why,
but tears fill my eyes. I’m turning into a regular watering can, lately. Crying
here, crying there…. I sigh deeply. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need
to say anything at all, Tony. We are a family and we are going to do this
search together.” Dad squeezes my hand hard enough to hurt, indicating that he
means what he’s saying.

“And we wanted to
let you know before we inform Father Joseph of our plans tonight.” Mom removes
her hand from Dad’s and stands up, leaving Dad and I holding hands at the
kitchen table. “Now, get your coats, guys. I’m going to check with Mary one
more time and make sure she is all set for her first time babysitting the
girls. I must say, she’s excited about this opportunity.”

Dad and I watch
Mom walk out to the living room where the girls are doing homework and
coloring.

“You ready, son?”
Before I answer, I check Dad’s eyes to make sure he seems cool with this, which
he does. I’ve caused a lot of changes in this family recently, and I need to
know he isn’t angry or resentful. “Time’s a-wasting,” he adds when I don’t
respond.

I smile, but hold
onto his hand for a moment longer so I can study him, studying me.

Precisely at
seven, as had been requested, we arrive at the St. Mark’s Church offices that
are located on the side of the rectory. Sitting in the waiting room, I can hear
the soft rumble of voices behind the closed door of Father Joseph’s office. It
seems that
Rinaldo
and his parents are already in the
room, probably discussing the situation. My stomach has decided on staying in a
permanent state of cramped-up.

Mom, Dad, and I
sit on the long leather couch in the waiting room, all of us crossing and
uncrossing our legs nervously. This meeting certainly is not an everyday event.

Finally, after
about twenty minutes, the door to the office opens slowly, and Father Joseph
appears. He smiles warmly and gestures for us to come inside. Without a word,
we rise and follow him into his office.
Rinaldo
and
Mrs. Vera sit in wingback chairs to the right of Father Joseph’s desk, on the
other side of the desk three folding metal chairs are set up.

At seeing
Rinaldo
for the first time since that night in the church
parking lot, a spontaneous spike of fear darts from my chest to my throat. I
swallow it back.

“Please, Gina,
Paul, and Anthony…please sit down and join our discussion.” Father Joseph looks
from
Rinaldo
to his mother, and then back to us
again. “I believe you all know each other.
Rinaldo
and Edie, you know Gina, Paul, and Anthony, right?”

We all nod. I can
feel Mrs. Vera’s eyes on my face, studying the scab on my lip and noting the
way the skin underneath my eye is still a sickly greenish color. For a second,
I wonder where Mr. Vera is, and then it hits me that maybe he isn’t coming.
Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him in church for a long time, maybe not
even since last spring. Very briefly I allow my gaze to flicker on
Rinaldo
. He’s bent over in his chair, staring at the floor.
All I can see is the top of his head and I’m glad. Maybe I’m not ready to see
what’s in his eyes.

It’s quiet and
tense in the room. I wish I could be anywhere else. My stomach cramps tighter,
which surprises me, because I hadn’t thought that was possible.

Thankfully,
Father Joseph takes the wheel. “Anthony, Mrs. Vera,
Rinaldo
and I would like you to know that we have been discussing what happened on the
Wednesday night of the physical altercation.”

Mom
interrupts—I’m actually shocked she doesn’t jump to her feet, as well. “Excuse me,
Father, but it wasn’t as much a
physical
altercation
as it was that
Rinaldo
beat up my
son.” My mother likes to call a spade a spade. And since I referenced playing
cards, I’ll say that I’m sure my face is as red as a heart or a diamond.

“Well, yes, Gina.
You are correct.
Rinaldo
admits that he assaulted
Anthony without provocation. He also understands that you could have taken this
matter to the police but you chose to handle it here instead. In fact, he has
something he would like to say to you in regard to that fact.” I lift my head
slightly and note that
Rinaldo
is still focused on
the floor. Father Joseph and all of the parents look toward him expectantly.

He’s quiet for a
minute, apparently none
to
eager to say what he’s
here to say. But eventually, he speaks, his head still bowed. “I…um… Anthony,
thanks for not calling the cops on me.”

It’s not an
apology, but it’s a start. I can’t see his face, though, which makes it hard to
judge the honesty behind his softly spoken words. But it
sounded,
at least, like
Rinaldo
, the
gentle giant, has returned from whatever hole of
fenzied
fury he’d fallen into.

“There’s more,
Anthony… I got other stuff I want to say
to you.”

I look at him
again, and despite the fact that his head is still aimed at the floor, his eyes
are now directed upward, right at me. They are puffy and red-rimmed. And they
are eyes that appear very sorry. “Go ahead,” I tell him blandly.

Rinaldo
glances at his mother and
then to Father Joseph, as if for approval, which he receives in the form of two
small nods. “You’ve always been real cool to me. Since we were kids, I mean.
And you didn’t deserve what I done to you.”

We
had
always gotten along just fine. That
was why I hadn’t expected the unbridled anger he’d unleashed on me in the
parking lot that night.

“There’s stuff
goin
’ on at my house that nobody knows about…and I didn’t
want nobody to know about. And that’s the stuff that got me all pissed off, I
blamed it on you and lashed out.” Those puffy red eyes are now starting to get
wet, and I realize I have no desire to see
Rinaldo
Vera cry.

Mrs. Vera clears
her throat. “You see, my husband and I had an extremely unfriendly divorce. He
has left the family, and has…um…remarried…and I feel that I let my anger at the
fact he moved on with
another person
color my attitude in front of
Rinaldo
. I was a very
poor example to my son and I am very sorry.” She looks up at Father Joseph with
a desperate expression on her face, and he seems to know it’s time for him to
bail her out.

“Anthony, Mr.
Vera divorced Mrs. Vera and left the home to pursue a relationship with another
man. As a result, a great deal of negative talk about homosexuality and
same-sex marriage,
and
the relating
of those things directly to the Vera family’s pain, occurred in their home.
Rinaldo
soon adopted this very negative attitude from his
mother, and when you expressed to the group that you believed you were gay, he
used you as a substitute—someone on whom to vent his pain and anger.”

“He really hurt
Tony, you know. We have pictures of him that we took the next day—Tony missed
two days of school because of his injuries.” I know Dad is trying to defend me,
but he’s embarrassing me even more.

“Anthony, would
you please look at me for a sec?” It is
Rinaldo’s
quiet voice again.

Obedient as always,
I look up at him. I’m blushing and sweating—the very picture of uncool.

“I’m sure sorry
for what I done. You’re not the one I’m pissed at and you
bein
’
gay really don’t matter to me one way or the other.”

That
is hard to believe as
I saw his eyes when he was beating me. “You said I was going to be destroyed
like Sodom and
Gommorah
—remember, at the
intervention?”

All of the
parents’ hands involuntarily lift from their laps to cover their wide-open
mouths when they hear the word intervention. Even Father Joseph seems a bit
perplexed, as if he’s not fully sure of what an “intervention” is. All he has
to do if he wants to get the complete picture is switch on the A&E
channel—he can watch more reruns of the show
Intervention
than he can tolerate. I’d even seen a few episodes of
Intervention
in my continual search for
old episodes of
Starsky
and Hutch
.

“I was real mad,
Anthony.” He swallows hard but a few tears manage to escape from the outer
corners his dark eyes, and I’m confident that the source of his pain goes far
beyond his regret for hurting me. “My dad isn’t even here, like yours is. I got
in big trouble and he still couldn’t leave his new husband to come and deal
with me. But it’s not ‘cause he’s gay that he’s not here; it’s on account of
the fact that he’s a selfish asshole.”

Despite his
cursing, all of the adults nod at him.

“Now,
Rinaldo
has expressed his sorrow and regret at his actions,
but nonetheless, he still wronged you, Anthony.”

“It’s no big
deal. I’m fine.” I’m starting to feel kind of bad for the kid.

“Well, I have
been involved with a church division called The Office of Restorative Justice.
Our mission is to provide pastoral care for the victims of crime, the
offenders, and the families of both. We serve the people involved by using education
and outreach and…I suppose you could say that we walk with the prisoner and the
victim along the pathway toward reconciliation and healing.”

We all gawk at
the priest as if he’s speaking in Greek.

“Often, the
transformation of society’s attitudes is played out in and around the justice
system. In our case, the justice system is not involved, but I feel that it is
appropriate to follow the same model.” Father Joseph goes over to his desk and
picks up a clipboard with handwritten notes written on it. After reviewing the
notes quickly, he leans in toward
Rinaldo
. “Part of
our goal is to allow Anthony to express his feelings regarding what you did to
him. He needs for us to know how scared and hurt he felt. And Anthony needs to
understand that what happened was in no way his fault. You,
Rinaldo
,
need to know that what you did was wrong, understand why, and make the
appropriate changes.”

“I
am
sorry, Father J,”
Rinaldo
insists.

“And I’m not mad
anymore.” I’m really not.

“That may well be
true, but to make this a truly restorative situation, we need to take formal
steps. First,
Rinaldo
, you must give Anthony
satisfaction, or reparation of the damage done to him.”