Tricks (20 page)

About me? Wondering where I am?

Where is he? Home? Looking for me?

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Or has Mama decided to have him arrested?

I have no answers. Can't process clearly.

*

My brain feels like day-old mush. Unstirred.

Undisturbed. Left for scavengers. And speaking

*

of bone pickers, the cloying scent of rabbit

brush precedes Jerome through the door.

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As Father's believers go, Jerome is the least

offensive. Not that he's good-looking.

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He's short, partly because he carries himself as if his shoulders are weighted with iron.

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What hair he has left is thin, reddish. It reminds

me of an alcoholic's morning eyes. His nose

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is shaped like a toucan's bill, and the watery orbs

just above it look at me with a mixture

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of sympathy and... lust? He places a tray on the splintered table.
Eat hearty.

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"Right. Lukewarm oatmeal. Mmm." Unlike

some of the other disciples, Jerome allows

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me a fair amount of sarcasm.
Lukewarm
is better than cold. And...
He glances around

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the room, as if some voyeur stands in the corner, watching. Then he takes something from the tray.

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Look what I brought you. Promise you

won't tell?
He holds out a napkin, unfolds

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it slowly, revealing three beautiful strawberries.

First crop. Delicious. And just for you.

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Their sweet red perfume permeates the room's stale air. My mouth waters.

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I start to reach for them, reconsider, snatch my hand quickly away. "Why me?"

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He creeps toward me, baiting, pallid

tongue circling his mouth suggestively.

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Because I like you.
He puts a berry to my lips.
And because you're beautiful.

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Instinctively I suck the fruit onto my tongue, crush it against the roof of my mouth, go weak

*

at the intense rush of pleasure. "Thank you." It

comes out a whisper. "I promise not to tell."

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Jerome Isn't Quite Finished

He takes my hand, caresses it gently before placing the other two berries on my palm.

*

If you're really good at keeping secrets...

His eyes bore into mine. Something feral

*

pacing there.
We could have a little fun.

If you be good to me, I'll be really good

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to you. Strawberries are just the beginning.

Cheese. Meat. Chocolate. Maybe even some

*

shampoo to use instead of that vile soap.

He touches my hair.
I bet it's pretty

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when it's clean. I bet it smells like rain.

Here now. What did I say? Don't cry.

*

A recollection clutches my throat, chokes. It's Andrew's voice, surfacing

*

like a creature, dead and bloated, from deep sea.
Smells like rain.

*

Pain throbs. No, not pain, not even

agony. Something there is no word for.

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Something I can't fight. Can't fight. Can't.

All I can think to do is say, "S-sorry."

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My head spins. My legs go numb.

Jerome catches me as I collapse, and my tears

*

soak into his bleached white shirt.
Okay, baby,
he soothes.
Go ahead and cry.

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I should jerk away, out of his arms, but his gentle rock cradles my loneliness.

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There is nurturing here, and it comes to me, with a whoosh like sudden wind, that there just

*

might be a way out after all. And that way

could very well begin and end with Jerome.

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So When He Kisses

The top of my head, I stay perfectly

still against him. And when his hands

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begin a slow journey over the landscape of my body, I grit my teeth. Do not

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protest. Will not complain. Forgive

me, Andrew. Please understand.

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It's my only way back to you. But

I won't give him everything.

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I go as far as to let him open my blouse, touch beneath my bra. Now he kisses

*

down my neck, to the skin he has just

exposed. Drawn tight up against him,

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I feel him grown hard against my thigh.

Now it's he who shakes. Shivers

*

with hunger, and just like that, I am in control. I push him away, but tenderly,

*

like a mother convincing the infant at her breast that he's had enough.

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I make my voice light. "That's all

you get for three strawberries."

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He is pliable. Clay. He smiles, clearly into the game this has unmistakably become.

*

Fair enough. Father would probably miss

me now anyway. Just one question...

*

He helps himself to a final taste.

What will you give me for ice cream?

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I back away, closing buttons. Reach down deep for the "inner whore"

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Father claims all women harbor inside.

I smile. "Haagen-Dazs or store brand?"

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The Door Locks

Behind Jerome, who promised to
see what I can do
about Cherry

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Garcia. Dirtied, I drop to the floor, tuck my back into a corner, as if walls could

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protect me. Lord, please forgive this

sin. What I've done. What I may do,

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though I'm not exactly sure what that

might be. All I know is I have to escape

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this place, run far, far away. From here.

From home. Toward what, I don't know,

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except somehow, some way, that "what"

must bring me closer to Andrew. I'm tired.

*

Hungry. I glance at the bowl on the table, oatmeal grown granite cold inside it.

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I want pancakes. An omelet with sausage.

I want the key to this unbarred cell.

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Jerome has perhaps offered it, if I will

only reach for it. I close my eyes. Think

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of Mary Magdalene. What was her prison?

And how far did she go to get the key?

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Some Biblical Scholars

Believe Magdalene wasn't really a prostitute at all, but the woman

*

most loved by Jesus. A few even

think they might have been married.

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Papa preaches that she was a whore, reformed by the love of Christ. No sex

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involved in the reformation. Mama echoes

this tale. But Mama thinks I'm a whore

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too. A laugh bubbles up, bounces off the barren walls. What incredible irony.

*

Sorry, Mama. Making love with Andrew

didn't make me a whore. But sending me

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here might very well do exactly that.

I have nothing to lose. You've already

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stolen everything important. Made me an outcast. Tossed me into this wilderness

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prison. And now the question becomes:

How far will
I
go to get the key?

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To Know That

I need to find out what Father has in store for me. We meet every afternoon except

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on Sunday (no work on the Sabbath), for "prayerful counseling." So far,

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it's the only time I'm allowed out of my

room, into the sunlight, the sage-tainted air.

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There are two long, low buildings, with rows of doors just like mine. I'm not

*

the only one here. Once in a while, I see

other kids, working alone in the garden

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or shoveling manure from the chicken

coops. Punishment? My guess is reward.

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There are smaller cottages, too--staff

residences, I'm sure. A large house looms

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in the distance. Father's, no doubt. Wonder

if there's a Mrs. Father. Probably not.

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The chapel is large, with rows of chairs, so I imagine there are Sunday services

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that I'm still not holy enough to attend.

Don't know if there are classrooms

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somewhere, or if any of us juvenile

delinquents are allowed schooling

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other than what's taught in the Bible.

It's the only book I have in my room,

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and I have to admit with no TV or other

distractions, I've read more Old Testament

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here than ever before. Today as I walk, escorted, to the chapel, the compound

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looks deserted. How many of us are there, biding our time in solitary, entertaining

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ourselves with Leviticus? Do those further on their way toward rehabilitation interact?

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How many will actually be rehabilitated?

What exactly does that mean, and how is it

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accomplished? How does someone leave

this place? No harm in asking, is there?

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A Dozen Questions

Fill my head as I enter the chapel.

Father's office is tucked in back

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of the altar. He is working at his computer but turns and stands

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as we enter.
Welcome, Eden. Brother

Stephen, you may leave us.
He motions

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for me to sit before launching into a long-winded entreaty to the Lord

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to deliver wisdom. To me, obviously.

Father already knows everything.

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I keep that to myself, of course.

In fact, I say nothing as he "counsels"

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me on how I might return to the Path

Toward Salvation. Finally he finishes

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and actually gives me the opening I need.

Do you have any questions for me?

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I pretend thoughtfulness for a second.

"I've had lots and lots of time to think,

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and I really believe you've opened

my eyes to my sinful ways. I was just

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wondering what I have to do to prove

that to you so I can go back home."

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He smiles. But it is a cheetah's smile.

Do you really believe I'm so foolish?

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I find no hint of contrition in you.

What I see before me is a liar. Still,

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you're not stupid. So you must understand

that your behavior reflects on your parents.

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They don't want you to come home, do

not want your tarnish on their sterling

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community standing, or for you to influence

your sister to repeat your mistakes.

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You will be here for the foreseeable future.

Shall we decide to make the best of it?

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Of course. I should have known. "Thank you,"

I say, meaning it. Because he just gave me

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permission to do what it is I need to do. I am completely resolute to leave this place. Soon.

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A Poem by Seth Panel
What I Need

Is something intangible, and so, unattainable because it is ever

changing.

Neither can what I want

be defined. To someone

standing on the outside
perimeters
of my life,

I might look

one hundred percent the same.

But if they had the ability to split

me
open, look deep

inside, they would know the mask that

appears to be

my face is painted over the real me, smoke and mirrors, an illusion.

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Seth Graduation Came and Went

Whoopee. Finally free of educational necessity.

No more pencils, no more

books. No more Janet

Winkler's dirty looks.

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I've got to stop drinking.

But not right now. What

else is there to do around here? Funny, but not so long

ago, I swore I'd be off to college.

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Now I really don't care about moving on. What was I thinking? I'll never

go on to school. What for?

My destiny was decided

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for me by the circumstances of my birth. Hick boy from

Indiana. What am I going to do? Turn into a rock star?

Or maybe run for president?

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Yeah, I Know

The state of Indiana has

produced one of each. But

neither was gay. So hurray.

It's farming for me. Oh well.

At least this little piece of

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enlightenment has brought

me closer to Dad. No more

long afternoons in Kentucky, though I do sneak off and meet Carl every now and again.

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Not for love, but for lust.

As older guys go, he's not so bad in the sack. And

besides, he's incredibly

generous with the same

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sort of perks I got from

Loren. Gourmet dinners.

Theater and concerts.

Art house movies. Only with Carl, the maitre d's

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know him by name, and sit

us at view tables. He's got