Tricks. Part 22

Pain throbs. No, not pain, not even agony. Something there is no word for.

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

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

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.

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

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.

So When He Kisses The top of my head, I stay perfectly still against him. And when his hands begin a slow journey over the landscape of my body, I grit my teeth. Do not protest. Will not complain. Forgive me, Andrew. Please understand.

It's my only way back to you. But I won't give him everything.

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, 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.

I make my voice light. "That's all you get for three strawberries."

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?

I back away, closing b.u.t.tons. Reach down deep for the "inner wh.o.r.e"

Father claims all women harbor inside.

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

The Door Locks Behind Jerome, who promised to see what I can do about Cherry Garcia. Dirtied, I drop to the floor, tuck my back into a corner, as if walls could protect me. Lord, please forgive this sin. What I've done. What I may do, though I'm not exactly sure what that might be. All I know is I have to escape this place, run far, far away. From here.

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

I want pancakes. An omelet with sausage.

I want the key to this unbarred cell.

Jerome has perhaps offered it, if I will only reach for it. I close my eyes. Think of Mary Magdalene. What was her prison?

And how far did she go to get the key?

Some Biblical Scholars Believe Magdalene wasn't really a prost.i.tute at all, but the woman most loved by Jesus. A few even think they might have been married.

Papa preaches that she was a wh.o.r.e, reformed by the love of Christ. No s.e.x involved in the reformation. Mama echoes this tale. But Mama thinks I'm a wh.o.r.e too. A laugh bubbles up, bounces off the barren walls. What incredible irony.

Sorry, Mama. Making love with Andrew didn't make me a wh.o.r.e. But sending me here might very well do exactly that.

I have nothing to lose. You've already stolen everything important. Made me an outcast. Tossed me into this wilderness prison. And now the question becomes: How far will I go to get the key?

To Know That I need to find out what Father has in store for me. We meet every afternoon except on Sunday (no work on the Sabbath), for "prayerful counseling." So far, it's the only time I'm allowed out of my room, into the sunlight, the sage-tainted air.

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 or shoveling manure from the chicken coops. Punishment? My guess is reward.

There are smaller cottages, too-staff residences, I'm sure. A large house looms in the distance. Father's, no doubt. Wonder if there's a Mrs. Father. Probably not.

The chapel is large, with rows of chairs, so I imagine there are Sunday services that I'm still not holy enough to attend.

Don't know if there are cla.s.srooms somewhere, or if any of us juvenile delinquents are allowed schooling other than what's taught in the Bible.

It's the only book I have in my room, and I have to admit with no TV or other distractions, I've read more Old Testament here than ever before. Today as I walk, escorted, to the chapel, the compound looks deserted. How many of us are there, biding our time in solitary, entertaining ourselves with Leviticus? Do those further on their way toward rehabilitation interact?

How many will actually be rehabilitated?

What exactly does that mean, and how is it accomplished? How does someone leave this place? No harm in asking, is there?

A Dozen Questions Fill my head as I enter the chapel.

Father's office is tucked in back of the altar. He is working at his computer but turns and stands as we enter. Welcome, Eden. Brother Stephen, you may leave us. He motions for me to sit before launching into a long-winded entreaty to the Lord to deliver wisdom. To me, obviously.

Father already knows everything.

I keep that to myself, of course.

In fact, I say nothing as he "counsels"

me on how I might return to the Path Toward Salvation. Finally he finishes and actually gives me the opening I need.

Do you have any questions for me?

I pretend thoughtfulness for a second.

"I've had lots and lots of time to think, and I really believe you've opened my eyes to my sinful ways. I was just wondering what I have to do to prove that to you so I can go back home."

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

Do you really believe I'm so foolish?

I find no hint of contrition in you.

What I see before me is a liar. Still, you're not stupid. So you must understand that your behavior reflects on your parents.

They don't want you to come home, do not want your tarnish on their sterling community standing, or for you to influence your sister to repeat your mistakes.

You will be here for the foreseeable future.

Shall we decide to make the best of it?

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

I say, meaning it. Because he just gave me permission to do what it is I need to do. I am completely resolute to leave this place. Soon.

A Poem by Seth Parnell 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.

Seth

Graduation Came and Went

Whoopee. Finally free of educational necessity.

No more pencils, no more books. No more Janet Winkler's dirty looks.

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.

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 for me by the circ.u.mstances of my birth. Hick boy from Indiana. What am I going to do? Turn into a rock star?

Or maybe run for president?

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 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.

Not for love, but for l.u.s.t.

As older guys go, he's not so bad in the sack. And besides, he's incredibly generous with the same sort of perks I got from Loren. Gourmet dinners.

Theater and concerts.

Art house movies. Only with Carl, the maitre d's know him by name, and sit us at view tables. He's got off-Broadway season tickets, not to mention box seats at Churchill Downs. I'm not a big gambler, and know squat about horse racing.

But Carl knows enough for both of us. And it is his money we wager.

Beyond any rush at the rare win, I love the atmosphere.

Rich people, outfitted in elegance, sipping mint juleps and inhaling the extravagant potpourri of leather, gra.s.s hay, and Thoroughbred manure. It's a sensual experience, highlighted by Carl's commanding presence.

He hasn't made me forget Loren, or soothed the sting of desertion, but he has made me realize that I don't have to live my life in isolation.

Thinking of Loren Makes me want liquor.

Dad isn't much of a drinker, but there's usually beer in the fridge, and the afternoon is hot for June. A cold brew sounds pretty d.a.m.n fine.

I'm done tending garden for the day. Carrying gray water by the bucketful.

Looking up into the sharp blue sky, no sign of rain.

We can grow vegetables this way, but the corn looks mighty thirsty. We could lose the whole crop, if G.o.d doesn't cooperate. Weird, but not a hundred miles from here in Illinois, they're drowning under monstrous thundershowers. Just goes to show the randomness of the Almighty's hand.

Hey, Ma, if you're up there, could you put in a good word for the farm you left behind?

I Go into the Cool Of the house. "Dad?" He has drawn the shades, flipped the small window air con on.

The faux breeze it has raised blows gently over the sweat on my face. Aaaaah! Soap and water attack the grime on my hands, and now it's Miller time! I reach into the fridge, find a frosty can, pop the top, take a long swallow. A voice falls over my shoulder like a shadow. Who the h.e.l.l are you? Iron hands- Dad's hands-grab hold of my shoulders, spin me around to face him.

The look in his eyes is a blend of disbelief and revulsion. He knows.

But, "How?" He points to the kitchen table, to the envelope and pages lying spread across it.

I gather Loren's letter, glance at the words, talking about his church, his new home, his congregation.

Talking about missing me, wishing there was a way we could be together. It's not p.o.r.nographic, but there is enough detail so Dad can have no doubt what it means.

I saw a New York postmark.

Thought maybe it was from a college or something.

My G.o.d, Seth. How could you? How long have you ... ?