Inclination (14 page)

“It is.” In no
hurry whatsoever, David finally withdraws his hand, leaving me breathing
embarrassingly heavily. “We know what’s okay to feel in our hearts
cuz
God gave us that little voice called our conscience.
And feeling attracted to each other because, you know,
cuz
we care, is
kinda
beautiful. Like in a cool sense.”

All I can do is
stare at him until I finally lean down again, pull my textbook from my
backpack, and force myself to study.

I’m the sort of
guy who likes to keep a low profile…you know, to fly really low under the
radar. But it’s impossible to fly under the radar when you look like you’ve
gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson.

Monday at school
is basically torture. Thanks to my black eye and split lip, I’m stared at,
pointed at, and whispered about. In addition to the unwanted attention, I will
confess to also having a feeling of vulnerability.
Physical
vulnerability. I don’t have to be afraid of
Rinaldo
because he hasn’t been in school all week, but I
can’t shake the notion that if word gets out that I’m the new gay kid on the
block, there might be other kids who feel like
Rinaldo
does—that homosexuals ought to drink poison Kool-Aid, or be rounded up in the
village square and shot, or maybe beaten to the point that they can’t see
straight. I’d wanted to stay home again today, but I’d already missed too many
AP classes than was healthy for my grades. I had no choice but to go to school.

I am especially
thankful for Cameron
Nartick
and Lenny Frank, two
guys I’ve gotten to know through David. Cam and Lenny are total brains like me,
and are in almost all of my classes. And truthfully, I never considered hanging
around with them before I was kicked out of Our Way. They are theater geeks and
are into super heroes and Harry Potter and creating their own graphic novels. Things
that my holier-than-everybody-else friends and I found unworthy of our
attention. But Cam and Lenny are great guys, and over the past few weeks, I’ve
realized I have a lot in common with them. On the weekend after Easter I’m
going to go to a magic show with these two, David, and a couple girls, and I’ll
admit, I’m not a huge fan of magic, but I like to try to figure out how the
magic tricks are done. Last week, Lenny told me he’s on the same page as me on
magic in general, and we bonded over his challenge that he’d be able to figure
out the tricks quicker than I could.

When I sit down
beside Lenny in AP Calculus class, it’s hard to miss the way Elizabeth is
staring across the room at me. It crosses my mind that she’s probably come up
with another condemning Biblical scripture about homosexuality to quote, so I glance
away from her. But
E
doesn’t let me off the hook. She
gets up, strides across the room, and stands in front of the table I share with
Lenny.

“What happened to
your face?”

That’s blunt. I
remind myself that I don’t owe her an explanation, and since I’m not planning
to lie, I shrug.

She squints her
eyes and tilts her head to the side like she’s trying to figure me out. “Tell
me, Anthony, what does the
other guy
look like?” The question sounds accusing.

This time I don’t
shrug because I know for a fact that the other guy looks a whole lot better
than I do.

“Okay, then don’t
answer me. That’s fine. But there are rumors going around that a
physically violent
altercation happened
between you and
Rinaldo
. And he hasn’t been in school
since the Our Way intervention… and we’re all getting worried about him.”

I’m not sure what
she expects me to do or say, but I
am
sure her concern over
Rinaldo
is misplaced.

“Are you aware of
what happened to
Rinaldo
? Because, as his longtime
friend, you owe it to him to let me know so I can help him and—”

“Excuse me,
Elizabeth, but class is about to start and since you have no clue what you’re
talking about, I think it’s time you sit down.” Elizabeth and I both practically
snap our necks turning to gawk at Lenny. Lenny’s the kind of guy who rarely
looks up from his doodling, let alone speaks directly—and to a girl, at that.
“You’re wasting your own time, as well as Anthony’s, and you’re making it
difficult for me to see the problems on the white board.”

Elizabeth isn’t
happy with Lenny’s response, or my lack of one. “You aren’t the guy I thought
you were, Anthony. I am truly disappointed in you.” She spins around so quickly
I feel wind on my face, and then returns to her seat.

“Sorry I acted
like that, but she was really annoying me. Isn’t ‘poor
Rinaldo
’
the guy who did
that
to you?” Lenny
gestures to my face. “Why didn’t you tell her he started it?”

Because people
believe what they want to believe.

One more time, I
shrug.

The very thought
of Easter is capable of bringing tears to my eyes. I’m not being overly
dramatic, either. Jesus made the ultimate sacrifice and died for me on Easter,
and I want to be close to him.

This is the first
Holy Week I can remember that I haven’t attended Mass on Holy Thursday. It has
long been a tradition for the Our Way youth group to meet in St. Mark’s
basement before Mass on Holy Thursday, where we read Matthew 26:17-29 and John
13:1-15 aloud together, and then we would discuss the importance of Holy
Thursday, itself. After that we always prayed. I’d thrived on the combination
of scriptural reading and analysis, along with group prayer, too, as well as
the sense of tradition. Both freshman and sophomore years, I’d wanted to remain
in the basement, even when it was time for Mass to start. I wanted to keep
analyzing Matthew and John’s words in that intimate candlelit setting. I’ll sum
it up by saying that the Holy Thursday tradition at St. Mark’s worked for me.

On Thursday
evening after my family leaves for St. Elizabeth’s to attend Holy Thursday
Mass, I sit in the upstairs living room, hugging myself around my shoulders and
rocking back and forth. The hugging and rocking thing is all I can think of to
do in an effort to hold myself together.

I’m
selfish—that’s the problem in a nutshell. I’m not yet willing to give up on the
hope that I can have
both
—a fully
Christian life with a fully intimate male partner. And now I’m paying the price
of my self-centeredness, as I need to be with Jesus badly and I’ve never felt
farther from Him.

And tomorrow…
tomorrow is Good Friday, the day of Christ’s crucifixion—the day he dies to
save my soul. I can’t face this weekend alone. Once again, I’m drawn to David,
my figurative port in the storm. Other than my Bible and the book he loaned
me—the Christian music I discovered in that antiquated hymnal even now tortures
me—David is my single connection to God. I lift my cell phone from the coffee
table and dial.

“Tony?
Whassup
, dude?”

“David, can I
come over?” I don’t bother with the “Hi,
how are you?” or “What’s up in your world?” niceties. I blurt out the question.

I’m fairly
certain David can tell by the tone of my voice that I’m suffering, and he
answers without hesitation. “Of course,
bud. Are you freaking out
cuz
it’s Holy Week?”

“Sort of.”

“Come on over,
then. We’ll hold a personal Bible study for two. I’ll even light
real
candles, not those goofy flameless
ones.” He stops speaking and then adds, in a much softer tone, “It’ll be okay,
Tony.”

“I’m on my way.”
And I am. I’m already on my way to the door, toward David Gandy, the single
flickering light in the huge expanse of darkness that engulfs me.

The only vehicle
parked outside the Gandy house is David’s black Honda truck. And there’s a sign
on the front door.

Come on in Tony,
and go up the stairs. Head toward the music and you’ll find Jesus and me
waiting for you.

Be still and know
that I am God.

I hear the
familiar melody and much-loved lyrics sung in the sweet voice of a children’s
choir a little bit better with every step. David must have started the CD when
he heard my car in his driveway.

I am the Lord
that
healeth
thee.

A simple and
traditional Baptist worship song… it draws me in. I can’t figure out how David
could have possibly known, but this is one of my all-time favorites from the
old hymnal Mom gave me—I tracked it down on You Tube and listen to it all the
time. I’m incredibly drawn to the hymn, and without even realizing it, I’ve
climbed the stairs and I find myself stepping inside the doorway of David’s
bedroom. There, I listen to the rest of the song in silence.

In Thee, O Lord,
I put my trust.

I can’t see David
in the candlelit darkness and I don’t search the room for him. Instead, I close
my eyes and feel the presence of God. But there is also fellowship; I can sense
it as tangibly as if I was at Mass. Maybe even more so, because this moment has
been designed by David, exclusively with me in mind.

When the song
ends, David gets up from where he’s huddled in the shadows of the bottom bunk
of his bunk beds. He goes over to his stereo system and removes the CD that’s
in the player, returns it to its case, and then replaces it with another. He
doesn’t turn to look at me. Probably, he’s uncomfortable with seeing the tears
that he knows are streaming down my face.

“Let’s pray.”
David steps over to the puffy navy blue comforter that he’s placed in the
middle of his bedroom floor. His tall body suddenly folds into a cross-legged
pile and he bows his head, waiting for me to join him.

I kick off my
sneakers, as David’s barefoot, and I step onto the comforter, crouch, and then
sit across from him. As soon as I’m sitting, he takes my hands in both of his,
his grasp warm and firm.

“Father, please
hear us today on Holy Thursday, as we commemorate Your Last Supper, where You
taught Your disciples to break bread together, and when they did that to
remember You. Please understand that in gathering together in friendship
tonight, Tony and I want to remember the sacrifice You made for us, as well as
to praise You, and to hopefully better understand You and Your ways. Be with us
as we remember Your actions by reading the words of Matthew and John, and as we
pray together that we can recognize the way we must walk to please You the
most.”

“Amen,” I say
softly, my head bowed down. We release each other’s hands. I’m not sure as to
whether or not I should bless myself with the sign of the cross, and I stick my
hands in my lap.

David passes me a
Bible that’s identical to the one he holds. We open them automatically to
Matthew 26. David reads aloud about the Last Supper. We’re quiet for a moment
as we reflect on the its meaning, and on Christ’s very human fear of what He
knew was to befall Him.

“How did you feel
when I read that passage?” David lifts his bright gaze from his Bible, and we study
each other’s faces for the first time since I got here.

“I felt a loss.”

“And the loss…
was it of the Sacrament of Communion, in the sense that you can truly eat and
drink the body and blood of Christ?”

“Yes. I mean, if
I’m not a Catholic, and I choose a community church to attend instead, and even
if it has Communion, I won’t be able to take the actual body of Christ into
me.”

He’s quiet for a
moment, and in that moment I notice that all traces of his sarcastic cool-dude
persona from school have vanished. “I think you’re right about that, at least
how it is in most churches.”

“How were you
able to change
your
belief—from the
Eucharist
being
the body and blood of
Christ, to being just a symbol?”

I search his eyes
for signs of pain, as I need to see if there is any deep hurt there. But I
don’t see any. “I choose to focus on the Communion as a friendship offering—in
my mind, it’s about fellowship with God and with other people. And to me,
that’s essential… and I guess it’s also enough.”

I take a moment
to explore the significance of David’s belief. It’s a huge change from the
traditional Catholic understanding of the Sacrament of Eucharist. David’s
acceptance of Eucharist as a friendship offering changes everything, really.

Or does it?

Does following
Jesus mean participating in certain specific behaviors, or is it very simply in
the way I think and act and love others? I’m still not sure, but once again,
David’s belief system has given me something to think about.

“Now let’s turn to
John 13. Why don’t you read 12-14, Tony?”

At first, my
voice is shaky, but it gets smoother as I go along, and I read about how Jesus
Christ washed ordinary people’s feet.

“See, this is
what Christ wants us to do for each other. He wants us to ‘wash each other’s
feet’, you know, to do for one another.” Before this very moment, I’d never
noticed how much David uses his hands when he talks. It’s like he’s literally
trying to pull my thoughts out of me. Maybe it is my understanding he’s trying
to draw forth, or maybe it is my acceptance of his beliefs. “No one of us is
greater than another in His eyes. And I take this to mean that if we truly and
humbly serve one another, then we’re doing as He asks us, and we’re blessed.”

I think I’m catching
the essence of what David believes. “So you’re saying that it isn’t the
specific technical things, like receiving Holy Eucharist and going to
confession and attending Mass on Holy Days of Obligation, we do that counts to
Christ, but how we love and serve one another and Him?” David is trying to
assure me that God won’t condemn us for loving another person of the same
gender, because it isn’t where His major focus is.

“That’s what I
think.”

I feel a sudden
thrill of connection. Maybe it’s connection with David, or maybe it’s a new
sort of bond with God. But something’s happening to me that could change
everything. “Thanks for doing this tonight, David.”

He stretches out
his legs and leans back on his hands. “As a Christian, I live to serve.” I see
a vague resurfacing of the witty at-school-David. “You up for another tune,
man?” He now uses a tough guy voice, like he’s going to play me a rap song or
hard rock.

“Sure—why not?”

David swaggers
over to the sound system, and once there, he turns back to say, “This isn’t a
religious song, so much, but I view all love songs as if they’re about Jesus.”

His statement
surprises me and I wonder what kind of love song I’m going to hear, because, by
looking at David, everybody would assume that he’d be the type to listen to My
Chemical Romance, or a band like that.

“I’ve always
gotten into this tune. It’s, maybe, my favorite secular love song. But, as I
said, I think of it like it’s about Jesus.” He dramatically clutches his chest
where his heart is. “It gets me here.” He turns toward the sound system but I
can still hear him chuckle.

The music starts
with a single measure introduction in the low, haunting tones of a flute. David
stays where he is over by the wall, and we listen.

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling



From glen to glen, and down the mountain side



The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying



Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

Accompanied by
the single flute, the song is sung in the lone angelic voice of a preteen boy—a
boy who sings in falsetto, and sounds sort of like a young woman, but richer.
And the sound is uncommon, even disturbing in its beauty.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow



Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow

'Tis
I'll be here in sunshine
or in shadow



Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so…

But when he come, and all the flowers are dying



If I am dead, as dead I well may be



You'll come and find the place where I am lying



And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

From across the
room, David stares down at me, wearing the most serious expression. I think
maybe he’s trying to read me.

And I shall hear,
tho
' soft
you tread above me



And all my grave will warm and sweeter be



For you will bend and tell me that you love me



And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

For a minute
after the music stops, David continues to stare in my direction. And as he does, I try to think of “Danny Boy”
as a love song I share with Jesus. It’s surprisingly easy to do.

David’s next
words sound rather random. “God can still be everything to you, dude. Like I
said, I don’t believe that Jesus dwells in the technicalities. He lives in the
big picture: in how we live, in how we love, in how we serve.” David walks over
to his bed and leans down to reach under it, picking up the remote control that
is hidden there. “Lie down, Tony. Let’s listen to ‘Danny Boy’ again.”

I stretch out
flat on the floor of David’s room and stare up in the darkness at the ceiling,
the light of about ten candles casting shadows on its whiteness. The music
begins, and he lies down beside me, our shoulders pressed together. I hope so
hard that it’s almost a prayer—I hope that David will take my hand in his.

And he does.

“This song makes
me feel things I can’t explain. About Jesus…and about you.” It’s a huge
confession on my part. Like
ginormous
,
which might not even be a real word, but is the only word for the magnitude of
what I just said. I hope it isn’t more truth than David can stand. David
doesn’t let go of my hand. He holds it possessively, like it’s his right, and I
figure he’s okay with my honesty. And I’m not totally sure if this handholding
is part of our gathering in God’s name, or if it’s something else entirely. But
it feels so perfect that I don’t much care.