The Cross in the Closet (15 page)

They say time flies when you are having fun. I wonder if they would say the same when you are living a lie. I think time passes more slowly when you live every moment in your head, when paranoia saturates every look, every word in a conversation, every encounter you have with the individuals whom you are deceiving. It’s like I am waiting to fully live until I can be honest again, even though this experiment has a momentum of its own now. The learning curve has finally passed, but it has not gotten any easier. I feel the weight of this necessary evil every day, but I also feel peace. Even though my experience is different, I know that in some small way, I am finally beginning to understand the struggle unique to those living a closeted life. Every day, and with each new interaction with the gay men and lesbian women I spend so much time with, I am reassured that I can finally question my faith. But will I ever be able to reconcile my faith in God and the homosexual orientation?

I turn off the water from the shower and dry myself vigorously, feeling energized and excited. We just won our first softball game, defeating one of the better teams in the league. I played catcher and was encouraged to have done well for the first time this season. My team is filled with athletes, and having me on the team is probably sometimes frustrating for them. I wipe my head dry and look into the mirror. The image reflected is mine, but I do not feel like me. I feel the growing pains and awkwardness of transition. I feel like a man without a country, a man without a religion, a man who does not know himself yet. It amazes me that I have made it five months.

Even my boyfriend Shawn is surprised. After some of the earlier close calls in the gay bars, he is relieved not to have to babysit me anymore when I go out. Instead, our time has become more quality and less instruction. While we are out, we spend more time getting to know each other and less time focusing on the nuances of body language and flirtation. I learned the language of the community quickly, in spite of myself, and I feel better for it. I am no longer a stranger to the gay community of Nashville. I am one of them—or as much as I can ever be without actually being gay. I know names, stories, and, even more satisfying, I have allowed others to get to know me. Where I once felt guarded, I am finally able to trust the people I meet. There is an unwritten code in our humble gayborhood. Shawn helped teach me that code, and now I feel like we are able to invest in our friendship and our relationship more than ever.

I am brushing my teeth when the phone rings. I rinse and spit as quickly as possible. “Hello.”

“Tim, it’s Mom. Andrew and Maren know. They called and told me.” Her voice is shaky.

“Know what, exactly?” I ask. My body begins to shake with panic and adrenaline.

“That you aren’t really gay. That you are doing some kind of experiment.”

She knows?
They
know? All at once, in the blink of an eye, I feel exposed, naked, and vulnerable in front of the people I have misled. My first thought is that I need to talk to Andrew and explain, but all I can do is collapse into a nearby chair as tears fill my eyes. If he has second-hand information, he won’t understand why I have done this to him. It is a terrifying thought, the lid coming off of my experiment just shy of the halfway point. It is terrifying and devastating. My experiment isn’t over! It feels like it has barely just begun. I am finally at the point where I am learning, where my feet are more than just wet. I am in the pool now, and my body has acclimated to the water.

I do not feel shocked, the way I imagined I would be if this ever happened. It is a different kind of guilt. I am not ashamed of what I am doing. I feel only an intense sadness for who I have hurt. My family is the most important thing to me, especially since my parent’s divorce, and I feel cut off from them for the first time. Even my mom’s voice is distant, as if she’s on the other side of the world, only giving me half of her attention.

“I’m sorry, Mom…I…” I cannot speak. My voice is cracking too much for her to understand me.

“You’re free to talk to me whenever you need to…Tim, I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m just trying to understand why you did this.”

“I will explain everything when we talk. Just don’t say anything to anyone, and I’ll call you later.”

“I love you,” she says.

I hang up the phone and grab my journal from my backpack. The only way I can explain my situation is to show him, to help my brother understand that I had to do this. I want to show him the entry from January first, when I felt so horrible for deceiving him that I went outside and vomited. I need to show him that I did not haphazardly throw him under the bus. I need to heal this wound…or at least patch it up, and fast.

You know that’s not going to happen. Be realistic.

My Pharisee looks at me with a searing, almost venomous expression. He looks at me like I am an enemy, and I know I cannot avoid him. I dress as quickly as possible; everything is a blur, everything except the Pharisee. No, he is clear. Too clear. His expression is the expression I hope
not
to see on my brother’s face. I cannot avoid it or look away.

This is
your
fault. You knew this would happen. Running off to brother’s house with your little journal won’t accomplish anything, and you know it!

I have to try! What kind of brother would I be if I didn’t try to explain?

The kind of brother who seems to care more for his little experiment than he does for his own flesh and blood.

That’s not true! You’ve been with me this whole time, seen what I’ve seen, and you can’t tell me I’m doing the wrong thing.

The path you’re on was always your choice from the beginning—just like every gay man and woman alive has chosen theirs.

Don’t feed me that bullshit…

You were never programmed—you just like feeling right. You reveled in the absolutes. It was your pride, not the church, that led to all of this.

Both influenced me. Does that make you happy to hear? I never said I wasn’t to blame for how I applied the teachings of my church. But know this: What I’m doing now is the first truly good thing I’ve done in my life, and I refuse to quit!

The first truly good thing you’ve done in your life? You are trying to undermine the Bible and what you know is truth. How is that good?

I don’t know it’s the truth! Would I have done this if I did? Things are not as plain and simple as I once thought. And eventually my brother will understand that, too. He’s hurt, but he’s a rational guy. If I can show him why I had to do this, he’ll listen.

Tim, you lied to him. You betrayed his trust. Don’t take my word for it—take his.

I can feel my body shaking. The adrenaline leaves a bitter taste in my mouth as it courses through my blood and brain like liquid speed. The weather outside is sunny, but I see it through a curtain of tears. What if the Pharisee is right? What if my brother disowns me? My world is flooding, and I am losing the only thing I thought I had: control. But maybe that was just another
lie
; maybe that is why I feel the way I do right now.

You are living heresy, and you’re the one who will have to deal with the consequences of it. I feel no pity for you.

It is easier to love those who believe the same as us more than those we disagree with. If I am damned for asking questions and testing what old white men have taught me all my life, then so be it!

It was a dinner party like any other, but I had gotten too confident in being known as Andrew’s gay brother, and I was not on guard the way I should have been. Everyone at the party had just finished a raucous game of
Catch Phrase
and I had been pleasantly surprised when, on my brother’s turn, his clue for the table was “opposite of Tim.” “
Straight
!” everyone shouted in unison. I looked around the table…and felt accepted. It was the first time I did not feel like an outsider around my family and their friends.

After several drinks on an empty stomach, I stood outside my brother’s home, smoking with my brother’s good friend. “So when did you know you were gay?” he asked.

“For a while, I guess,” I said vaguely.

“You know, your brother is doing his best to remember who you are and not make it a big deal.”

“Yeah, I know it’s probably tough on him.” I knew it was probably a great deal more than “tough.” After all, there is no room in heaven for homosexuals, at least in our brand of Christianity.

“But, Tim, you’ve always loved women so much, or at least acted that way…Don’t you miss boobs?” He laughed.

“Yes, I do!” I answered without thinking.

“Wait…What?”

“Shit.” I belched and tossed my cigarette butt into the yard.

“Tim, what’s going on?”

“Follow me.”

I took him to the backyard and swore him to secrecy, stumbling over my words and emotions the entire time.

He successfully kept my secret for three months, which was two months and three weeks longer than Josh and Shawn thought he would be able to keep it.

The drive to my brother’s house is a blur. The streets bleed together, and the entire time I try to decide what I am going to say and how I will say it. If things had gone according to plan, I would not be experiencing this for another seven months. I am not prepared for this now! I had hoped to have more to show for my experiment by the time I came out as straight. I am afraid of losing my family—even more so than when I told them I am gay. I wonder if this fear is more characteristic of what my gay friends have talked about when telling their own coming-out stories.

More than anything, I am afraid that this journey is going to end because I slipped and told someone I should not have. The thought scares the hell out of me. I do not want my secret to get out. I want to keep learning and experiencing the things that only the label of gay can ever teach me. I want to experience and live more of this journey, as I have finally become acclimated to my new life. I am not ready to be straight Tim again. I like gay Tim. I like his friends, and I like that he is trying to have an open mind. I like
me
, so much more than I did before. And what would be accomplished having just gotten past the learning curve?

I finally feel the weight of what I am doing, finally understand how essential this is—not just for the sake of experiencing something unique, but because I finally realize that I can and should be better. I can love more. I can change. I can be authentic in my faith for the first time by loving my neighbor as myself. This will just have to be part of the story, I resolve; another chapter in a series of uncomfortable chapters, where nothing is as it should be.

I take a few deep breaths and the panic abates with each exhalation. I think of my new friends, the people whom I finally understand are not the enemy of me, or of God.

I park my car on the street in front of Andrew’s house, but I cannot find the courage to get out. Help me, Lord. I do not know what to say.

You can’t say anything. You’ve messed up too badly this time
.

The fact that you believe in
too badly’s
makes me pity you.

That is the push I need. I get out of the beaten-up Honda and walk to the back yard. As expected, I find my brother, his wife, and the friend who told them, sitting on the back patio. The mood is incredibly tense, and rightly so. They have just found me out. Can they comprehend why I have done what I’ve done? It is real, now, this moment of this bleak conversation—for the first time I feel the potential for rejection that might cause me irrevocable damage. But thinking about me is selfish. I should be asking instead if I have caused Andrew irrevocable damage, not by coming out, but because I have spent five months lying to him.

“What are you doing here?” Andrew says, beating his wife to the punch.

“I really need to talk to you, to explain.”

“Explain what? You lied to us. And for what?” my sister-in-law says. She has a much sharper tone than Andrew.

“That is what I need to explain. I had to do this.” I am breathless and overwhelmed.

“This isn’t a good time, Tim. We’ll talk in a few days.”

Andrew’s calm worries me. “Why can’t we talk now?”

“Because it’s not a good time for us. We are with our friends, so just calm down and leave.” His tone is unwavering.

“Can’t we just talk for a few minutes?” I plead with him.

“No, Tim. We don’t want to talk to you! Just leave!” Andrew defers to his wife’s remark and gives me a look. It is a vastly different look than the one I saw on his face that cold morning five months ago. “Sunday morning. We’ll talk next Sunday morning,” he says.

“For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry I put you through this. I will do my best to explain when you talk to me.”

“Sunday,” he says.

“Sunday.”

I walk away feeling defeated. Drained. I feel alone, truly alone. I get into my Honda and turn the key. I need a drink.

Able to patch it up?

You really are a bastard.

Remember what the Bible says about liars? Care for a reminder?

Another time.

Sunday finally comes. I have been dreading the talk with Andrew. I have no way of knowing how he will respond, if the last week has affected his feelings toward me. I spent most of the night writing down what I want to tell him on 3”X5” note cards, but the last time I rehearsed a speech to give to my brother, I didn’t end up saying a word of it. I pace back and forth across the aggregate driveway behind my dad’s house, thankful it is not too hot outside. Nashville summers begin mid-spring; today the weather is temperate and clear. But I feel hidden under a dark and ominous cloud.

When my cell rings, my brother’s picture appears on my phone. I remember when we took that picture. It was a better time for Andrew and me, a time when all of this would have seemed impossible. I answer the call and my brother says hello.

After making small-talk, my brother gets to the point: “Why did you lie to us?”