You Don't Know About Me (40 page)

And right then, sitting in that chair, I did a face-'n'-brain plant in the biggest danger of changing from a faith-up, born-again Christian, to the doubt-up, learn-again Christian I now was. My colliding chaos of thoughts mooshed into white noise. Okay, since it's the brain, gray noise.

Luckily, the best cure for gray noise was right in front of me. TV.

I turned it on and channel-surfed, looking for some X
Games stuff. Flipping through the sports channels, I heard a reporter say a name: Ruah Branch. Then a sportscaster said they were cutting to a live press conference in Seattle, Washington.

The picture went to a reporter in a crowded room. He said he was at the worldwide headquarters of Pneuma Sports, and that “Ruah Branch, the major leaguer who's been AWOL for over a week, is about to make a statement.”

The picture swung to a podium topped with a bristle of microphones. Ruah stepped up on a platform. I almost didn't recognize him. He wore a dark suit and tie; his head and face were freshly shaved. He would've looked like some businessman if it weren't for the gold stud in his ear.

He leaned into the mics. “Good morning. Thanks for coming on short notice. I'm going to make a brief statement and then I'll be happy to answer questions. But first, I'd like the chief executives of Pneuma, and my agent, Joe Douglas, to join me up here. They're gonna help me introduce a slogan for a new campaign we're test-marketing starting today.”

Some men and women in suits came up on the platform. They each carried a plastic gun with a short fat barrel. Joe was in the back, on crutches, holding one of the plastic guns. He looked miserable.

Ruah counted off “Three, two, one,” and they fired their guns. Balled-up T-shirts flew into the crowd of reporters and camerapeople. Ruah shot one too, as the executives reloaded and fired again. The ESPN reporter unfurled one of the T-shirts. The slogan on it read:

The picture went back to Ruah as he thanked the executives and they left the platform. Joe started to hobble off, but Ruah said, “No, stay here, Joe. You've been such a big part of this, you should be here.” Joe looked like he was about to boot.

Ruah turned back to the room. “First, I apologize to my teammates for disappearing in the stretch. Although I noticed without me in the lineup they're still racking up the wins.” Some of the reporters laughed. “Second, I want to address the rumors that have been circulating.” He scanned the room, then looked into the camera. “To paraphrase the words of a former U.S. senator, I am gay, I always have been gay, and I always will be gay.”

The room exploded with shouting and flashing cameras. Ruah didn't flinch. He waited, then raised a hand, asking for quiet. “Now I'll answer your questions.”

Everyone shouted at once. Ruah pointed at someone. “Is that why you disappeared for over a week?” a reporter asked.

“Yeah,” he said, and rubbed a hand over his head. “And it took me that long to shave my dreads.”

There was a burst of laughter and a reporter shouted, “What does Pneuma say about this? Are they on board with a gay spokesman?”

“We had a long meeting last night,” Ruah answered. “One of the women execs said it best: ‘Gays buy shoes too.' ”

Another voice yelled, “What about your teammates? How do you think they'll react?”

“I expect a mixed bag,” he said. “Some will shrug and say ‘play ball.' Some will say ‘I knew it' and collect on a bet.”

“What about the ones who don't like homosexuals?”

Ruah shrugged. “I'm hoping they'll say ‘He's a fag, but he's
our
fag.' ” He waited for the laughter to quiet. “I'm sure there'll be a couple of guys who say I'm an abomination and I'm going to hell. I'm looking forward to a little Bible study with 'em. If they can convince me the fork in the road between Heaven and hell is whether you're straight or gay, I'll promise 'em I won't head for hell till the end of the season.”

Another reporter fired questions. “Are you worried about being a target on the field? Do you think you'll be in danger as the first outed player in the majors?”

Ruah nodded. “Yeah, but I'm ready for the heat. The man from Galilee said it best.
The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do to me.
If Jesus can be flayed and nailed to the cross, I can endure a few extra knockdowns, beaners, and high spikes.”

“What about the fans, Ruah? You think they'll turn on you?”

“If most fans really cared about what we did off the field, they would've turned on players who used steroids. I'm not saying steroids and sexual orientation are the same. I just think the fans love baseball more than they dislike players' lifestyles. I hope they prove me right.”

A reporter yelled, “So you wanna be the gay Jackie Robinson: the first active player to break the gay barrier?”

Ruah shook his head. “No. Jackie broke a real barrier:
skin color. There's no ‘gay barrier.' We're already in the game, hiding in plain sight. If I'm breaking anything, it's the gag order.”

A woman asked, “When did you know?”

Ruah spread his hands, playing dumb. “Know what?”

“That you were gay.”

He smiled. “About the same time I heard the expression ‘You can't control the bounces.' ”

“Hey, Branch,” another reported called out, “can we drop the gay chatter and talk baseball?”

Ruah laughed. “I thought you'd never ask.”

“We heard you have a broken wrist,” the guy said.

He raised his left arm and pulled on his jacket sleeve. His cast was gone, replaced by a wrap. “It's a hairline fracture. I should be back in the lineup in two weeks.”

“How'd you break it?”

“The closet can be a rough ride.” He quickly pointed to another reporter.

“What pushed you over the edge? Why now?”

“You sure you wanna know?”

“No,” the man answered, “but it's my job to ask.”

Ruah wagged his head. “Okay, but let the record show I gave you an out.”

The reporters laughed.

Ruah got a look I'd seen before. He was going to the Book; he was going to preach. But then he didn't. He cracked another smile. “Fielder's choice: you want the long answer or the sound bite of why I'm out.”

“Sound bite!” reporters shouted.

“Okay, here's the short. ‘Don't ask, don't tell' made me
a slave to silence. Now I'm free.” His mouth crooked into a small smile. “If that's not short enough, try this. To quote a friend, ‘The Bible made me do it.' ”

“But Branch,” a reporter yelled, “what if the Bible and God have nuthin to do with it? I mean, where do you think this is gonna end? With you in the Hall of Fame, or the Hall of Shame?”

Ruah's face pinched, then he nodded slowly, staring at the reporter who'd asked the question. “Okay, here's the slider people like you might get some wood on. I'm the new Pete Rose. I'm betting on baseball. I might get tossed out of the game, but that's not gonna stop me from placing my bet. I'm doubling down against ‘Don't ask, don't tell.' I'm betting that the fans are ready for a new rule: ‘He's gay, so what.' ”

He raised his good hand. “Thanks for your questions. I'll look forward to more of 'em in the Reds locker room.” He turned and left the platform with Joe hobbling behind him.

I flicked off the TV. After getting over the shock of what Ruah had done, I remembered what he'd said the night before about playing baseball like God wanted him to. He said he found the answer in Job 5:7.

I went to the study and dug the Bible out of my backpack. I turned to Job. When my eyes fell on 5:7, I couldn't believe it.

Yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward.

He had turned my providence check into his own. I didn't know what to think. It didn't stop me from feeling. My insides were catching major air. I was proud to be his invisible friend, standing beside him. Jerry Silks, his ex-boyfriend, was there too, giving Ruah a shout-out for leading the league in honesty.

I suddenly wanted to go upstairs, wake my father, and tell him all about the adventure of Billy and Ruah.

I took the stairs two at a time.

The bad book was resting on his chest. As I got closer, I noticed the book wasn't moving. I touched his hand.

It was cold.

Maybe I uttered a word or a sound, I don't remember. I just remember lifting the book off his chest, sitting on the bed, and crying till my lungs were as empty as his.

I finally went downstairs and opened the second envelope. The one with
To be opened only upon my death.
Inside was a typed Last Will and Testament.

My eyes teared up too much to go on. When I could read again, the last few paragraphs were about him leaving the rest of his property, and the contents of his store, to his “reliable assistant for many years, Ms. Harriet Martineau.” Her phone number was included. Underneath was his signature, the date, and the signatures of two witnesses. Below that, he wrote:

I read the will three more times before I called Ms. Martineau. I recognized her voice. She was the one who'd left the panicky voice message pretending to be with the book-burning group. She was as heartbroken as I was, even though she had been prepared for my father's death for months.

She came over to the house and helped me deal with everything. After the ambulance left, she made some lunch and we talked all afternoon. She gave me an envelope of
money my father had told her to hold for me. She told me stories about him until after midnight.

When she left I picked up the phone and called Mom. I woke her up, but I figured she wouldn't mind. “Mom,” I said, “is it okay if I come home?”

“Praise be—” she said. “Praise be—” She started to cry before she could say anything else.

I told her I'd fly to Kansas City the next day. It was so weird. She didn't ask me where I was calling from, or if I'd found my dad, or anything. She just said she couldn't wait to see me.

As I lay on the couch that night, I thought about what I'd tell her about my adventure. Some things I could never tell her, like the night at Stonehenge. I wasn't telling
anybody
that, ever. But some things weren't so easy. Like what would I say about my father? Would I tell her I'd seen him alive, or should I let-on that he'd died before I got there?

Huh. I just wrote a Huck and Tom word, “let-on.” What my father had said about Tom's and Huck's lesson was true. There's no way I could tell her the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I had to let-on about some things.

I decided to tell her I'd seen Richard Allbright alive—true—and for a short time before he died—true. But I wouldn't tell her about his
genizah
and the bad book.

Harriet drove me to the airport. As the plane took off I watched Portland drop away until we flew through a roof of white clouds. As we rose into bright blue sky, I pulled out the bad book.

It was like my dad had said. Mark Twain had left lots of scribbles in the margins, like a skipping stone flying through the pages. I got the general idea of the
Huck Finn
sequel, and it was good. It was full of “howling adventures,” like Tom Sawyer promised. I wondered if I would ever be a good enough writer to fulfill my dad's wish and tell the whole story. I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn't have to answer that yet. I put the book away and leaned back. Going on so little sleep, I z-bagged in seconds.

I had another dream.

• I'm at a desk. I'm writing a note to the Lord and saying what I write out loud.
  T.L., if You ever get around to adding more books to the Bible, You might think about this one:
  

  The Book of Billy
  

  Billy Allbright sat on a wall
  ,
  

  Billy Allbright had a great fall.
  

  All the Lord's horses and all the Lord's men
  

  Couldn't put Billy together again.
  

  But patched up he was and back on his shelf
  ,
  

  Thanks to a fellow known as himself.
  

• I know, it's super short
  , I say as I write,
  but I think more people might read the Bible if there were more short books squeezed between the long ones. Just a thought.
  
• I sign the note:
  Your big fan, then-now-forevermore, Billy.