Angel, page 18
“I do? How can I know that? You don’t know if it means anything? All this time, you think I’m just playing around? How am I supposed to feel about that? You tell me.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. Great! That’s just great!” Ian went back to pacing.
A minute went by like that, Ian fuming and pacing and Paul staring at an invisible spot on the bedspread. Finally, Paul said, “It’s just… I’m not used to being with someone like you.”
“Like me?” Ian turned to Paul with his arms folded across his chest. “What does that mean?”
“Don’t say it that way,” Paul said. “It’s not bad. I mean, you’re so beautiful.”
Ian rolled his eyes. “What’s your point?”
“I see the way people look at you. You could do anything with your life. The second you decide what you want to do. I look at someone like Ray, and I wonder what you’re doing with me. He’s your age. He’s—God—insanely good-looking. And you can just go out and have fun without worrying about what anyone says about it. Why wouldn’t you want that? Of course I worry. I can’t give you any of that. You should have that. I mean, you must want that. And all the men. How can I not wonder where I fit into that? I’m afraid you… you must have had better than me. You must… want better than me.”
Ian rubbed his forehead as though he were trying to smooth out his furrowed brow. “You told me you had faith in me. Do you remember that? When we first met? You hardly knew me then. Why don’t you have faith in me now?”
“I do. I do have faith in you.”
“Then show me,” he pleaded. “Trust me a little bit. I’m not comparing you to anybody. I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t want to be. If I was going to cheat on you, you think I’d do it in your face like that? Just because you’re insecure about stuff doesn’t mean you can treat me like I’m the slut.”
Paul nodded. “I know.”
“Do you? I don’t think you do. You have to stop torturing yourself with the other-men bullshit.” The words caught in his throat. “You have to stop torturing me too, because I don’t know what to do anymore. You’re always the one pushing me away, you know that? It’s not me.”
“I’m not pushing you away.”
Ian sat down on the bed. “You don’t think I get jealous? You know who I’m jealous of? I’m jealous of Sara.”
Paul was shocked. “Sara’s dead.”
“I know,” Ian said. “How can I compete with that? She’s an angel. The minister and Saint Sara. And I know how petty that sounds. You’re so proud of her. You’re never going to feel that way about me.”
“Hey.” Paul sat down on the bed beside Ian. “You’re wrong. You’re completely wrong. I’m very proud. When I look at you, and how you’ve turned your life around, I’m so proud of you. I can’t wait to see what you do next. I loved Sara. But you’re my angel.”
Ian sighed and lay down on the bed. His anger had faded, but it had been replaced with something else, a quiet uncertainty. He gazed at the ceiling, lost in his own thoughts.
Paul put a hand on Ian’s leg. “Do I really have to sleep on the futon?” he asked.
“No,” Ian said with a deep sigh.
“I’m sorry,” Paul whispered.
Ian didn’t say a thing.
The Attachment
Every five hundred years, give or take a century, part of Mount Rainier collapses, releasing a mudflow into the valley below. The town of Orting, Washington, rests in that valley on a foundation of mud that was at the top of Rainier about five hundred fifty years ago. A destructive river of mud is, perhaps, overdue. The three thousand or so residents of the farm town below know that if the mountain collapsed, it would take less than an hour for the sludge to come down, burying everything in its path in twenty feet of mud traveling at thirty miles per hour.
About two weeks later, Paul was wandering through the church, looking for Ian. It was time to go home, and he was nowhere to be found. Paul finally discovered him in the large conference room. He was painting the molding and had lost track of time. He was completely splattered with white paint. It was in his hair, on his clothes and shoes, and smudged across his cheek.
“Did you get any on the walls at all?” Paul asked.
Without thinking, he reached out to Ian and, with his thumb, rubbed the paint from his cheek. He was still standing with his hand on Ian’s face when he noticed the two figures standing in the doorway. Two members of the board had arrived early for their meeting. They were frozen in the doorway—staring.
The concept of gossip originated with the Old English word “godsibb,” which is a bit like a “God sibling”—a person related in God. Human beings are, by nature, storytellers. Sharing a story binds us together. A secret story is even more effective; it defines who is “inside” enough to receive information. Gossip says, “I trust you with this information. We’re on the same team.”
Ian’s theory that people were too wrapped up in their own lives to care about theirs would probably have been true under normal circumstances—were Paul not the minister. But he was the minister, the center of the community. He was a common point of reference, a natural focal point for community stories.
The story of Ian and Paul had everything: a church leader and a beautiful boy with a questionable past, the thrilling possibility of scandal, and the opportunity to increase one’s moral standing by expressing outrage while simultaneously engaging in entertaining homoerotic fantasy. People love a good mystery too. They could compare notes in a game of “are they or aren’t they?” It was like looking for “Paul is dead” clues in Beatles records. There was no chance that the rumors were going to just go away.
The carefully crafted biography that Paul had been trying to write about himself had been wrenched from his control. Now the gossipers were the authors. They would decide the moral and meaning of Paul and Ian’s story.
The members of the church wanted to know the nature of their relationship. Even if they got to the heart of that mystery—if they learned “the truth,” what would they know? Only that the two of them had sex. Was that really the “nature of their relationship”? How could they ever know the “nature of their relationship”? That is something two people spend a lifetime trying to understand.
Why had God brought these two souls together? What divine force had allowed such an unlikely pair to meet and fall in love? What did it mean—to love? Why did Ian inspire Paul so? Could either of them have become what he was without the other? Of all the mysteries about Ian and Paul, whether or not they had sex was by far the least interesting.
The next morning Paul sat at his desk with a mug of coffee and fired up the computer. When the e-mail program had loaded, he clicked on the envelope icon and watched the messages download. He could read the subject lines as they did. “Free V1agra!”, “Fund-Raising Committee Meeting Schedule,” “A Special Offer from Kohl’s,” and then “Church Policy on Homosexuality.”
Paul’s chest tightened. It took a minute for the messages to finish downloading so he could click on the one he wanted to read. It seemed like an eternity. The e-mail, from Mike Davis, had a paper-clip icon indicating there was an attachment.
“Paul,” the message said, “the board has decided to put together a sheet clarifying the church’s policy on gay and lesbian issues. Could you please review this and give us your input?”
Attached were all of the official church statements on homosexuality, cut and pasted together into one document. There was nothing new. It was the same mumbo jumbo about not discriminating but not encouraging, welcoming gay couples but not blessing them in marriage, welcoming gay individuals but not supporting gay organizations, and of course, the real reason the document had been sent—the passage about “avowed, practicing homosexuals” not being allowed in the ministry because it was “incompatible with Christian teaching.”
The document had not been sent to Paul for his review or input. It was a warning.
Paul got up without reading the rest of his e-mail and walked around the church. He was thinking about the Worship Committee meeting scheduled for that evening. Once a month the committee, which was chaired by Mike’s wife Janice, met at a member’s house. This time they would be meeting at Paul’s place. The thought of having Janice Davis and Ian together in his house suddenly filled him with dread. He had no idea what Ian might say. He didn’t want to paint the picture of their domestic life. It was too late to cancel the meeting. Ian simply could not be there.
Paul wanted to raise the issue with Ian on the drive home from church, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was distracted throughout dinner, unable to find the right moment to ask him. Ian loaded the dishwasher, and Paul said nothing. Paul took aspirin. He paced. Finally, he could wait no longer. He had to bring it up now, before the ladies arrived.
Ian was sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning over a music magazine. He was listening to his iPod, bopping his head and singing under his breath in a tuneless mumble.
“Ian.”
He didn’t look up.
Paul shouted, “Ian!”
“Yeah?” he answered a little too loudly. Paul pointed at his own ear. Ian pulled the right earbud out and let it dangle on his chest.
“Listen,” Paul said. “I was thinking…. Could you turn that off a minute?”
Ian removed the bud from the other ear and put the player to the side.
“Listen,” Paul started again. “I was thinking. The ladies from the Worship Committee are coming by in a little while.”
“Yeah, I know,” Ian said. “You told me.”
“No, it’s….” Paul scratched his forehead. “I was thinking that maybe… if you wouldn’t mind… maybe you could go to the library or something.”
Ian looked confused. “You need a book?”
“No… I just thought….”
“You’re doing a lot of thinking.”
“I just thought that maybe it would be better if you went somewhere else for a little while. Just during the meeting.”
“Went somewhere else?”
“Just during the meeting.”
Ian’s face tightened, creating a line between his eyebrows. “Oh, just during the meeting,” he said. “Not for my whole life.”
“I knew you’d get upset,” Paul said, kicking at a fuzz ball on the carpet with his toe.
“Then why did you ask?”
“Could you maybe stand up? It’s weird talking to you down on the floor.”
Ian stood up, put his hands on his hips, and glared. Somehow that was not a lot better.
“Just during the meeting,” Paul said again.
“Are you going to be talking about something I’m not supposed to know about?” Ian asked. “Like, are you planning a surprise party for me?”
“No, it’s just all the gossip lately…. I think….”
“Jesus Christ!” Ian started to pace. “Everyone knows I live here. It’s not a secret.”
“I know, but it’s different seeing it.”
“Seeing it? What are they going to see? Me sitting on the futon?”
Paul looked up at the ceiling. “You’re being selfish.”
“I’m being selfish? I’m being selfish? Oh my God!”
“Will you…. You know how important my ministry is to me. I just want….”
“I don’t care about your ministry? I don’t care what you want? You think this is fun for me? You think I like it when you introduce me to people like I’m your ward or something? Why do you think I put up with that? Because I don’t care about your career? Because I don’t care about you? When was the last time you stopped to think about what I want? When?”
“Okay, calm down. You’re right. You’re right. You’re not selfish. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s my problem. But….” He looked at his watch. “Can’t you help me out? Just today. We can fight about it later if you want.”
“Is this my home? Is it? Or is it your house and you’re just letting me stay here.”
“It’s our home.”
Ian grasped the air in front of him with half-closed fists, too upset to find the words for what he wanted to say.
“It’s our home,” Paul said again. “Don’t make this a bigger thing than it is.”
“You’re ashamed to be seen in the same room with me. How could I possibly take that personally?”
Paul rubbed his temple. “I didn’t say that. You’re putting words in my mouth. Look, they’re going to be here any minute, can we finish this later?”
“You want me to hurry up and get my gay ass out of your Christian house?”
“Why do you have to say things like that?”
“Fine, Paul. Whatever. You’re completely fucking heterosexual.” Ian violently grabbed his iPod and magazine from the floor. “You got your wish. I’m out of here. But don’t expect me to come back.” He stormed out of the house, slamming the front door behind him.
Paul chased after him. “Ian!” he shouted from the porch. “Ian! Come back here. Ian!”
Ian disappeared around the corner.
When Paul turned to the right, he noticed four of the Worship Committee ladies had already arrived. They had just stepped out of Janice Davis’s SUV and were in the driveway staring at him. Rella Peters stood with her mouth open, holding a tray of cookies in plastic wrap.
It was well after dark before Paul heard the latch turning in the front door. He picked up the remote control and turned off the television. Ian stepped through the door and tossed his keys onto the end table like he always did. The ear pieces from the music player dangled from his front jeans pocket. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. They looked at each other a moment, saying nothing.
Ian sat down on the futon next to Paul, took a long drag from the cigarette, and then crushed it out in an ashtray-saucer. Paul took a deep breath through his nose, trying to detect the scent of alcohol. He smelled nothing but cigarette smoke. Ian seemed to be sober. He looked drained and tired. Pensive, but not angry.
“How was the meeting?” Ian asked.
“It didn’t go exactly the way I planned,” Paul said with a sheepish half smile. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole.”
“Yeah,” Ian said.
Paul leaned forward and spoke to his knees. “Mike Davis sent me an e-mail today. He sent this document with the ‘official church policy’ on gays in the ministry. Said he wanted me to ‘review’ it. I knew what he meant. That’s the reason I was worried with Janice here…. I just… I panicked. I should have… I don’t know….”
“Why didn’t you say that? I mean instead of just saying, ‘Get out’. That would have been a little better. I mean, it would still have been kind of dickish, but at least I’d know why.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t tell me these things, and I’m supposed to just figure out why you’re all weird on me. I’m not psychic.”
“Where did you go?”
“I went to a bar.”
“You….”
“No. I almost did. I ordered and everything. Whiskey, rocks. No one should have to deal with this shit sober. I don’t know how people do it. But I just walked away. You have no idea….”
“I’m sorry.” Paul reached over to run his fingers through Ian’s hair. “I was afraid you weren’t coming back.”
“I was thinking,” he said, leaning away from Paul’s touch.
“About what?” Paul braced himself for the worst.
Ian took a deep breath. “What… what do you want?”
“I want you.”
“No, I mean, what do you want? Is this just….” He sighed and furrowed his brow, trying to find his words.
Paul waited.
“Where do you think this is going? Do you think we’ll be together in five years… or ten?”
“I want to.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like it.”
“Why? Of course I do.”
“So, I mean, are you going to keep telling people I’m a kid who’s staying on your couch until he gets on his feet? Because you know that’s not going to work forever.”
“I know.”
“Have you thought about it?”
“I’ve… I try not to.”
“You have to think about it. It can’t stay this way.”
“The church has been my life for as long as I can remember. If they knew….”
Ian shook his head. “Everyone knows already.”
“They don’t know.”
“You’re kidding yourself. They know.”
“They suspect, but they don’t know.”
“What’s the difference?”
“They don’t have to believe it if they don’t want to. If I actually said it….”
“Yeah….” Ian nodded slowly, then reached over to Paul and touched his cheek. His expression reminded Paul of the sympathetic glances people had given him after Sara died.
“I’m sorry I made you feel bad… again,” Paul said.
“Yeah,” Ian said. “Me too.”
Two days later, Mike Davis came to Paul’s office without an appointment. He sat up straight in the chair in front of Paul’s desk with his legs spread wide and his hands resting on his knees. His expression was accusatory.
“I need to talk to you about Ian Finnerty,” he said.
Even though he was not surprised by the purpose of Mike’s visit, Paul felt his heart skip a beat at the mention of Ian. “What about him?”
“This is a little bit awkward for me.” Mike spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “People are concerned about your relationship with him.”
People. What a joke. Mike was the one who was fueling all the rumors and discussion.
“They’re concerned?” Paul asked in an even tone.
“No one has a problem with Ian,” Mike said. “We all like him. But he is a young gay man, and you’re spending a lot of time with him. You understand how that might look to people?”
“How does it look?”
“Suspicious.”
“You’re making this into something ugly. It isn’t.”
