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CHAPTER 8:

Eric and his pastor, the Reverend Joseph Madden, stood behind the counter separating the
church kitchen from the fellowship hall. Eric ladled out bowls of soup while Pastor Madden
handed out sandwiches. The Pastor growled above the clamor of children. "Every time the
President boasts about declining welfare rolls I want to reach through my television, grab him
by the necktie, and drag him down here to see how his welfare-to-work successes actually
manage to feed their kids at the end of each month."

Steven arrived at the church at the agreed upon time. Noticing Eric engaged in conversation,
he slipped up to the counter. He picked up a bowl and with a sorrowful look held it forth,
pleading in a child's voice, "Please sir, I want some more."

"We don't serve your kind here," Eric hissed at him.

"What kind is that?" Pastor Madden was shocked by Eric's response to the stranger.

"Tory Red Coats, sir." Eric saluted his pastor sharply.

The Pastor caught on. "Good heavens! I'll gather the muskets. You hang the lanterns in the
steeple."

The three laughed. Pastor Madden reached his right hand across the counter. "Joe Madden,"
he said. "You must be Steven."

"Yes. Steven Carter. Pleased to meet you sir." Steven shook the Pastor's hand.

"I was very sad to learn about your friend Randy. Still, your visit seems to have worked
miracles on Eric's spirits. You're all he seems to want to talk about."

Eric felt a sting of panic. Was he that obvious?
__________________________________________________



Steven stood in the pulpit of the South End Baptist Church. He looked out over the rows of
empty pews and made the dramatic gestures he imagined typical of fire-breathing American
evangelists. "How much does he know?" Steven asked.

"The same half-truths as everyone else." Eric stood beside Steven. He placed his elbows on the
pulpit and rested his chin in his hands. "Steven, have you ever felt like you just had to do
something? I mean, like something inside of you was driving you toward something and you
had no control over it?"

Suddenly the pews were filled with teenagers in blue blazers and striped ties. Steven saw the
tears on his mother's cheeks, the bitter surprise in the eyes of John Dixon's parents, and the
panic and shame on John's face. "Yes," he said.

"Something you've already done? Or something you haven't done yet?" Eric asked.

"Something I did. About two and a half years ago I came out at an assembly in my school."

"Why would you do that?" Eric was shocked by the thought of such a brazen act of self-
disclosure.

"Long bloody story." Steven turned to face Eric. He leaned against the pulpit. "Some things
had happened to make me angry. I was so, so angry . . . angry enough to swing a sledge
hammer at everything fragile in my life."

"Do you regret it?"

Steven paused and considered Eric's question. He sighed. "There were consequences I wasn't
pleased with. But regret? . . . No, I've never regretted it."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Eric said.

"Regret?" asked Steven.

Eric nodded. "I couldn't bear a lifetime of it. And I'd hate to end up like Father Jim."

"Catholic?" Steven asked with a wise ass smile.

Eric chuckled. "That too. God, these Baptists would have a cow."

"But Jim seems like an alright bloke."

"I'm sure he is," Eric said. "I just don't think I could live with . . . you know . . . that conflict. Steven, I don't know any more what side of the fence I'm going to land on. But I know if I
try to straddle it I'm going to get a big sharp picket up my ass."

Eric noticed that smile returning to Steven's face and warned, chuckling, "Don't even go there."

They both laughed. As they quieted, Eric turned to stare out over the empty pews.

Steven looked at Eric, searching for understanding. "Eric, what happened?"

A door off to the side of the chancel opened. Pastor Madden approached. "We're all finished
down there, and everything is locked up. When you leave, go out the door by my office and
just pull it shut behind you. Steven, it was a pleasure meeting you."

Steven shook the Pastor's hand again. "Likewise."

Pastor Madden turned to Eric. "Eric, at our New Year's Eve service tonight, would you be
willing to share a word of testimony? Just take a few minutes and open your heart and let us
know how the Lord is dealing with you."

"Yes, I'd be happy to." Eric always had been, but this time he wasn't so sure.

Turning to Steven the Pastor said, "Steven, please feel free to join us."

"Perhaps I will. Thank you," Steven said.

"Great then. See you guys later." The Pastor turned and went back through the door by
which he had entered.
__________________________________________________


Eric took Steven by the hand and led him to the edge of the chancel's platform. They sat
together.

"I grew up in this church," Eric began. "I can hardly imagine life apart from it. I don't know
what Mom and I would have done when my father died . . . I believed what the adults in my
world told me to believe. And I did what they expected of me. Well, most of the time." Eric
chuckled.

Steven smiled.

"Still, I had never really made it my own. I was just trying to be a good boy, you know, please
Mom and Pastor Madden. I had known Randy all my life. His family didn't go to any church.
He always thought my involvement here was kind of peculiar. He didn't get it. That summer
. . . after that night at the gorge . . . I knew enough to keep things secret. But I didn't really
think it was wrong. We loved each other. How could that be wrong?"

Steven shook his head. "I don't know."

"That January, senior year in high school, our church youth group had their annual winter
retreat up in New Hampshire. I asked Randy to come. He thought I was crazy. But I seduced
him with promises of skiing and sledding and long walks along miles of secluded trails
through the woods. We could make time for ourselves. It would be romantic. And it was . . .
until the last night." Eric turned to Steven and said, "Oh, God . . ." He put his arms around
Steven and rested his head on Steven's shoulder.

Steven rubbed Eric's back. "Take your time."

Eric released Steven. Then he reached for Steven's hand and clung to it. "That last night this
preacher talked about answering God's call. He talked about feeling a spark, an impulse, a
nudge within - God's 'still small voice' calling us to commitment and service. I knew what he
meant. I had felt it for a long time. At the end of his sermon he challenged us to get up and
come forward to answer the call. As I rose to my feet it was like it wasn't really me doing it.
Something inside of me was moving me forward, saying 'yes' to a voice I had been hearing
faintly for years. I went forward along with several others. We knelt as people gathered
around us and prayed. When the praying ended, I got up and turned around. I looked for
Randy. I wanted to grab him and hold him and pull him into this experience I was having.
But he was gone . . ." Eric hung his head as tears spilled from his eyes.

Steven lifted Eric's hand to his lips and gave it a gentle kiss.

"I spent nearly an hour running along the trails we had followed in the woods, calling his
name, screaming myself hoarse. Finally, I found him leaning against a tree. He was crying. I
tried to hug him, but he pulled away." Eric wiped his cheeks with his sleeves.

"Randy said, 'It's over'."

"'Don't be ridiculous,' I told him. 'Randy, I love you. Even more now if that's possible.'

"He just shook his head. He was crying so hard he could hardly speak. 'Go ask that preacher,'
he said. I couldn't tell if he was hurt or angry. Both I guess.

"I said, 'Randy, please, don't do this. I love you. I want to be with you forever.'

"He kept shaking his head and saying, 'It's over. It's over.'

"I was feeling defensive. I said, 'Maybe you want it to be over.'

"He said, 'It doesn't matter what I want anymore. It's over.'

"My heart was breaking, and I was getting angry myself. 'It's not over!' I shouted at him. 'It's
not! I'll show you!' and I ran back to the retreat center. I found that preacher and I told him
everything . . . He wasn't unkind about it. He was even gentle. But Randy was right.
Somehow he knew." Eric leaned his face into his hands and sobbed for a moment.

"The rest of that night and the next day on the ride home were just awful. Randy wouldn't
talk to me. I got angrier and angrier at him, and more and more determined not to back off
from my decision. Finally, about a week later he called. We got together to talk. But by then
something spiteful had hardened inside of me. He said he stilled loved me. He wanted us to be
friends. But I said, 'No.' I told him I wasn't gay, that I never really loved him. I called him a
tool of Satan and told him to get out of my life . . . then Randy started to cry . . . and now,
every time I think of him I remember that look on his face . . ." Eric leapt to his feet. He
flailed his arms and screamed, "I should have been on that motorcycle! I should be in hell!"
He ran down the center aisle of the church.

"Eric!" Steven called to him. Steven heard a door open, then slam shut.
___________________________________________________


Steven and Eric sat on the church steps in the shadow of the steeple. Steven buttoned up his
coat and pulled his scarf tight against the chill. Then he spoke. "When Jess told me that Randy
had died, I felt like I was falling. Falling into some dark, horrible, lonely place. And I kept
falling and falling and falling. I decided to come to Boston anyway. In some strange way I felt
like I had to. I thought if I could sit in his home and drink coffee with his father, if I could
meet his friends, if I could go to Vermont and see other places he told me about, then maybe
. . . Eric, look at me."

Eric looked at Steven, his eyes still brimming with tears.

"Eric," Steven continued. "Randy's not in hell. I know where he is."

"Where?" Eric asked weakly.

Steven reached over to Eric's breast and unzipped Eric's parka. Then he placed his hand, flat
against Eric's chest. He felt Eric's heart beating. "There." The sun slid out from behind the
steeple. Steven squinted as the bright sunlight warmed his face. "Eric, I've stopped falling."