Caught in the Crossfire Page 10

  Erase image? Yes or No? the camera asked. My chest tightened. It was a fair question. The default answer was no. Keep this image, it argued. It’s proof.

  The other choice was yes. Delete this image and protect him. He has a right to be angry, it argued. So do you.

  A fair question. Just not an easy one.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The light from my camera shone in the darkness of my bunk. I stared at the image of Ian, foot striking the cross. Rage, recorded in 1600 pixels. Was I angry too? His question kept me awake. Abomination. Pray the gay away. Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. The phrases echoed in my mind, dredging up feelings that transported me to a day two years ago.

  My father had returned from his second tour of duty. I was fourteen and everything about me was a hand grenade with the pin pulled but the trigger still held tight. Waiting for the hormones to explode.

  He had come home…different. Quieter. He couldn’t stand loud noises so I mastered the art of tiptoeing through the house. Heel to toe. Heel to toe. In stealth mode. We need to pray for him, my mother had told me, and I had. Every morning and every night and a dozen times in between.

  It was July 4th, two years ago, the night before I went to camp. The air in the living room was heavy and damp. The wobbling ceiling fan managed a weak breeze; its constant whine grated against my nerves. My father sat in his La-Z-Boy. I crashed on the floor, elbow leaning on the coffee table’s veneer surface, and studied the deep lines of his face, looking for answers. My mother curled up on the couch, knitting.

  It was a blistering summer.

  Hot.

  “Iraq hot?” I’d asked my father.

  “Not even close.” His hand ran across my crew cut, long and starting to wilt. “You need a buzz cut before you go to camp. Otherwise, you might get put in a girls’ cabin by mistake.” He took a sip of coffee and scalded his lips. “Damn it!”

  “Iraq hot?” I asked again.

  “Almost, but no. Not quite.”

  Instead of going into the bathroom to get the hair clippers, he reached for the TV remote. Seventeen hundred hours: time for the news. Video of a protest in Washington, DC flashed across the screen. People carried signs. A man with long hair, wearing a rainbow pin with DADT crossed out, shouted at the reporter:

  Our country is falling apart. Unemployment has skyrocketed. The housing market has plummeted. Yet how is this administration spending our tax dollars? On a pointless war we have no business fighting! By sending our kids into the Middle East where they’re good enough to die as long as they don’t talk about their sexual orientation. End the war in the Middle East! End Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell now!

  The television went blank. My father scowled as he slammed the remote down.

  “I’d like to see that guy face down enemy fire. He’d probably crap his pants.” The tone of his voice was hot.

  Iraq hot.

  I was sure of it.

  My mom looked up from her knitting. “They don’t understand, sweetheart. They don’t know what it’s like.”

  “What’s Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell?” I asked.

  “It’s the military’s policy about gay soldiers,” my father said, using the same tone to explain his view of sexuality that he used when he explained geometry to me. Matter of fact. Rectangles—right angled and sturdy. Ninety degrees of masculinity. Circles—rounded and gentle. Full of feminine curves. What about the not so easy to define isosceles triangles and parallelograms?

  Don’t ask, don’t tell.

  The Pentagon didn’t want to know.

  I thought of my new book, hidden between the mattress and box spring of my bed. Boy Meets Boy by David Levithan. I’d stumbled across it at the Barnes & Noble and bought it with the gift card Grandma had given me for Christmas. I’d crumpled up the receipt and thrown it away at the store. No proof. A good covert mission depends on leaving no evidence.

  “What’s the big deal if a gay person is in the military? I don’t get it.”

  “Jon, imagine that you’re in a war. Fighting an enemy. Putting your life on the line. Day after day. You have to know you can trust the people in your platoon, right? Your life depends on it.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “Allow an openly gay person in a military unit and pretty soon you’ve got guys who are convinced he’s checking them out in the shower. It”—he searched for the right word—“unsettles everyone. Gays can serve. That’s fine. I just don’t want to know about it. So we don’t ask and they don’t tell. Trust me, Jon, it’s best for everyone, including them.”

  “And you know what the Bible says about homosexuality.” My mother’s knitting needles clicked in perfect rhythm, pulling thread from the wicker basket that sat at her feet. A rainbow of yarn, balled up within, waited to unravel.

  Later, when the house filled with the sounds of pans clanking in the kitchen and the droning of the history channel in the living room, I snuck into their bathroom, took the hair clippers, and headed into the garage. Hot, maybe not Iraq hot, but damned close. Sweating from the stifling air that pressed down on me and choking from the scent of gasoline and oil that burned my nose, I flung the clippers on the hard cement floor. The shattered pieces, none of them perfect rectangles or circles, flew in every direction.

  *

  I peered through the darkness of the cabin and looked again at the image of Ian, honest in his anger. And what about me? Was I angry too?

  Erase image? Yes or No? the camera asked again. I hit the upward button and highlighted the word Yes and pressed the button. The picture vanished.

  Hell, yes. I was angry.

  Chapter Nineteen

  For days I waited for Paul to demand answers about the defiled cross, but he never said a word. His eyes lingered just a little longer on Ian than before. The glances he gave me asked unspoken questions, but I followed my father’s boot steps. If Paul didn’t ask, I wasn’t going to tell.

  Almost everyone hit the lake early on Monday morning, as the last week of camp began. It was a perfect morning for Paul’s annual five-loaves-and-two-fish competition, which always culminated in a gut-busting fish fry. It was a day the rest of the camp looked forward to and I always dreaded.

  Worms were impaled. Fish suffocated. All around me, people celebrated death. So while the anglers hit the lake, Ian—who declared the event barbaric—and I stayed behind with Simon, who maintained that wheelchairs and fishing boats were not compatible. Bear sat next to me, watching Dawn, who stood, thigh deep, in the lake. She held a long spear in her hand. Bent in full concentration, she stared at the world that teemed with life beneath the surface. A woven basket hung from a strap around her shoulder. She stood, still as one of Simon’s statues, until she plunged her spear into the lake. She struck like lightning and withdrew her spear, an impaled fish wriggling on it. Dawn removed the fish and held it in her hands. Her rich, deep voice, chanting in Ojibwe, carried over the water to Simon and me. The only word I understood was miigwech, which I knew meant thank-you. Her hands were merciful. One quick snap and its suffering ended.

  “What did she say?” I turned to Simon who followed Dawn’s every movement. “Do you know?”

  “She told me once that it is the way of her people to thank the Great Spirit for providing for their needs as well as to thank the fish for making the ultimate sacrifice. I imagine that’s what she’s saying. She’ll never take more fish than she needs for the day, and she’ll use every last bit of the fish. She’ll fillet the meat and make fish soup with the head and skin.”

  Jake hollered across the lake, holding a huge fish over his head like a trophy on display. Landed a big one, I supposed. “We could learn a lot from the Ojibwe,” I said.

  “We sure could.”

  My eyes strayed to Ian, who sat under the willow tree, writing in his journal. “Hey, Simon, can I ask you something personal?”

  “What do you want to know?” Simon smiled as Dawn took up her statue stance again.

  “Have you ever been in love?�
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  Simon jerked his face toward me. “Come again?”

  “Sorry. You don’t have to answer.” I stared at the willow tree.

  “No, it’s okay. You just surprised me. Yes, I know what it’s like to be in love. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just curious. How do you know it’s love and not something else?” Simon followed my glance. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him nod and smile as if he’d just figured something out.

  “That’s easy. I knew I was in love because I couldn’t make a sentence come out right whenever I talked to her. I had a bad case of verbal dyslexia.”

  “Smooth, Simon!” I laughed with him. “What happened when you told her?”

  “I’ll let you know when I do.” He grinned.

  “What do you mean? You haven’t told her?” Simon’s words stunned me.

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Tell me about it. “What’s holding you back from telling her?” I probed.

  “She’s…active.” Simon’s eyes fell to his chair. “I have to think about what she’d be giving up to be with me. I have to think about what’s best for her. I still haven’t decided. Now, how about you, Casanova? Why are you asking about love?”

  “Last night at the bonfire…what we talked about—you know, God and sinners? Well, the more I thought about that, the more confused I got. I didn’t know who I could talk to.”

  “I’m glad you came to me.” Simon glanced at the battered cross. “Let me say this: I don’t agree with the position Aaron took at the bonfire.”

  “You don’t? But the Bible says—”

  “Listen, this world is pretty tough on gay people. They are teased, bullied, and discriminated against. Why would a person choose such a hard life?”

  “So you think a person is born gay.”

  “I think we are born exactly as God created us to be.”

  That stunned me. I had never heard a Christian speak like that before. “But you’re here at Spirit Lake Bible Camp, with Paul and Aaron and all the rest. I mean, I don’t get it.”

  “I am with God, Jonathan. First and foremost, I am with God, and He sent me here with work to do. Sure, I knew the beliefs of the people here and, strange as this might sound, I’ve grown to respect them over the years for their authenticity. It’s true I disagree with some of their beliefs, but I can’t fault them with hypocrisy.”

  “But the Bible calls homosexuality an abomination!”

  “We can talk about that later, but first I want you to read 1 and 2 Samuel. Research another young man named Jonathan and his most precious relationship. Then come talk to me again. In the meantime—”

  “I know, this is between us, right?”

  “Wrong. I have said nothing to you today that I wouldn’t say to anyone else here. Secrets are crippling, and I’m no cripple.” Simon slapped the arm of his wheelchair and grinned. “I was going to tell you to pray in the meantime. This is between you and God. Tell Him everything you want to say. Ask any question you need answered. You know all those pretty prayers you’ve learned? Scrap them and just talk to God. He can handle you being angry or confused. He already knows what you’re feeling anyway, and He wants to help you with this. Believe me, I know.”

  “What do you mean, you know?”

  Simon grew still. His animated face quieted into a still mask.

  “I don’t usually talk about this, but I think you may need to hear my story. When I was fifteen years old, a bit younger than you, I took my dad’s car out for a ride. I wasn’t supposed to. I only had my permit, but I told myself it was no big deal. I’d have my license in two weeks when I turned sixteen. Anyway, I hit a patch of ice and I didn’t know what to do. The car spun out of control. I remember screaming and seeing the tree out of the corner of my eye and then nothing until I woke up in the hospital, unable to move or feel anything from my chest down.”

  Simon stared beyond me, his eyes, unfocused, seeing something far, far away. I held my breath and waited for him to tell me more.

  “I got the use of my arms back eventually. My family and friends threw a party.” Simon frowned as the memory played out in his mind. “I told them to take their goddamned cake and shove it up their asses. Then I told God that if His idea of fair punishment for borrowing the car was to take away my legs, then He could go to Hell and rot there. I didn’t give a damn as long as He left me alone for the rest of my miserable life.” Simon’s forehead glistened.

  “You don’t have to tell me any more,” I whispered.

  “No, I do because what happened next is the important part. I was sixteen years old and a paraplegic. Every dream I’d had in my life had vanished because of one stupid, impulsive decision. I was miserable and miserable to be around for a long time. I screamed at everyone: my parents, my friends, even the hospital staff that tried to help me, but no one got it worse than God. Day after day I unloaded my fury on Him. One day He talked back.”

  “What do you mean talked back? You hear God talk?”

  “He speaks to me here when I get out of the way enough to listen.” Simon put his hand over his heart, and I knew what he meant. “One day, when I was trying to think of a way to end it all, I suddenly felt an electric presence in my room. A warm tingling moved through me, even into my legs, filling me with the presence of God. He told me that my life wasn’t over just because I was paralyzed and angry and depressed. That dark day in the hospital, God showed me how He sees me and how much He loves me, and I’ve never been able to shake that vision. He planted it deep inside me along with the knowledge that His love is unconditional for all of us.”

  The boats turned and headed for the shore. I rose, not wanting anyone else to overhear this conversation. “For all of us, Simon? Really?”

  “Absolutely. Unconditional love for every single person on this planet. That’s God’s specialty. So talk to Him. Tell Him everything you’re feeling. After you’ve prayed, take time to listen with your heart. God is still speaking to us. We just need to have ears to hear Him.”

  “Thanks for telling me about what happened to you.” I smiled. The sound of splashing drew our attention back to the lake.

  “Looks like it’s lunchtime.” Simon turned to look at Dawn as she walked toward us, the bright sunlight gleaming on her strong arms and legs. The woven basket hung from her shoulder, lower than before.

  Sacrifices had been made.

  “Hungry, gentlemen? Makwa?” Bear, who had been jumping on his back legs and snapping at a butterfly that hovered just beyond his reach, dropped to all fours and ran to greet Dawn, his butt wiggling with delight. “Gichi-manidoo was generous today. Bi-wiisinin—let’s eat!”

  Thanks had been given.

  “Ian, get your nose out of that book and come join us,” Simon hollered. “Lunch is on Dawn.” The lines of his face softened as he said her name, and I knew.

  Secrets had been exchanged.

  *

  Later that night in the pitch-black of the cabin, I read my Bible by flashlight. My head spun as I learned about Jonathan and David, two men whose lives were transformed by their love for each other. Jonathan, the beloved son and rightful heir to King Saul’s throne. David, the scrappy fighter who faced a giant with a slingshot and a small, rounded rock. Jonathan, the boy who risked even his relationship with his father because of his love for David. David, the talented musician and writer. Jonathan, loyal and loving to the end…my namesake. David, the boy who became the greatest king of Israel.

  I took my father’s picture out from between the sheets of my Bible where I kept him safe, the desert sand swirling behind him. I whispered to him in the darkness, “King David, Dad, a great soldier and a man after God’s own heart. Think about that.”

  My father remained unimpressed. He continued to smile at me, confident and covered in impenetrable Kevlar. I tucked the picture back into the soft pages, clicked off my flashlight, and slid my Bible beneath my pillow. WWJD? I stared at the
insistent letters, carved deep into the bunk above me, and searched for an answer as I drifted off into a troubled sleep, listening to the whine of doomed mosquitoes and the zzzt of their electrocution.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Wow, I can’t believe you beat me to rehearsal.” Ian swung his leg over the bench and looked at me from across the table in the empty dining room. “I thought you weren’t a morning person.”

  The sound of clattering pans confirmed Hannah’s presence in the back kitchen. The aroma of French toast and maple syrup seeped through the empty dining hall.

  “I was hoping for a chance to talk to you before the others get here. About the night at the cross.”

  “There isn’t anything more to talk about. You made yourself clear. We’re friends and in a few days we’ll go back to our homes and that’ll be that.”

  “No, I mean, yeah, we are friends, but that’s not that. You said I was hiding. Remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve been thinking…”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t want to hide anymore. Not from myself.” The words rushed out of my mouth like a speeding train from a tunnel. “And not from you.”

  Ian raised an eyebrow and looked at me. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “It means that every second of my day is measured by you. Do you know that? It’s not ten a.m. anymore. It’s two hours until lunch. Maybe I’ll see Ian there. It’s not nine a.m. It’s half an hour until sculpture class. I wonder if he’ll sit by me. The highlight of my day is Curtain Call because I know I’ll hear your voice, even if you’re just reciting lines.”

  I hung my head as if the gravity of my confession pulled me toward Earth and away from Heaven, but there was no going back.

  “I believe in Jesus, Ian. I do. But I don’t have any answers when it comes to this feeling I get whenever I’m around you. It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t fit with anything I’ve been taught.” I raked my fingers through my hair, praying he would say something, anything that told me he understood.