Caught in the Crossfire Page 12

  Jake leaned against the ladder on the bunk bed we still had to share for two more days and glanced at Aaron’s empty cot.

  “Go to hell.” I climbed out of bed and faced him.

  “Jeez, Coop. What crawled up your ass and died? You used to have a sense of humor.” Jake looked around the cluttered cabin at the other campers who were digging through their duffel bags, ignoring us.

  “This is the one and only time I’m going to say this, Jake, so you’d better pay close attention because there won’t be a remedial class, like you’re used to. If I hear one word about you harassing Ian again, just one word, you’ll answer to me. Understand?”

  “Is that supposed to be a threat?” Jake laughed. “You may have everyone else here fooled, but I’ve always known what you were. You don’t deserve her.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Who don’t I deserve?”

  “Jonathan this and Jonathan that. You’re all she talks about until I’m ready to puke.” His voice cracked and a lot of things became clear to me. Jake hadn’t been gunning for Ian at all. He had been aiming for me, and Ian had just been caught in the crossfire.

  I pushed past Jake and walked out of the cabin, slamming the screen door as I left. The morning was already hot and muggy. A string of profanity ran through my mind. There weren’t enough curse words in my vocabulary to describe what I wished would happen to Jake. My feet pounded along the path to the boys’ shower, kicking up dust as I went. What if Ian’s in there? I panicked. An image of him, naked, flashed into my mind. My stomach cramped and my head felt light. Oh God, I ran. I left him all alone.

  I stomped down the narrow forest trail. Warriors, I thought, don’t freak out. They don’t run and leave a man behind. My feet pounded the rhythm over and over on the ground as I thought of all the other things warriors don’t do that I had done.

  That we had done together.

  Simon was up early, painting down by the shore of Spirit Lake. I closed my eyes and immersed myself in the memory of the world beneath the lake’s surface where Ian’s crushing strength had once turned gentle. My hands clenched. Pain shot through my burned fingers, and I cringed.

  *

  I scanned the dining hall and breathed a sigh of relief. Ian was nowhere in sight. Odd glances followed me as I made my way to Curtain Call’s usual table where MacKenzie and Kari sat with Sara, too absorbed in their conversation to even look at me.

  “Morning, Jonathan.” The smile on Sara’s face didn’t quite make it to her eyes. Ian walked in the dining room. He arrived the way previews do at a movie. Everyone hushed and fixed their attention on him. Cheeks burning bright red, head held high, he made his way through the breakfast line. He took my breath away.

  Ian looked at me as he walked past us. My body burned in every place he had touched me the night before. I searched his face for some sign of connection or recognition. Nothing.

  “Hey, Ian, join us for breakfast?” I called out to him. He turned his head and walked away, not even bothering to answer me.

  “Wait, Ian!” I started to move toward him, but Sara’s hand on my arm stopped me.

  “No,” she said. I looked at her and, for one crazy moment, considered confiding in her. Everything about her—her lip piercing, her crazy hair, her glitter eyeliner—said cool. Except her eyes. They said, Let him go.

  I rushed past her, past the questioning eyes, out the dining hall, past Simon who waved and smiled, past the willow tree that couldn’t possibly shield me from this, down Warrior’s Way, and entered the guys’ shower room.

  I didn’t know the two guys who were showering, but they sure knew me. One guy grabbed a towel and bolted out of the shower. The other guy turned his back to me to finish rinsing his hair, and then he left the shower room too.

  “Fucking fags.” He slammed his locker. The door banged shut, and I shook with relief. Alone in the shower room, I cranked the hot water knob and stood beneath the scalding water until my skin throbbed.

  He hates me. He hates me. Oh God, he hates me. My head spun. And I don’t blame him.

  I leaned against the wall and breathed in the thick, hot air. Let him go? Impossible. But what else could I do? Stand with him in the open for everyone to see? Equally impossible.

  I toweled off, filled the porcelain sink, and plunged my burned hands into the cool water. In a flash the room erupted in blinding light and spun. Sparkles danced in my eyes. In and out, in and out, I panted until my breathing steadied and the pain subsided. I searched my reflection in the rippling metal mirror.

  You’re that guy, aren’t you? I asked the stranger in the mirror. The guy who unsettles everyone.

  Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell suddenly made a lot of sense.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Ian didn’t show up for Curtain Call practice. Sara pitched a fit, and I almost reminded her that she had stopped me from going after him, but I didn’t. Besides, I was sure I’d see him at lunch and we’d sit together like we always did and I would tell him I was sorry and he would understand and it would be okay. But he didn’t show up at lunch, and I wound up eating burritos and beans with Bryan. When Ian was also a no-show at sculpture, I wheedled it out of Simon that Ian was claiming to be sick and that Hannah had brought lunch to him in his cabin. She must have brought him dinner too because he didn’t show up for that either.

  By Friday morning I was pretty sure the last day of camp, the last golden day of freedom, would be spent without so much as a glimpse of Ian.

  Paul had announced an end-of-camp gathering at the lake, and I sat on the beach, the gritty sand burning my legs as Dawn played her spirit drum. It was a beautiful instrument, Ojibwe in origin, with eagle feathers that fluttered in the wind. Her hands stroked the drum and the drum responded, producing a haunting sound that moved through me. It would have been a perfect moment, except Ian wasn’t there to share it with me. I looked for him and was surprised to spot him sitting away from the rest of us, his face as dead and taut as the elk hide on Dawn’s drumhead.

  Paul walked down to the beach carrying a stool, a bar of soap, and a towel. He stepped into the still lake and placed the three-legged stool in the water.

  “As our time together comes to an end, I thought we would speak today about how to follow Christ. I know of no better way to illustrate this than to follow His example. I ask each of you to remove your shoes, come forward, and sit on the stool in front of me.”

  Sara slipped off her sandals, walked forward, and took a seat on the stool. Paul surprised everyone by kneeling in the water, lifting each of Sara’s feet, and lathering them with soap. Then he rinsed her feet in the lake and dried them with the towel.

  “Please, each of you, come forward.”

  One by one the other counselors and campers made their way to Paul, who washed everyone’s feet. I couldn’t. Not after what I’d done. What we’d done. Except it wasn’t about what we’d done together. It was about what I had done to him. Running out on him. Leaving him to face this all alone. Tears threatened to spill down my face. The wind stirred and the long branches of the willow swayed in the breeze.

  “Come, Jonathan,” Paul called to me. I stood, slipped off my flip-flops, walked to the edge of the lake, and sat on the stool. Paul lathered my feet with soap, touching places of pain I hadn’t even known existed. When he finished, he dipped them back into the lake. I couldn’t hold back the tears as I made my way back to my seat. Ian was nowhere to be seen; he had not accepted Paul’s invitation.

  My breath caught in my throat when Simon pushed his wheelchair right to the edge of Spirit Lake. Paul reached forward and lifted Simon’s lifeless limbs, one at a time, folding up the footplates. He untied Simon’s shoes, removed his socks, and rolled his pants legs up, exposing his atrophied calves and limp feet. Simon’s smile held no hint of shame. Paul lowered each of Simon’s feet into the water. I knew he couldn’t feel the water. I knew he could only see Paul’s hands moving in the ritualistic washing of his feet, but based on the emotions that
played across Simon’s face, I also knew he felt as much if not more than anyone else who had received Paul’s blessing.

  “Thank you, my brother, for blessing me today.” Paul placed Simon’s feet back on the footplates of his wheelchair, pushed him out of the lake, and turned to address us. “I want you to imagine that you are not sitting on the beach at Spirit Lake. Picture yourselves living in the dusty desert, walking in hot and dirty sand every day, using your feet to spur on your smelly camel. I want you to imagine a time before indoor plumbing and daily showers. Now, I want you to imagine that you’ve arrived at someone’s home as a guest after a long and exhausting journey. Would there be any greater joy than being welcomed into your friend’s house where a servant rushed to submerse your burning hot feet in cool water, washing away the grime of your long journey?” Paul cupped his hands and scooped up water, letting it run between his fingers. “Now, imagine that today it was not I, it was not even the lowest servant in a home who washed your feet. Imagine it was your Savior, Jesus Christ. When I look out at all of your faces, I see such cause for Christ to rejoice! You are powerful lights of truth in a fallen world. Tomorrow morning, your parents will arrive for parents’ day, and I want each of you to remember how precious you are in God’s eyes as you go in peace and serve the Lord.”

  *

  “Jonathan, I’d like to speak with you.” Paul stopped me as I walked toward the dining hall for lunch. “Do you have a moment?”

  He knows. Fear shot through me like a bolt of electricity. My teeth throbbed, and my mouth tasted like metal. I followed him into his office.

  “Have a seat.” Paul waved toward the chair across from his desk.

  I sat and faced him, my stomach rolling like Spirit Lake on a stormy day. “A few campers came to see me this morning. They had a concern they thought I should know about. Evidently, something happened at the bonfire the other night, but I want to hear your thoughts about it.”

  “Someone stole Ian’s notebook and read from it in front of everyone.”

  “I understand that someone was Jake.”

  “Yeah. He threw it in the fire.” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice. I looked at the stuffed deer head mounted on the wall above Paul’s desk, the tackle box and fishing pole that leaned in the corner, the gleaming rifles locked in the cabinet. The scent of dead fish and gun oil hung in the air. I thought about Jake stealing Ian’s journal and reading his most private thoughts for anyone to hear. I wanted to shout. I wanted to scream. Instead I stared at the white curtain that blew in the wind and listened to the songbirds’ chatter through the open window. Probably trying to agree on their travel plans for heading south soon.

  “I was told that you followed Ian into the woods. That you didn’t get back to your cabin until late in the night, and when you did, you were upset. Is that true?”

  I had thought everyone was asleep. I had thought wrong.

  “Jonathan, I’m concerned about your relationship with Ian.” Paul paused, struggling with the decision to say more. “I have been praying about whether or not I should talk with you about my worries, but this morning, I realized that I have a responsibility to reach out to you. You’ve grown up here, and I care about you as if you were my son.”

  He placed his hand on my arm, avoiding my burned hands. Sweat broke out along my forehead, and I struggled to take a deep breath.

  “I think it’s possible that you are under some kind of satanic attack right now, and you are being tempted by the flesh to deviate from your true identity in Christ. I know you have been raised to know God and to obey His Word, so I know you are aware of the Bible’s warnings against the kind of feelings that I suspect you are having for Ian. I’d like to pray with you, Jonathan. I’d like to ask God to protect you from having this sin of the flesh take root in your spirit. Would you please pray with me?”

  A breeze blew through the window and stirred the ash from his pipe that lay on his desk. The air filled with the pungent smell of stale tobacco.

  I couldn’t look at Paul, much less give him an answer, so I hung my head. It looked like I was praying, but inside, I was dying.

  “Father God, we come before You today with such a painful situation.” Paul’s voice thundered through me. “Jonathan has lost his way, Lord. He has been lured by the enemy to indulge sinful thoughts and urges. Lord, You know the full truth of all that has transpired.”

  My stomach heaved at that thought.

  Paul continued, “I ask that You intervene in Jonathan’s and Ian’s lives. I ask that You surround them with a hedge of protection so that the enemy cannot penetrate their pure hearts and thoughts. Lord, I pray that You will help them break this bondage to sin and reclaim their true identities as sons and heirs to the kingdom of heaven. In Your name, I pray, amen.”

  He raised his head and smiled at me. Tears were in his eyes and love, yes, love shone at me, but it didn’t make the vomit that had collected in my mouth taste any better.

  Satanic attack? Bondage to sin? I stumbled to my feet and backed toward the door. The vomit burned the back of my throat, and no amount of swallowing or praying could keep it down.

  “I’m sorry.” I didn’t look back. He called out something about getting my hands looked at, but the venom crept through me, inching toward my core. I ran through the hallways of the oppressively hot administration building. There was no time to have my hands examined by the camp nurse. There was barely enough time to reach the back side of the kitchen where I bent over and puked into a garbage container that reeked of decaying meat.

  What if Paul is right? The thought doubled me over again as another wave of nausea hit.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I walked away from the garbage with my emotions and my stomach still heaving. Past the outdoor theater and toward the beach. Down the dock where I sat, feet dangling into the lake.

  Lord—I sent my prayer adrift like a message in a bottle—are You there? Do You still hear my voice? “Why is loving him so wrong?”

  “Who said it is?” In my intense concentration I had not heard the thumping sound of Simon’s wheelchair approaching. He read the pain written all over my face. “I had a feeling we weren’t done talking the other day. Are you okay?” Simon locked his wheelchair and looked at me.

  I dropped my head, unable to meet his eyes. The whitened eyes of a belly-up floater fish stared at me through the worn wooden slats in the dock. The stench of rot and foam and seaweed wafted up from the lake.

  “No, I don’t think I am.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “What it feels like to be different? What it feels like to be talked about? Stared at? Try me.”

  He had a point. “Jake did something that hurt Ian, and I felt so bad for him. He ran off into the woods. I couldn’t let him be out there in the darkness alone, so I followed him. I found him crying so I held him. Suddenly we were touching and I didn’t stop it…didn’t want to stop it, God help me. Simon, I think about that, and I feel all these things that I’m supposed to feel for a girl, but I don’t. I never did. What’s wrong with me?” The water gurgled under the dock and I wondered how long it takes for a dead fish to finally sink and go away.

  “First, let me tell you that you are safe. It’s okay to talk about these things with me. Second, I want you to hear this loud and clear: there is nothing wrong with you, Jonathan. You just have feelings waking up inside of you that are in conflict with what you’ve been taught to believe.”

  “After Ian and I…well…I had to get out of there. I ran. I left him alone.” The sun beat down on me through the heavy, humid air, and I felt the first bite of a burn spread over my face and arms and legs. “He hates me.”

  “And you love him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “So let’s try to make some sense of this, okay? Let’s start by getting real with each other. What do you feel for Ian?”

  “It…it h
urts.”

  “Why?”

  “Because whenever I look at him, I don’t know who I am.”

  “Okay, what else?”

  “I get this rush of emotions and…other feelings when I’m around him.” Heat spread over my face.

  “You’re talking about being physically attracted to him.”

  “Guys talk all the time about how hot this girl or that girl is, and I never felt that way before, but when I’m with Ian, I get it. It’s more than just the physical stuff, though. I care about him. I could have killed Jake when he hurt Ian. Then I hurt him even worse.” I pictured Ian, curled up and in pain in the woods. The tears I had been fighting spilled down my face.

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  “How can it be? God says this is wrong.” My face flushed with sweat. I felt feverish. “God says who I am is wrong.”

  “Do you think God ever created someone He thought was a mistake?”

  “No,” I blurted out.

  “That’s right. You are His beloved child. Who you are is not a mistake because God doesn’t make mistakes.”

  “Paul knows, Simon. He says I’m in bondage to sin. And my parents? Do you know what they would say?” A stale, hot wind blew off the lake and pressed down on me.

  Simon’s face darkened with anger. “I said God doesn’t make mistakes. I didn’t say anything about people not making mistakes. Believe me, people are capable of making terrible mistakes.”

  “Simon, I need to know if feeling this, being like this…” I struggled to put into words the dread that had been growing in me.

  “If being a gay man puts you outside of God’s grace. That’s what you want to know, right?” Simon finished my sentence.