rather abruptly, cleared his throat, said, “Don’t close the door,” and left me there.
Limp, wrung out, I sat on the side of the bed where my luggage was for some amount of time that isn’t clear to me now. Finally I decided I may as well unpack. Everything on the left side of the room seemed to be mine, so I opened my bags, took things out, and stuffed them into drawers. Then I found the bathroom and took a long time, mind empty as I sat there. Then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to be in a bathroom for more than five minutes for “elimination” or fifteen for “cleansing and grooming.” I’d already exceeded both.
But who would know? Nevertheless, I got up, washed my hands and face, and went back to my room.
Standing in the middle of the room, not seeing anything, I wondered how in hell I was going to just show up at an in-progress Prayer Meeting, wearing my warning label, eyes puffy and face blotchy from crying, and sit there silently in a room full of strangers I would be living with for weeks.
I couldn’t do it. Plus I felt completely drained. So I stripped, threw my clothes in a corner, found my pajama bottoms and put them on, and crawled into bed. Didn’t even turn the light out.
I must have been in some other universe, some other dimension. At any rate I was deeply asleep, face to the wall, so that when Charles called my name, I heard it being repeated, louder and louder, before I realized I had to respond to it.
I turned over and half sat up.
“Taylor, this is not what you were supposed to do. You were supposed to go to Prayer Meeting. Believe me, your absence was noticed.” Something about his voice, some edge, seemed like an overreaction to this misdeed of mine. Like he took it personally somehow. SOHF. Oops. Should I give up counting demerits yet? Translation: Sense Of Humor Failure.
A number of retorts came to mind, and I think I even opened my mouth.
“Don’t speak!”
Oh yeah.
“Are you wearing pajama pants?”
Nod.
Charles moved over to my bureau and started pawing through things. He found what he was looking for—my pajama top—and brought it over to me.
He held it out. “Here. You have to wear the full set. You know that. It’s in the Booklet.”
I tried to glare at him, but I doubt it came across quite as fierce as I wanted. I snatched the top from him and put it on while he watched.
Before I could throw myself back onto the bed and dive under the sheets, he said, “Pray with me.”
“What?”
His hand shot into the air so quickly that I thought he was going to strike me, but he just held it up, palm out, and gave me this hard stare—reminding me, by not speaking, not to speak.
Then he said, “Pray with me. You missed Prayer Meeting. But you need God now more than you ever have before, and praying is the best way to acknowledge his presence. It’s how we open our hearts so he can heal us.”
I just stared at him, but he wasn’t backing down. I heaved a shaky sigh and got out of bed.
Charles went to the desks and pulled first my chair out and then his. He knelt in front of his, elbows on the wooden seat, and looked at me. I sighed again and went to my own chair. He closed his eyes, so I figured it was safe to close mine. Maybe I could fall asleep again.
But no. He prayed aloud.
“Almighty Father, thank you for bringing Taylor to us. Thank you for loving him enough to bring him here, and thank you for giving me the chance to show him the power your love has. To show him the miracles it can bring. To reaffirm in my own heart the steps I have taken toward you.
“Open Taylor’s heart the way you have opened mine. Let him see the light so he will know the right path to take. Let all of us here be examples for him, to support his faith and give meaning to his longing. He longs for you, Father. Help him to understand that, to use this time fully and well, to cross the bridge we are all on, to reach the other side in joy and rapture and fulfillment. Amen.”
He didn’t get up right away, so I didn’t either. I guessed that he was giving me time to speak silently and say my own prayer. So I did.
God, I know you love me. And you know I love you. I don’t know why you’ve brought me here, unless it’s some kind of test. Can I live with these people and still be the person you made me? Can I believe, despite everything I’ll go through here, that you don’t make mistakes? Is this like what happened to Job? Do I have to prove that my love for you is more important than anything they can do to me here?
I waited. If this was a Job test, I knew better than to expect any kind of sign. But I focused my mind hard on loving God. And I felt a warm glow. More tender than Reverend Bartle’s hug. Deeper even than the sweet peace of being with Will. I smiled.
And then I stood and went back to bed, leaving Charles there worshiping at the altar of his desk chair. God and I had an understanding. And the gift he’d given me was that since I wasn’t allowed to speak, I didn’t even have to tell Charles about it. He couldn’t even ask. It was between me and God.
Charles had thanked God for me, and he was right to do that. He just didn’t understand the reason. I was going to show him another path.
Chapter 2
But about midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them.
—Acts 16:25
I woke up to this piercing ringing noise, sitting bolt upright before I knew where I was. Charles sat up in his own bed, hair whorled in a couple of places where his head had been on the pillow but the hair was too short to be really messed up. He got out of bed before I did, rubbed his face and exhaled, and then knelt on the floor.
Was this part of what my daily routine was supposed to be? I couldn’t remember seeing it written anyplace. Maybe it was just Charles. I got up and went to find my bathroom kit and a towel, knowing that if I did something wrong he’d tell me.
Without even looking up, Charles said, “Don’t go to the bathroom without me.” And then he knelt there another couple of minutes while I leaned on my desk, getting irritated. Did I really have to obey him like this? I was afraid I did.
Finally he stood and grabbed his own kit and towel. “You probably don’t want to wear a yellow tag on your pajamas or on your shoulder. If I’m with you I’ll be able to explain to anyone that you can’t speak.”
I shrugged; fine. I followed him to the shower room, adjacent to the toilet room, with an archway between. It was full of stalls like the ones in the toilet room, but longer, with a little space near the door that stayed dry enough to hang your clothes. The space was evidently designed for some compromise between privacy and revelation. I couldn’t gawk at the other naked guys, but I didn’t have quite enough privacy to—well, to enjoy myself in here.
The towels were huge—I think they called them bath sheets—and we were expected to wrap them under our arms tightly before we stepped out of the shower stalls.
Back in the room, before I could do so much as look for underwear, Charles closed the door and said, “Let me show you how we dress.”
Was he kidding me with this? But he selected some clothing for himself and threw it on the bed, and I did the same, and then he pulled at something on the wall between our beds that I hadn’t noticed before. A thin curtain was suspended from a track in the ceiling, and Charles pulled it across.
“Only when we’re both dressed does the curtain go back again. If you finish first, you can start making your bed.”
Wow. Did they really think the sight of Charles’s naked body would drive me over the edge of self-control? Or maybe the sight of mine…SorG? I mean, Straight or Gay?
Suddenly I really wanted to know. Why