Chapter Five

 

THERE he was, Ex-gay Extraordinaire: C. Everett Hammer III. Tall and tanned, fair and fit. The picture of accomplishment. And the picture of smugness. With his primped blonde wife on his arm, he made an appropriately belated entrance into the dining room. We thirty-six registrants were already seated. Six men and their assigned mentor ringed each of six large, round tables. Smiling affably, Ev and the missus, whose name was Catherine, went from one cluster to another and shook each registrant’s hand.

He was a handsome man in a fussily stitched-up way, as if he’d been taken apart and meticulously put back together, and wore his casual clothing like a tuxedo. His gray eyes were riveting. Their color seemed adjustable; it could’ve been bright and clear or mellow and deep—or nearly colorless and devoid of nuance.

I’d seen only two pictures of Hammer in his youth. In them, he appeared willowy and seemed to have a flair for dramatic, pouty poses. A surfable wave of gold-streaked walnut hair fell over one eye. I could tell he was trying to look pretty and seductive. Tres gay. In spite of his seeming vanity, or maybe because of it, I got the impression he was happy with his life.

He was sturdier now—rather angular and imperious, in fact—and neatened up to match the idealized image of a middle-aged CEO. As we shook hands, I sensed that he took more notice of me than he did of the other men at the table. That creeped me out a bit. His eyes seemed to repel the room’s light rather than catch and shatter it into glitter, the way Jude’s eyes did.

I was relieved when he moved on. 

As luck and the alphabet would have it, Jude and I were in the same group. We conscientiously refrained from exchanging even a single glance. It was like that wedding reception all over again—the two of us silently, stingingly aware of each other’s presence—except this time, there were no alcoholic beverages to alleviate our discomfort.

I tried to enjoy the savory and plentiful food while I listened carefully to the dinner conversation. Directed by Thom Swain, our mentor, we’d started out by introducing ourselves and saying where we were from. The men seemed self-conscious. As dinner progressed, some of them dropped hints as to why they’d come to Stronger Wings. Swain listened as carefully as I did, but certainly for a different reason.

Conservative religious backgrounds seemed to figure heavily in those dropped hints, as did peer-group ridicule or disapproval. Two of the five guys were divorced and clearly felt guilty about it. One alluded to alienation from his children. All of them had obviously had piss-poor luck on the dating front.

Jude, however, didn’t talk about himself. He was pretty tight-lipped. He only participated in the conversation when he didn’t have to say anything revealing. I wondered how willingly he’d spill during his first counseling session, which would be the following morning, and wished like hell I could be there.

The men all strove for optimism, and their hope was cleverly fed by the jovial, oh-so-caring Thom, who for some reason made me think of Tom Sawyer. It was his name, probably, combined with his red hair and freckles and mild Southern accent. Then I remembered I’d once pinned down a guy named Tom, no H, and teasingly tried to lick the freckles off his face and chest—before, that is, I got farther down his body and became serious.

“You know,” Swain said when dessert arrived, “as I look around this table, I see six guys with so much to offer, so much to give. Your lives are kind of like powerful engines that have stalled out because of bad maintenance. Our purpose here is to clean away the gunk and give y’all a tune-up, get you rolling along toward a genuinely good life. When an engine is running normal, it’s running smooth.”

Everybody murmured in assent except me. I couldn’t tell if Jude did or not. At that moment, he was earnestly digging into his cherry cobbler.

I was digging into the corner of my mind where wickedness was stored.

Maybe you should get us on that road by dropping your pants and bending over the table. That was my response to Thom’s pep talk. It was more the imp of the perverse than genuine desire that spawned the thought. Yeah, Swain was moderately fuckable. So were eight or ten of the other guys in the dining room. But I didn’t want them. More to the point, I didn’t want to be the kind of ho-doggy homo Jude had excoriated, and that’s probably what had quashed all my natural instincts.

After dinner but before Thom set up his half-hour counseling intake meetings, I excused myself and hurried over to see Hammer before he left the dining room. He’d been sitting at a separate table with his wife, and I managed to get to him just as they rose from their seats.

“Excuse me, Mr. Hammer.”

He seemed a bit startled when he saw me, as if he wasn’t accustomed to registrants approaching him. His arched eyebrows and low-lidded gaze bespoke an arrogance I knew I’d have trouble accommodating.

“I’m Mick Tzerko,” I said. “I need to speak with you for a moment.”

“Who’s your mentor again?”

“Thom Swain.”

Hammer’s cool gaze shifted to my table.

“The thing is,” I said, anticipating his response, “I don’t need a mentor.”

He frowned at me. “What do you mean?”

“That’s what I have to talk to you about. I’m here as a journalist, not as a…”—I did a mental scramble to come up with an acceptable phrase—“not as a gay man seeking help.”

Hammer laid a hand on his wife’s back. “Go ahead, dear. This might take a while.”

With a demure smile, she walked away. Hammer sank back into his chair. “Have a seat,” he said to me, then called out, “Just proceed, Thom.”

I didn’t look in the mentor’s direction, but he must’ve been hesitating, wondering what was going on.

“So,” Hammer said, crossing his legs and folding his hands on his lap, “what’s this about being a journalist?”

I explained. Hammer stared at his interlinked hands and occasionally nodded.

“This Options magazine isn’t a gay advocate publication?” he asked at one point.

“No, not at all. You can look it up online if you’d like. In fact, you can call one of my superiors.” I pulled a business card from my wallet and handed it to him.

Hammer briefly studied it and then slipped it into his breast pocket. “What’s your marital status, Mick?”

I summoned my inner actor. “Divorced,” I said ruefully, “but I’m still hoping Jill and I can eventually work things out.”

“Please excuse me for asking, but might your difficulties have something to do with your sexual preference?”

I chuckled, seemingly at the question’s absurdity. “Goodness, no.”

“You’re heterosexual?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “One hundred percent.”

“From birth on?”

“Yes.”

No lightning bolt came through the ceiling.

“So what is it you intend to do while you’re here?”

“Listen, observe. Maybe interview some of your guests, if you’ll allow it. The magazine’s mission is to present oppositional viewpoints on current issues—social, political, religious, cultural.”

A female kitchen worker appeared and bussed the table with quiet efficiency. She left Hammer’s coffee cup, and he asked her to send a server over with a full carafe and a cup for me. When the coffee arrived, I gratefully drank, for my throat had gone dry.

“As you see it,” Hammer said, picking up where I’d left off, “Stronger Wings stands in opposition to what, exactly?”

“The Gay Pride movement, I suppose.”

Fuck, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to use the term gay lifestyle, because there wasn’t any such thing. We lived like everybody else in our respective age groups, income brackets, and places of residence. Even our bedroom activities were often the same as other couples’.

“Do you believe, Mick, that same-sex attraction and homosexual activity pervert the natural order of life as designed by our Creator? That they undermine personal spiritual fulfillment as well as social and family values?”

I compressed my lips; behind them, my teeth began to clench. My jaw had already tightened when he’d said “sexual preference.”

Don’t get angry; at least, don’t let it show. I forced an air of indifference, as if I had no investment whatsoever in these issues.

“This isn’t about what I believe. My job is to record and report… as objectively as possible.”

Ev uttered an abrupt hm that had a mocking quality. He likely didn’t have too much respect for the media in general, except the most avowedly conservative outlets.

“So,” I said, “may I have your permission to attend some of the classes and activities?”

“The counseling sessions are private, you know.”

His response and its curtness immediately made me suspicious. I hadn’t even asked about attending any counseling sessions. Now I was curious about what went on in them.

“I’ll try not to be intrusive,” I said. “And I respect the confidentiality of one-on-one meetings. In fact, I won’t use anybody’s real name. Except yours, of course.”

His cool-as-ashes gaze flipped up to my face. “I hope you realize I don’t grant interviews.”

Fuck, I’d been hoping he’d damn himself with his own words. “That’s a shame,” I said. “I was counting on—”

“I’m sorry, Mick, but I’ve been burned enough by reporters.”

You’ve been burned by yourself, asshole; by your own lies and your sick notion of normalcy and the fact you’ve been profiting from other people’s misery.

I sipped coffee so I wouldn’t say something I’d regret.

Ev fingered the handle of his teaspoon as he considered my initial request. “Well, I suppose you didn’t have to divulge your reason for being here, and the fact you’ve been forthright speaks well of your ethics.”

“Thank you.”

He pondered for another twenty seconds or so. “Yes, all right. Our mission is an important one, so I don’t mind using your magazine to help spread the word.” He smiled at the notion. “I’ll apprise Thom of the situation.”

“Good. And feel free to let me know if I’m ever overstepping my bounds.”

“You’d only be overstepping your bounds, Mick, if you took liberties with our employees or guests.”

“That’s not likely to happen,” I said, “since I’m still in love with my wife.” Oh, God. I smiled away that egregious lie and tried to make a joke. “Maybe I should ask for your reassurance that my stay here won’t turn me gay.”

That didn’t exactly tickle Ham’s funny bone. His expression couldn’t have been colder if it were a death mask. “I’m afraid I can’t share your humor. We at Stronger Wings take our mission very seriously.”

I heard Bree saying Watch your mouth. I tried to sound penitent. “Yes, I’m sure you do. Please forgive me. I guess I’m a little nervous about being in this environment.”

“Don’t be,” said Ev with smooth reassurance. “This isn’t a cruising bar. These men are here because they’re committed to their own salvation.” He rose from the table. “Perhaps you can even help set an example for them.”

As I, too, got up, the true import of that statement hit me.