Missionaries

Chapter 7

Home. Home was a crowded street near Pittsburgh where all the Puerto Ricans and Israelis crowded into apartment buildings because way back when, we weren't allowed to live anywhere else. The Reformed Church was on our street corner, and when Brian and I finally made it back, the congregation was in the middle of evening service. Brian parked the maroon van in the church parking lot, next to the space reserved for the pastor.

"I don't want to go in there." We'd been driving for hours without many breaks, and I was tired.

"We have to," Brian said. He sniffed his collar to make sure he didn't smell like cigarettes. "Shit," he muttered and began to wipe his collar with his hand, though I wasn't too sure what he thought that would do. "He'll expect us to report in."

He – Pastor Gommermann – was tiny and balding, but he was so loud that sometimes, if I listened hard enough, I just had to sit in my living room on a Sunday to hear his morning service. Standing outside, we could hear him wrapping up his service, so Brian and I went around back to where we knew his office was. The church was probably considered a great building when it was first built, but those days, it was just a two-story wreck with a basement. The carpet we stood on was molding. The wall we leaned against had splinters that dug into our shoulders.

"I'm going to hell," Brian muttered.

I knew it was true, but I told him, "No you're not," anyway.

"You're going to hell too."

That, I didn't even bother to disagree with.

"We're fucked. Me being a missionary or a pastor isn't going to make a damn difference."

"Some say that if you believe in God, that's enough for Him," I said with a shrug.

"You really believe that?"

"I hope it is," I said, and that was the truth.

Pastor Gommermann finished saying what he had to say to the masses, and when he came down the hall and saw us, he smiled. He reminded me of the BTK killer. He was so normal – so average – that he had to have a few dead bodies buried in his backyard. He opened his arms wide like a pastor should and put them around our shoulders. If he smelled the smoke on Brian, he didn't say anything.

"Don't say a word – I already know everything." I had a feeling that, if he really did know everything, he wouldn't be touching us. "You two did a fine job. We had a few people calling, saying that you convinced them to join the Reformed Church. There's one girl in particular – I think her name is Elaine – who is very enthusiastic."

Brian and I exchanged looks, but neither of us said anything.

"Maybe you should think about being a professional missionary, Joseph," Pastor Gommermann said with a laugh that echoed down the hall.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, sir," I said, and he laughed again. He thought that I was joking.

"I know you must want to get home and see your father," Pastor Gommermann said to me as he squeezed my shoulder. I felt guilty, because I hadn't thought of him all night. I'd been thinking of Eric. "I know you're a good kid," he said as he let me go, "so I'm going to talk to the judge, and I'm going to promise that you'll never be caught in another situation again."

"Thanks," I said, even though I thought that was a stupid thing for him to promise.

It was my cue to go. I could tell, because Pastor Gommermann still had his arm around Brian's shoulder and they were hovering in front of his office. He probably wanted to hear Brian's detailed reports about the missions, something I didn't need to be a part of. I felt a little awkward saying good-bye to Brian in front of Pastor Gommermann. I felt like, just by standing there watching us, the pastor could figure out everything that we'd done over the week. I guess Brian felt the same, because he didn't say much. Then again, neither did I. We just shook hands and clapped each other on the back, like men usually liked to do – as though we hadn't been in a mild orgy together, as though we hadn't kissed, as though he hadn't tried to rape me. As though we were two normal Christian missionaries saying their goodbyes.

"I'll keep in touch," he said, even though we both knew it wasn't true. The last glance I got of Brian, he was looking at his feet as he was guided into the office by Pastor Gommermann. He looked like an ashamed kid being guided into the principal's office, or a guy who was resigned to life after death in hell.

I left. I left and walked home, and when I was right outside I almost felt like I'd never been gone. The door was locked, and that's how I knew my dad wasn't home. He'd probably gone off to one of his jobs. In my bedroom, I dialed Eric's number before I even put down my backpack. He wasn't surprised that I'd called this time.

"Can you come over?"

Technically, I wasn't supposed to be near his house. It was a part of the deal with the judge and Mrs. Poole so that I wouldn't have to go to jail for stealing and wrecking her car. Eric told me that she wasn't there, though. She still hadn't come back from wherever it was she disappeared to on the weekends.

"Just come over," he said, and because I didn't want him to get bored with me, I said okay.

He opened the door when I got there, and all I could think of to say was, "Hey." He smirked and looked me up and down. I hadn't bothered changing out of my black pants and white shirt, but I began to wish that I had. He stepped aside, letting me in. All of the rooms in his house were dark except for his bedroom. Clothes were spread everywhere, and a couple of suitcases were open on the floor, where I'd kissed him thousands of times before.

"New York?" I asked. He nodded.

I pushed a stack of jeans to the side to make enough space on his bed. I sat down, and whenever he wasn't looking at me, I stared at him. I felt a little creepy for it, sure – but I hadn't seen him in so long that I wanted to see if there was anything new. I noticed that his hair was a little shorter, and that his skin looked a little red, but that could've been from heaving suitcases and bending over to pack his clothes.

"Do you have to do anything else for the church?" he asked as he folded some of his shirts.

I shook my head. "I'm finished."

"You got off easy."

"I got off easy? You didn't have to do shit," I said, leaning back onto my elbows, "even though you were right there beside me and that Christmas tree."

"I know," he said with a smile. He wasn't about to apologize for being born privileged. He tossed some shirts into his suitcase.

I watched him, not sure what to say – not wanting to say the wrong thing. I didn't want to get into another fight with him, not at all. Frankly, a part of me was hoping that – by the end of the night – we'd end up back on the floor or on his bed like we did whenever I came to visit.

"Joseph," he said as he tossed a few more shirts into a suitcase, "I don't know if we can go back to being – whatever it is we were."

"Are you fucking someone else?" I asked before I really thought about the question.

"No," he said quickly, and I believed him. "Are you?" I clenched my jaw, and from my hesitation, he got his answer. "Jesus Christ, Joseph."

"I didn't think we were still together," I said, though I knew the right thing to do was get on my knees and apologize. "It was just once – with one guy." I almost went into the details – almost explained that I'd felt pressured, that I'd felt like I didn't have a choice. Something told me that he wouldn't want to hear about that.

"Maybe it's a good thing I'm going to New York and you're staying here," he said, and I swear to God, he might as well have spit in my eye. "I don't have the patience to be with someone who can barely even admit that we're boyfriends."

"We weren't boyfriends then, though!" I said. "We hadn't spoken in weeks. How can you expect me to think that we were still together?"

"Fine," he said, picking up another pile of clothes and practically throwing it into his suitcase. "We're not together anymore, then."

"That's not what I meant."

"That's what I mean," he interrupted.

I knew the next words would be for me to get out of his house, to never call him again, to fuck off or some shit like that – so, before he could open his mouth again – I used my trump card and blurted out, "I was almost raped." If there was ever a time to fish for compassion, it was then.

The anger on his face was wiped clean, and he stared at me blankly like he wasn't quite sure whether he should believe me or not. "You were – almost raped?" he repeated.

I nodded. "A couple of days ago. Shit just got out of hand."

"Are you all right?" he asked. It felt nice to see that, though there were still traces of anger, behind that were hints of worry too. "Did you go to a hospital?"

"I was almost raped," I said. "I don't need to go to a hospital."

"You never know," he said, but he didn't push the issue. "Who was it?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Who was it, Joseph?"

I smirked. "What're you going to do? Kill the guy?"

He didn't say anything.

"It happened right before I called you, actually." I looked down at the half-packed suitcases.

He picked up the jeans on the bed and tossed them to the floor so that he could sit down beside me. The pile fell over, but he left them alone. I didn't really expect him to say anything, and he didn't. For a while we just sat there beside each other. I wanted him. I knew he wouldn't appreciate it if I grabbed him and kissed him and stuck my hand down the front of his pants. But shit, I was getting hard just sitting beside him. I hadn't been so close to Eric in months, and all I could think about were the days and the nights we spent sticking our tongues down each other's throats.

"I care about you, Joseph," he started saying. "I care about you a lot. But I can't stay in a relationship like this – a relationship that we can't even call a relationship." He sighed, and I couldn't help but notice that he wet his lips with his tongue.

He was expecting me to say something – waiting for me to say something. He was hoping I'd say something profound, something that would expose how I felt about him, something that would make me vulnerable. He was hoping I'd say something that would convince him to stay with me. I couldn't think of anything to say, though, so I leaned over and kissed him.

I was only a little surprised that he pulled away and shoved my shoulder. "Can't you have a serious conversation for once in your fucking life?"

I tried to kiss him again, but this time he saw it coming and stood off of the bed. I looked up at him. "I'll call you my boyfriend if that's what you want."

"That's not what this is about, Joseph!"

"Then what is this about?" I asked a little angrily, this time standing up also.

"I don't want you to call me your boyfriend whenever you want a fuck," he said loudly. "I want a relationship with you – shit," he said, and he sank back down to the bed. "I want you to come to New York with me."

When I didn't say anything, he leaned over and rested his face in his hands. "You're afraid of commitment," he muttered with a muffled voice. "That's why this can't work."

"I'm not afraid of commitment. That's not what I'm afraid of." He looked up, surprised that I'd said something. I guess I was a little surprised at myself too.

When he lifted his face, I expected to see his eyes and nose a little red – he was always a little more emotional than I was – but he had dry eyes. Now that I'd said something, he was clearly expecting me to go on. "I don't know," I said, a little embarrassed that my voice shook. "I don't want to go to New York just so that you can kick me out."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" The look he gave me asked that too. "Why would I kick you out?"

"I don't know," I said again. As I spoke, I couldn't look at him. "I fuck up a lot, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

"I had sex with a random guy. I do crazy shit when I'm drunk. We'll probably get into a few more fights."

"We probably will," he said with a shrug.

"I'd rather tell you to fuck off first than hear it from you."

From the look on his face, I could tell he was slowly starting to get it. "We're probably going to break up," he said eventually. "That's true. You're probably going to do something fucking stupid, and I'll tell you to get the hell out. Maybe you'll get bored with me because I'll study too much, or maybe you won't like New York – shit, Joseph, I don't know. Does it matter?"

"What do you mean, does it matter? Of course it matters."

"It may matter eventually – later on, when it actually happens. Right now, you're just making shit up in your head."

I couldn't argue with that. "The other missionary I was with," I started hesitantly, "said I was afraid of rejection because of my mom."

He watched me closely. "Is that true?"

"I guess so," I said with a shrug, and then with a nod. "Yeah, it is." I didn't want to meet his gaze because I was afraid I'd see pity. When I heard a laugh, though, I looked up.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he covered his mouth with his hand. "I'm sorry."

"What the hell is so funny? I talk to you about my dead mother and you burst out laughing," I said, genuinely pissed off.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I just – I've never heard you talk about yourself so seriously before. I'm not used to it."

I'd heard once that people laughed like that when they were uncomfortable, or didn't know how to respond. I didn't give a shit.

"Asshole," I muttered. I turned away, not really meaning to leave, but Eric must've thought that I was going to go. He reached out and grabbed my arm, turning me around and pulling me to him. He put his arms around my lower back and rested his face against the side of my thigh.

"Stay here," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, all right? Just stay here." With his face right there, right where it was, it was hard to say no. Maybe that's what he wanted. "I can't pretend that we're going to be together forever," he said. "But shit, if you're afraid of people leaving you so much that you can't be in a relationship, you're just fucking yourself over. Let's try this out. Does that sound all right?"

It wasn't like I had a choice. It wasn't like I could say, "That sounds like shit." It wasn't like I could say, "I'm fucked up, and if I live with you, I'm going to fuck you up too." I nodded and forced a smile. "Yeah, sure – it sounds good." When I felt his grin, the corners of my lips twitched into a smile, but I made sure that it was gone by the time he looked up at me.

"You can't come to New York with me, though."

I thought he was kidding at first, but his serious face proved otherwise. "You just said you want to try this, and you're already kicking me out?"

"I'm not kicking you out," he said. "I thought I was going alone, so I didn't get an apartment like I said I would. I'm staying in the dorms," he said, almost a little guiltily. "I can move out next semester, though," he said quickly. "We can move in together next semester."

I didn't really know how long it would last, but then again – according to Eric, anyway – it didn't really matter.

End

AN: End! That's the end! I don't really like cleanly wrapped up, happily-ever-after endings. Still, because of that, I risk leaving some things unresolved. Did this ending work well or not work well?