Father Steven

Alan Dwight

alantfraserdwight@gmail.com

I sat in a pew about halfway down the aisle towards the altar. The church was dark, the only light entering through the stained-glass windows.

I liked St. Andrew’s Church, and I came to it from time to time when I needed a quiet, peaceful place to think. Not that my thoughts were organized enough to really call what I was doing ‘thinking’, but I couldn’t come up with a better word.

I had found the church about a year earlier. I say ‘found’ although it wasn’t invisible before that. I’m not sure now what drew me to it. Perhaps it was because it reminded me of the small stone churches my parents and I had visited in England. Of course, we had also visited cathedrals, but while they were grand, even overwhelming, I was drawn to the smaller churches which seemed more personal, more cozy, more welcoming.

The first time I approached St. Andrew’s and tried the front door, I was a bit surprised to find it unlocked. I wondered why the church people weren’t afraid of theft, or vandalism, or bums sleeping in it. I never found any evidence of those possible problems.

The church was Episcopalian, but my mother had told me that it was quite ‘high church’. There was a pleasant but not overpowering aroma of incense. The pews were old, the carpet worn. Bibles, hymnals and prayer books showed the wear of years of use. Sometimes I read parts of the Bibles, hoping I would somehow find the answers to my dilemmas, but I was not a religious boy, and the Bibles were more confusing than helpful.

Occasionally, when I sat in the church, I had the feeling I wasn’t alone. But when I looked around, I couldn’t see anyone, although once somebody was playing the organ quietly and I quite enjoyed it.

Four years ago, my father died from brain cancer. From the time I knew he was sick, I believed that if I loved him enough, he would live. When he died, I blamed myself. For years I mourned him and my inability to save him.

At home, my mother tried to fill the role of both parents, but she really wasn’t very successful. I was now 14, and could have used some male guidance, but it simply wasn’t available.

Two years ago, my mother gave me ‘The Talk’, haltingly trying to tell me about sex, puberty, and how my body would change. I think she was even more embarrassed than I was. Since then, we have had Sex Ed in school, but it was rudimentary and stuck only to the plumbing of conception. Most of what I knew about the pleasures of sex was gleaned from overheard whispered talk of my classmates, and probably at least half of it was inaccurate or just plain wrong.

I didn’t spend much time with classmates. I suppose I was viewed by them as a loner, if they thought of me at all. I found I didn’t like their senseless banter, their loud jokes, their disdain for others.

That day, as I sat in the church, I was trying to work out a specific problem. Was I gay, and if I was, what should I do about it? What would Dad say? I certainly couldn’t discuss it with my mother, not after our discomfort with ‘The Talk’.

Whether I was or not, I knew I had crushes on boys, especially one of them. His name was Alejandro. I had never actually talked with him and I was afraid to initiate contact. But I admired him from afar, especially in the gym locker room and showers.

Like me, he hadn’t yet begun a growth spurt, so he was only a little over five feet tall. His body had not begun to develop. But I thought he was beautiful, with his dark eyes, black hair, and skin which glowed with the color of copper. Several times I had almost spoken to him, but I always panicked and kept my mouth shut.

Maybe I’ll outgrow my crush, I thought. I hoped I would, because being gay certainly seemed very inconvenient, maybe even dangerous. But what should I do about my crush? I was certain that Alejandro was unaware of my feelings, and I worked hard to conceal them. While he ate lunch with a group of boys, I seldom saw him with anyone in the hallways. As I sat in silence, I decided that I had to talk with him.

My chance came two days later, when he came to my lunch table, which was only a two-seater as I always ate alone. He asked if he could join me.

My internal voice said, “Yes! Yes!” but I didn’t speak, only nodding in agreement.

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I tried to eat, but suddenly I wasn’t hungry.

Finally, Alejandro said, “I’m Alejandro Davies-Johnson, and I know you are Donald, but I don’t know your last name. I always see you alone, and I thought you might like someone to join you.”

My first reaction was that Alejandro and Davies-Johnson were an odd combination. Although I knew other boys who had hyphenated last names, I would have thought that he would have a Spanish last name. Then I realized he was waiting for me to speak.

“I’m Donald Martin,” I said, “and I guess there’s nobody who wants to have lunch with me, but you’re welcome to stay.”

“Can I call you Donny?”

“No, I’m always Donald.”

“Okay,” he said.

We exchanged information about where we lived and he finally asked for my phone number. Nobody had ever asked me for that before, and at first I wondered why he wanted it, but I told him the number as he put it into his phone. Then he gave me his number.

When the formalities of teens meeting had been completed, he asked me what I liked to do outside of school.

“I like to read,” I said, “and do both jigsaw and crossword puzzles.”

He asked me what a jigsaw puzzle was, so I described one to him, finding myself growing more and more animated as I talked.

“I’d like to see one,” Alejandro said, and without thinking about it, I invited him to walk home with me after school.

During the next class, which was algebra, I realized that I had never invited anybody to my home before, and I began to grow nervous. What would he think of my house, of my mother, of my room? I had invited him to my home and I really knew nothing about him, except that he was beautiful.

Inviting him was really stupid, I thought. But at the end of the school day, I met him by the exit and we walked to my home.

After Dad died, Mom and I had downsized, moving into a bungalow that had three small bedrooms, a living room, an eat-in kitchen, and a front porch that stretched the width of the house. We used the extra bedroom as a catchall for things we no longer needed but didn’t want to discard. Before Dad died, Mom had not had a job. Now she worked as a real estate salesperson. I guess she was pretty good, because she made enough to pay our bills and feed us.

As we walked, Alejandro actually bounced more than walked, stirring up the colorful fall leaves on the sidewalk. He reminded me a little of Tigger. He chattered easily, telling me that he liked sports (ugh) and popular music (double ugh). It seemed to me that we had almost nothing in common. I had never liked sports, and thanks to my mom, I was very much into classical music.

As we approached the house, Alejandro said, “Cool front porch. Do you and your family sit out here?”

“Sometimes,” I said, realizing that he didn’t know my family was just me and Mom.

Entering through the front door, I called, “Mom, I brought a . . . a friend.” A friend? Were we friends? I wasn’t sure because I hadn’t really had a friend since kindergarten. Anyway, that word got Mom’s attention, and she popped out of the kitchen.

“Mom,” I said, “this is Alejandro.”

“How nice of you to visit,” she said, holding out her hand to shake. Fortunately, she didn’t say that I had never brought anyone home before.

Mom fixed us a snack. She might not know a lot about teen boys, but she did know about our appetites. Alejandro and I sat at the kitchen table and devoured our snacks before going to my room.

I wondered nervously what he would think of the room. It wasn’t really like the teenaged boys’ rooms I’d seen on TV. Sure, I had posters on the wall. One was of the Boston Symphony, and one was of Yo-Yo Ma. But there were no sports or pop music posters. My room was just big enough for a single bed, a dresser, a bookshelf which held both my books and my CDs, and a card table with a larger board on it holding my current jigsaw puzzle.

Alejandro stood in the middle of the room, his head turning as he took it in. When he saw the puzzle, he walked over to it.

“This is amazing,” he said. “How many pieces does it have?”

“A thousand,” I answered.

“Wow! How long does it take you to finish one?”

“That depends partly on the picture. Some are harder than others. I’ve been working on this one for about six days.”

“Can I try to put in a piece?”

I had a decision to make. My parents had always understood that I wanted to do the puzzles — the whole puzzles — alone. I was very reluctant to let him touch it. But he had asked, and he seemed interested.

Finally, I nodded. He sat at the table and searched for a piece. It took him a long time to find one to add, but he was diligent and concentrated in a way most of our contemporaries were not.

“Got it!” he finally said and put a piece in the right place. I had to admit I was impressed. He stood up, resisting perhaps the urge to continue, and I breathed silent relief.

He didn’t stay much longer, neither of us being very good at chit-chat. As he prepared to leave, he stuck his head into the kitchen and thanked Mom.

“You’re welcome any time,” she replied with a smile.

At the door, he turned to me and said, “Tomorrow, you’re coming to my house.” I couldn’t make out whether it was an invitation or a command, but I really had no reason to say no.

At lunch the next day, Alejandro joined me. When another boy came and invited him to a table where several boys were sitting, Alejandro politely declined. The boy looked at me, puzzled, probably wondering why Alejandro was with me when he could have been with the group, but he shrugged and left without saying anything more.

At the close of school, I met Alejandro and we began to walk to his home. Well, I walked and he bounded, again stirring up the fallen leaves. As we went, I grew more and more uncomfortable. Judging by the houses, the neighborhood we entered was much more affluent than mine.

Alejandro turned onto a front walk towards a white house which seemed like a mansion to me. It was huge! The grounds around it appeared to be manicured. The front of the house had two columns which supported a roof over a large front porch. Alejandro opened the front door and stood back so I could enter.

I stood in a large, open entryway with a wide, winding staircase climbing to the second floor. There was art hung on the walls, and I could somehow tell that it was not cheap copies or imitations. To each side stood a pedestal holding up a statue of a naked boy. To me they looked old, and once I recovered from my initial shock, I thought they were quite beautiful. I walked over to one to examine it further. And then it hit me. These were not old statues but only done in the ancient Greek style. They were, in fact, both statues of Alejandro as a young boy.

“Th…they’re you!” I exclaimed.

“Guilty as charged,” Alejandro said smiling. “I modeled for them several years ago.” Then he said, “C’mon, I want you to meet my family.”

He led me past the staircase and into a huge, beautifully equipped kitchen. Standing in the kitchen were two men.

“Hello,” one of them said. “Who do we have here?”

“Dad, this is my friend Donald Martin.” Then he turned to me and said, “Donald, this is my dad, Peter Davies.” And gesturing to the other man he said, “And this is my dad, Mitch Johnson. He made the statues of me.”

By then I was struggling with information overload. Fortunately, Mr. Davies rescued me.

“Alejandro,” he said, “you need to prepare your friends for the fact that you have two dads.” He turned to me and said, “I’m sorry if this surprised you. To Alejandro this is a perfectly normal arrangement, but to other people it isn’t, although we hope that in time people will come to see it as more natural. Have a seat, boys,” he continued, “while Mitch and I make you some snacks.”

We sat on either side of a large island in the middle of the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Alejandro murmured when his dads started to work and chat. “I guess I blew it.”

I took a deep breath. “It’s okay, Alejandro. It just took me by surprise.”

“So,” said my new friend, “all I need to do now is meet your dad and we’ll have covered everyone.”

I’m sure I paled at that. I knew I had to tell him, but I really didn’t want to. Finally I said, “My dad died four years ago.” I didn’t tell him how or why, just the bare fact. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.

“Oh god, Donald,” Alejandro said quietly. “That’s two stupid things I’ve done this afternoon. Do you hate me?”

“Of course not,” I said, suppressing the tears. “You had no way of knowing. I probably should have told you yesterday.”

Alejandro’s dads sat at the island with us, joining us in our snack as we all chatted comfortably. When we finished, Alejandro took me up the wide, curving staircase to his room. You could have put at least three rooms the size of mine into his and still had space left over.

On the walls he had posters of sports figures and pop musicians. His bed was huge, and in addition to a chest of drawers, he had a desk with a computer, many bookshelves, and a large TV and stereo system. While he searched for a CD, I looked over his books. They weren’t very organized, but he had some which seemed interesting.

Suddenly, music blasted out from his stereo. It was one of those loud singers and bands, and I really didn’t enjoy it much, but I didn’t say anything.

I guess he could tell that I wasn’t enjoying the music, because he shut it off and suggested that the next time I came, I bring a CD which I liked.

A question had been nagging at the back of my mind. “Alejandro,” I said, “I’ve never met someone with two dads. Where did you come from?”

He laughed and replied, “Mitch adopted me when I was a baby. They both wanted to adopt me, but that wasn’t legally possible at the time. Anyway, I consider them both my dads, and I feel very lucky they found me.”

We spent some time talking about his books. He especially recommended an author by the name of T. J. Klune, and when I said I’d never heard of him, he handed me a book titled The House in the Cerulean Sea and said I should keep it as long as I wished to.

When it was time for me to leave, I said goodbye to Alejandro’s dads and turned to leave, but before I could step outside, Alejandro gave me a vigorous hug, whispering in my ear, “I’m so glad you came.” I hesitated for a moment and then returned the hug.

That night, I began reading The House in the Cerulean Sea, and was soon engrossed in it, chuckling as it introduced some very odd and magical young characters.

The next day, Alejandro asked me if we were going to his house or mine, but I said I had to do something on my own. I promised him we could get together the next afternoon, and when we parted, I made my way to St. Andrew’s, walked into the quiet nave, and sat in my usual seat. I had a lot to think about.

What did I think about a boy having two dads? Why did Alejandro hug me? Was he as attracted to me as I was to him? If so, did that mean we were gay? And if I was, how would I handle it?

As I sat and thought, I again felt as though I wasn’t alone. Turning, I saw a man sitting in the pew behind me. I was surprised because I hadn’t heard him enter the church. He was an older man and I liked his cute little salt-and-pepper goatee. When he stood, I could see that he was quite short, and even though he wore a black robe, I saw that he had a bit of a tummy. He wore one of those backwards collars which church men often wear.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m Father Steven.”

“I’m Donald Martin,” I said. “Are you the priest here?”

He thought for a moment and then replied, “Well, I was for a long time but now I’m sort of retired.” He continued, “I’ve seen you meditating here a number of times, and you seem to have a lot to think about.” (So I was right ─ I hadn’t been alone.)

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I think I need some advice, but I don’t want to talk about it with my mother.”

“What about your father?”

There was that question again.

I sighed and said, “He died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. How long ago?”

“Four, almost five years ago.”

Father Steven nodded. “May I sit with you?”

I slid over in my pew to make room for him. When he was settled, he asked, “So, what’s bothering you?”

It’s now or never, I decided. “I’m afraid I may be gay,” I said.

“Why are you afraid?”

“Because many people don’t like gays, and that includes a lot of kids in school.”

“Hmmm. And how would they know that you’re gay unless you tell them?”

“Well, there’s this boy at school, Alejandro. I really like him, and if we start spending a lot of time together, I’m afraid they’ll figure it out.”

“Have you discussed this with Alejandro?”

“No. But he has two dads so I’m pretty sure he’d be okay with my being gay.”

“And do you think he’s gay?”

“I have no idea. He did hug me when I left his home yesterday. He might have just been showing friendship, but I don’t know how to bring up the gay subject.”

“I think when you’re ready, you’ll find a way.”

While I didn’t feel like I’d solved my problems, I was happy that the priest was supportive.

Then something occurred to me. “What does your church think about gays?”

“We welcome them as we do all people,” he said.

“But I’ve heard that a lot of churches are against gays.”

“Some are, and some treat homosexuality as a sin, but the Episcopal Church accepts gays like all other people. Every person is different from others in some way, and that’s how God has made us. If He made some men gay, who are we to question His intentions?”

I liked the logic of that, and I decided that, if I ever started to believe in God, I’d be an Episcopalian.

I realized it was getting late and I knew I should be home, so I thanked Father Steven for his time and concern and headed home. As I walked, I thought about the word Father Steven had used: meditating. Was that what I was doing?

When I walked in the door, Mom said, “Well, I was about to send out a search party for you. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, and quickly ate the snack she had made for me.

Remembering that Alejandro had said I needed to share with him some music that I liked, I went to my room and selected a couple of CDs. After supper I did my homework and read some more of The House, giggling again at the antics of the children: Talia, a gnome; Theodore, a wyvern; Phee, a sprite; Sal, a large boy or a Pomeranian depending on his mood; Chauncy, a green blob; and Lucy, the son of Lucifer. Lucy kept threatening to destroy the world, but always in a way that was very funny.

I read much longer than I should have before I remembered that I had to wake up for school in the morning. I turned off my light, lay on my side, and was soon asleep.

The next day, after school, I walked to Alejandro’s house with him bouncing along beside me. After saying hello to his dads and having a snack, we went to his room, where I produced a CD I had picked out. Alejandro put it in his player, and soon the strains of Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet were filling the room. I watched Alejandro, wondering what he would think of it. He seemed to be listening with deep concentration.

When the music ended, Alejandro sighed and said, “That was beautiful. I’ve never heard anything like it. Do you have more CDs?”

I nodded. “CDs are my one extravagance, and Mom encourages it.”

We talked about The House in the Cerulean Sea, but Alejandro would only say so much because he didn’t want to spoil the rest of the story for me.

When it was time for me to leave, Alejandro said, “I really enjoy having you here. Why don’t you plan to sleep over this weekend and bring some more CDs?”

My heart began beating faster. I had never slept over at anyone’s home before and certainly nobody had ever slept in my little house.

“I’ll ask Mom,” I said, and after a quick hug at the door I left and made my way home.

That evening over supper, I told Mom about Alejandro’s invitation.

She thought a moment and then said, “I don’t really know anything about his home. Are his parents nice?”

I froze. If I stayed over, Mom would have to know about Alejandro’s dads.

“Yeah,” I said hesitantly, “they’re very nice.”

“Well, I’ll give his mother a call and we can set it up.”

“Umm. . . He doesn’t have a mother. He. . .he has two fathers.” I watched her face for her reaction, but after a momentary surprised look she recovered and said that she’d call his dads. I gave her the number and fled the room before she could get me into an embarrassing conversation.

In the morning, as I ate a hasty breakfast, Mom told me she had talked with one of Alejandro’s dads, Peter, and asked him about the sleeping arrangements. He told her that they had a nice guest room where I could sleep, and he assured her that, although they were gay, they were in no way interested in me except as Alejandro’s friend.

She asked if Alejandro was gay and Peter said that Alejandro had never said anything about it.

She had agreed to a visit on the coming weekend. She said that they had invited me for the whole weekend but that she had said she wanted me home on Sunday.

“That’s probably selfish of me,” she said, “but I enjoy having you here and I’m afraid I’d get lonely.”

I hugged her and left for school.

At school, Alejandro was delighted that I’d be visiting and reminded me to bring my CDs.

Thursday night I packed a bag with extra clothes and some toiletries and a smaller bag with several CDs and The House in the Cerulean Sea, having finished it Wednesday night.

I didn’t want to lug all that stuff to school and try to cram it into my locker, so I decided to head home after school, leave my backpack, and take my bags to Alejandro’s house.

When I walked in the door at Alejandro’s home I was greeted warmly by his dads. They insisted that I call them by their first names, so I did. At first it seemed a little disrespectful to me, but in time I got used to it.

Alejandro showed me to their guest room, where I left my bags. It was right next to his. Both rooms were on a hallway apart from the rest of the house.

When he saw my bags, he chuckled, saying that it looked like I was moving in. I explained about the CDs and the book and the extra clothes. He asked to look over the CDs, so I handed them to him.

“What are the Goldberg Variations?” he asked.

I explained to him how a composition of variations on one theme worked and said that Glenn Gould’s recording was brilliant. When Alejandro asked to hear it, I put it in his CD player and sat down to listen. I hoped that he wouldn’t talk while the music was playing, because I thought that talking during music showed disrespect for the music. I needn’t have worried. His attention was absolute, and he seemed to be almost under a spell while he listened.

When the music finally ended with the second rendition of the Air, he said, “My God, that was so beautiful. I didn’t know music could do that to me.” And before I could say anything he stood, came to me, giving me a big hug and thanking me for bringing it.

“How do his fingers even get over the keyboard that fast?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but the really good pianists can do that. I think it has to do with how their hands are built and the way the tendons in the hands cross. I don’t think it’s a skill you can just learn. Either you have it or you don’t.”

After a delicious supper prepared by Peter and Mitch, we watched a basketball game in which the Boston Celtics demolish the New York Nicks. I can’t say I was a great fan of sports, but I had to appreciate the skills the players showed.

When the game ended, we all went to bed. I must admit I wondered what the dads were doing in their bedroom. I also wished that I could be with Alejandro in his bedroom, but I knew that Mom wouldn’t approve and the men had given their word. So, I lay on my back and jerked off, of course picturing Alejandro naked as I’d seen him in the locker room and showers at school.

When I finished, I cleaned myself off and slept peacefully until morning.

We all slept late, as I always did on Saturday mornings. When I finally awoke, I could smell some wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen. I got up, quickly showering and dressing before going into the kitchen.

After a filling breakfast of waffles, blueberries, orange juice, and bacon, Alejandro and I went to his bedroom to listen to more CDs.

First, I handed him The House in the Cerulean Sea, thanking him and telling him how much I enjoyed it. He immediately found another Klune book, Under the Whispering Door, on his shelf and gave it to me.

Then we sat on his bed and listened to music. I first gave him Rachmaninoff’s Symphony Number 2. Again, he listened, spellbound. In the middle of the third movement, he reached over and took my hand, gently massaging it with his thumb. Little chills ran up and down my spine as he held my hand. I wondered what it meant.

I followed that with the Brahms German Requiem. He was especially appreciative of the chorus, “How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place,” which has also always been one of my favorites. Then I gave him a little shock with the Shostakovich Fifth Symphony, which was much more dissonant than the previous music. His pressure on my hand grew much harder as the tension in the music rose and fell. Near the end of the final movement, the tension became so great that I was afraid he might break my hand. The combination of the brass and the tympani became almost too great before the tympani continued alone for several beats until the final, glorious unison from the whole orchestra, resolving all the dissonance.

When it ended, we sat, almost physically exhausted. Then slowly, Alejandro’s hand began to relax, and he said, “That was amazing. Did he write anything else?”

“Yes. Among other things he wrote a cello concerto and nine other symphonies.”

“Do you have them all?”

“No. I do have the concerto, which he wrote for his good friend Rostropovich, and two other symphonies. They’re not here with me but I can bring them next time.”

“Do you know that you’ve completely converted me to classical music?”

“Good,” I said. “Mission accomplished!”

He laughed and we went out to the living room to watch the annual football game between the universities of Michigan and Michigan State. For the dads it was a grudge match, since Peter had been to Michigan State and Mitch had been to the U of M. That year, Michigan won, but only barely.

Again that night, I lay in the guest room longing to be with Alejandro. During the day we’d had a couple of friendly hugs, and I wished I could wrap myself around his warm body and sleep with him in my arms. I almost tried to creep into his room, but I decided we weren’t ready for that yet.

Mom arrived to take me home on Sunday morning. Mitch told her I’d been a great guest and that I was welcome anytime. He invited her to stay for breakfast, but she told him that she had made reservations for us to go out to brunch. That was news to me, but I thought it would be fun. Before I left, Alejandro gave me another firm hug.

On the way to the restaurant, I told Mom about Alejandro’s music conversion. I knew that she didn’t like the current popular music, and she congratulated me on my success.

Although I’d had a good time visiting, I realized that I’d also missed my mom, and I was glad to be back.

We had never been to a brunch before, and I was astounded at the amount and variety of food available buffet-style. Foods were set out on several tables, each with many choices. There were separate tables for meat, salads, vegetables, and breads. I also saw a dessert table which I made a mental note to visit before we left. Being a growing boy, I went through the line twice, even sampling some foods I’d never had before, like duck and pomegranates. (I really liked the duck, but I decided I could do without the pomegranates.)

Back home I went to my room to do the homework I’d put off all weekend. It was a lot, but I plugged away and got most of it done before Mom called me for supper.

After the meal I’d put away in the late morning, I wasn’t terribly hungry, but Mom had provided a light supper of soup and sandwiches.

That night, as I lay in bed, I wondered about my usual concerns. Was I gay? If so, was I in danger of being found out and perhaps ostracized? What did I think of Alejandro? Was he gay? How could I find out? I only knew that, during the weekend, I had wanted more physical contact with him, and I had thoroughly enjoyed his few hugs.

On Monday, as I walked to school, I decided I needed to talk with Father Steven again. He was the only male I could think of in whom I could confide. Sure, I had some male teachers, but I wasn’t certain that any of them would keep my secrets.

So, after school, I walked to St. Andrew’s, opened the heavy door, and found my usual seat, where I sat thinking, or as Father Steven would say, meditating. About fifteen minutes later, I was again aware that I wasn’t alone. I turned and looked behind me. He was there, sitting silently, perhaps meditating himself.

“More to think about?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I think so.” Without saying anything more, I slid over in my pew, and Father Steven joined me.

First I told him about my visit with Alejandro and his dads. Blushing, I said that I’d really enjoyed it, but I wished I’d been able to sleep in Alejandro’s room.

“Why?” Father Steven asked.

“Umm, I’m not sure, but I just wanted to be close to him.”

“Did you want to do anything sexual with him?”

“Maybe some time, but that wasn’t really what I wanted that night. He did hug me a few times, and we held hands while we listened to music.”

“It sounds to me like you have a growing relationship.”

“I hope so,” I said.

Then I said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” he said with a smile.

I giggled and then said, “No. A serious question.”

“Of course you can. Whether or not I’ll answer it will depend on the question.”

I took a deep breath and said, “You know that I like to jerk off.”

“Masturbate,” he said, again smiling and nodding.

“Yeah. That. Well, I really like it and I do it a lot. The question is, can you harm yourself by doing it too much? I mean, will anything stop or . . . or break?”

“No,” he said. “You’ll be able to do it for years. But a word of warning. Doing it too often can make you fixate on it, to the exclusion of other important things in your life. That would be sad. So, I’d say do it, enjoy it, but don’t overdo it.”

We talked for a few more minutes and then he left, while I still sat, thinking about what he’d said.

How did I ever find the nerve to talk with him like that, I wondered. I knew I liked him and I trusted him, but was it wise for me to ask him those questions?

I thought about that as I walked home.

At school the next day, Alejandro asked me if I could visit him the following weekend. I checked with Mom, and she said it was okay, so I told Alejandro on Wednesday. He had asked his dads and they were fine with it.

Thursday seemed to drag by. Finally, on Friday afternoon, Alejandro and I walked to my house to get my clothes and some more CDs and then continued to his house, where I was warmly greeted by Mitch and Peter.

In the evening, after supper, Alejandro and I sat outside on the back porch steps. It was a cool, fall evening. When I shivered, he wrapped an arm around me. I put my arm around him and he pulled me close. Then he turned his head and said, “Look at me.”

I turned my head and felt his lips on mine. I was startled for a moment, but then I knew that I wanted this and pressed back on his mouth. Before long, our tongues were exploring each other. I was breathing hard, and I could feel that he was too.

When he broke the kiss, he said, “Donald, I really like you.”

“I like you too,” I said. Thinking that sounded a little too flat, I said, “I’ve missed you all week. Seeing you in school just isn’t enough.”

“I know,” he said. “Why don’t you spend the night in my room?”

I thought about that. I could feel my heart beating hard, and I really wanted to agree. “But your dads told Mom that wouldn’t happen,” I said, sadly.

“I think that was only for the first time you were here. In any case, they’ll never know,” he said. “Their bedroom is on the opposite side of the house. We’ll just have to be very quiet.”

I thought about it. What harm could it do? Of course, there might be trouble if we were found out, but his dads’ bedroom was quite far away, and I was pretty sure they wouldn’t see me or hear us. The more I thought about it, the more I really wanted this, so I agreed.

When I finished warming up in the shower that night, I quietly went into Alejandro’s room. He was just wearing his briefs, so I removed my T-shirt and sat beside him on his bed. I realized we were both sporting boners.

At once, we began kissing again as our hands moved gently over each other’s chests and backs.

He broke the kiss and said, “Come,” as he lay back on his bed.

I lay with him as we faced each other. The feeling in my groin was the strongest I’d ever had, and I was sure he was feeling the same way, but that night neither of us took the next step.

We lay in each other’s arms kissing, and we finally fell into a sweet, deep sleep.

On Monday I decided to visit Father Steven and tell him how I’d been doing. I was now quite sure that I was gay and that Alejandro was too. I knew I wanted to do things with him beyond what we had done that night, but as we talked, Father Steven suggested that I should take things slowly. “You don’t have to live your whole life in just a few days,” he said, and I realized he was right.

Thinking it was time that Father Steven met my boyfriend, I asked Alejandro to go to the church with me. When he asked why, I told him about Father Steven and that I had been getting advice from him.

It was a short walk from school to the church. Well, as usual Alejandro bounced instead of walking, but he did it with such joy that I loved it.

“I’ve never been in a church before,” he said as we went. “Why do you come to the church?”

I explained that I had begun it because the church was a quiet place to think.

We found the front door of the church unlocked as usual and made our way inside. We sat in my usual pew and let the silence envelop us. I waited for the feeling I’d always had of Father Steven’s presence. But oddly, though we sat silently for over half an hour, he did not appear.

I heard a door open near the front of the church. It was not Father Steven who entered, but a young, tall, blond priest. He went to the large Bible and looked for something in it.

Alejandro gave a slight cough, and the priest looked up. Seeing us, he came down the aisle towards us.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m Father James.”

We introduced ourselves and he asked if he could help us in some way.

“I’ve been meeting here with Father Steven,” I said, “and we’re waiting for him.”

Father James got an odd look on his face and asked, “You’ve met him here?”

“Yes, sir. Several times.”

“But he hasn’t appeared today?”

“That’s right.”

He thought for a few moments and then said, “Come with me.”

Alejandro and I held hands and followed Father James down the aisle towards the altar. He stopped shortly before the railing and pointed down.

I could see that the stones in the floor had been carved with words. Still holding Alejandro’s hand, I read aloud:

I was astonished. “How is this possible?” I asked. “Is there a second Father Steven?”

“No, my young friend. There is no second Father Steven. You are not the first person to have met and talked with him. Not only does he lie beneath these stones, his soul and his love for the church and its members are apparently still with us.”

Alejandro squeezed my hand and said, “That’s amazing.”

Shakily, I thanked the priest, and Alejandro and I walked out of the building.

“I’m sorry you never got to meet him,” I said. “He was a kind, caring soul.”

*****

Alejandro and I remained together for our entire lives. On a winter visit before Christmas, I officially moved into Alejandro’s bedroom.

Our love grew as we learned more and more of each other, exploring both our minds and our bodies. His dads welcomed me into their family. I came out to my mother who, after adjusting to the idea of my being gay, totally supported both me and Alejandro.

We married in St. Andrew’s, with Father James officiating. I arranged to have the flowers from the wedding put on Father Steven’s grave.

From time to time, Alejandro and I returned to St. Andrews and sat in my familiar pew. Father Steven never appeared again, but when I had needed him, he was there for me.