Almost Heaven (34 page)

He laughed. “Not at all. What I'm saying is, until you deal with what's on the back shelf of your heart, you'll be spinning your wheels with Callie and with yourself.”

“Why can't we just throw the back shelf out?”

“Doesn't work that way. You can't throw out the truth. Good or bad, it will affect you.”

“So I won't be able to get things right with Callie until . . . what? What do I do?”

He lowered his head, like he needed to correct me. “Callie doesn't want to change you so that you become her knight in shining armor. She's got just as much baggage, Billy. This is not about you finding a destination and suddenly ‘arriving,' so that now you're acceptable to the rest of society or me or Callie or anybody else. This is about you and freedom. And there's no way to get to that without wading through some difficult stuff. You've heard the saying that sometimes things have to get worse before they get better?”

“Yeah, I've heard it. I've lived it too.”

He chuckled. “I know you have. I think it'll be worth it to go through this. So why don't you tell me about him? Tell me what happened with this pastor.”

I took a deep breath. Songs and images returned. The other guys in the band. Laughter. Traveling late at night in the van with everybody asleep. Setting up and tearing down in spaces so tight sometimes it felt like there wasn't even room to hold the mandolin in front of me. A feeling of belonging. Coming home late on a Saturday night and getting a little sleep before church. And then the darkness. The impenetrable darkness.

My counselor sat and waited, watching me, as if there was no other thing more important in the world. Haltingly, faltering, I began.

“He gave me a chance to do what I wanted, which was to play my songs. He said I had real talent. And he came alongside me at a time when I'd lost my daddy. Just kind of picked me up out of the gutter and let me stand on that stage.”

“And he was also a spiritual influence on you.”

“I reckon. He had been music minister at his church for a while. But to be honest, other than the songs we sang, there wasn't much spiritual to it. He knew some verses and could spout them off and make people say, ‘Amen,' but there's a difference in somebody preaching what they've read and preaching what they've lived. Just like the music you talked about.”

“Exactly. But still, you probably felt a certain affinity for him because he had affirmed you, he was older and was at least moderately successful in music, and you respected him. He was kind to you. He was a father figure.”

“Yeah, that's all true. I wanted to make him happy. Which made it all the harder.”

“Made what harder?”

“After what happened, I didn't want to believe he was a bad person. I wanted him to think well of me.”

“And what happened?”

I sat in the leather chair. I always felt like I was somewhere I didn't belong coming into his office. His chair felt like sitting in heaven itself, and the smell of the place was like sniffing a cow factory, the leather was so strong. The carpet was thick and green, and there was this painting on the back wall of dogs on the hunt and some fellows behind them with guns riding on horseback. I wondered if he had to spray air freshener in there after I left. Still, he didn't treat me as any less than an honored guest, which made it hard not to go back the next week when it was time.

“Maybe you hit on the reason why what happened was so hard,” I said. “I put my trust in him. It wasn't just that he pretended to care about me; it was the mix of the Christian stuff that confused me. Abuse is hard coming from a mean man, like what Clay did to Callie, but it's even harder when it comes from somebody who is supposed to have your best interests at heart. He bought me clothes and things I didn't have. He told me I was good at what I did. I'd never had that before. And I felt a certain obligation to him.”

The counselor just sat there, looking at me. Finally he said, “What was it like, playing with the group?”

“There was an excitement every time we practiced. I couldn't wait for rehearsals. Sometimes I'd get a ride to his church after school and he'd take me to his house. He'd feed me supper and let me listen to their songs and I'd learn them. He said I was a quick study, a fast learner, and that made me want to learn them faster.”

“So you were with older people who respected your talent. For the first time you felt like you fit in with other people and you contributed to the group.”

I nodded.

“You said
abuse
,” he said. “What did you mean by that?”

“The things he did. Stuff that didn't make sense. He took this pornographic magazine from a kid in Sunday school and had it in his desk. At least that's what he said. He gave it to me before practice one night. Just handed it over and said, ‘Here, take this.' I'd never seen anything like that.”

“You know what he was doing, don't you? I mean, you know now, looking back.”

“No.”

“He was setting you up. That's a classic move by a predator. Let me guess. When he had you alone at his house, he asked if he could take pictures of you.”

I stared at the man. “You've heard of this kind of thing before?”

“I hear about it just about every day in one form or another. What did he do?”

“I told you he gave me clothes. They were outfits that we wore onstage. Some of them looked funny, but they were better than what I had to wear. Well, one day he gave me this skimpy-looking underwear and told me to try it on. Said it gave more support or something. I went in the bathroom and tried it on and came out and said it fit fine. He said to let him see. I didn't know what he meant and he said, ‘Put it on and come out and let me see.' So I went in and changed again.”

“Now let me stop you,” the counselor said. “Here's another guess. There was this funny feeling down inside the pit of your stomach that something about this wasn't right. Something didn't make sense.”

“Yeah, I thought it was creepy, but then when I was standing there in the bathroom and thinking . . .”

“Thinking
you
were the one who was wrong for thinking bad about him. You pushed the feeling down. Tried to explain it away. This was a man who cared about you. A man you trusted. You're bad if you question his motives.”

I nodded. “You're good at this.”

“No, I'm not good; I've just heard it before. We push down the God-given feelings that something isn't right and we go along because we're under the ‘spell' of the other person. So what happened when you came out of the bathroom?”

My face got red again. “He was standing there in his underwear himself. With a camera. At first I kind of laughed at what was happening because I thought he was just having fun, but he wasn't laughing. He just stared at me.”

“Okay, here's another guess,” he said. “Nothing more happened that day. You stood there in your underwear for a few minutes; then you got dressed, his wife came home, and you had dinner like nothing had happened.”

“That's right. That's exactly what happened. But why? I've thought on it over the years and I don't have the foggiest idea why.”

“He was taking you step by step through the process of preparation.
Grooming
is another term. He just took you up one rung of the ladder at a time until when it came time to get off, you were too high up and he led you up one more rung.”

“I can see that.”

There was an uncomfortable silence between us and I knew he was waiting to hear what happened next. Instead, he spoke again.

“You know, Billy, after all that happened in your life, you could have turned your back on the church, your faith, God. People who have seen what you've seen often decide God isn't there, or that if he is there, he's so mean you don't want anything to do with him. You seemed to run toward God. Why didn't you turn away?”

“I've known since I was young that there are people who just play at religion. They're in it for the power or the money or the good feeling. I think that's what made me want the real thing. I didn't want to settle for what he had.”

“So in a sense, this man gave you a gift. Of knowing you didn't want a counterfeit faith.”

“In a weird kind of way, I guess you're right. I don't mind telling you I wish I didn't have to go through it, though.”

“You don't have to be ashamed of the things in your past that bother you, Billy. Jesus died for the sins you've committed and he can take away the effect of the sins committed against you. The people with a seared conscience don't remember the bad things they've done. That these things keep coming up for you, and I assume they do, is proof not that you're a bad person but that you have a conscience and a desire to live a holy life.”

“It doesn't make sense that something can hang on to your soul for so long.”

He gave me a sad smile. “What happened, Billy? What did Vernon do to you?”

I took one of the little water bottles he had set out for me and took a swig. “We were on a longer trip. He'd made arrangements not to be at his church on Sunday. We left Friday afternoon and played a church, then had a fair on Saturday, so we drove all night Friday after the show and then checked into a hotel on Saturday afternoon and rested, then went to the fair. That went until late in the evening and it was almost midnight before we got back to the hotel. The other guys stayed in two other rooms and I was alone with him.”

“Did that seem weird to you or any of the others?”

I shrugged. “I don't recall that anybody else made a fuss about it. I was just so tired I wanted to go to bed. But he locked the door and turned on the television to one of the movie channels. It was not very family friendly, if you know what I mean.

“He was in the shower, and when he came out, he stood there next to the TV, drying his back and then his hair. I tried not to look, but he kind of strutted around and then sat down on his bed and laid back. I didn't know what to do, to get up and run out of there or pretend I was asleep. To tell you the truth, I kind of wished I was blind.

“Pretty soon he turned down the TV. He said, ‘Billy, you're probably wondering what's going on. I've always been a bit of an exhibitionist. Some people think the naked body is a bad thing, but I don't. Male or female, there's a beauty to it because God has made us in his image. Do you believe that?'

“I said that I did. And then he told me to get up from the bed. And I've gone over this a thousand times in my mind and wondered what would have happened if I'd have just run and knocked on the next door. But I didn't.”

“Of course you didn't,” the counselor said. “He had done his work well. You were tired, confused, and you were more afraid of what he thought than anything. If you had refused his advances, you would have cast judgment on him. You didn't want to do that.”

“No, sir, to my shame, I didn't.”

“Billy, you were young. He had control over you. You were in a vulnerable position. You wanted to please him. This wasn't your fault.”

“I know that in my head. But there's something about it that I still think I could have stopped.”

“From what you've just described, this man should have gone to jail. Even if things stopped right there.”

“They didn't.”

“I'm sure they didn't.”

“And I've lived with the regret all these years.”

“You've lived with what he did to you. You've lived with the choices he made. Now the choice is yours whether that's going to keep you from freedom.”

“You really think there's such a thing as freedom for somebody who's lived with this so long?”

He smiled. “I know it for a fact. You'd be surprised at the number of people who've been freed from things like this. Do you want to tell me the rest?”

“Do I have to?”

“No, but I think you already see how freer you feel in the telling.”

He was right. I was surprised at how much better I felt with the little I had already said. Something was happening inside with each new revelation, with every little instance of violation.

Some people think that when you begin telling the stories, it's like a dam breaking and everything behind it just spills out and keeps flowing until the lake of memory is dry. It's not that way at all. It's more like poking and prodding at a backup along a creek. You have to pull at some sticks here and a jumble of leaves and trash over there and get the water flowing, and pretty soon there's something else that sticks and you have to work on that awhile.

He asked questions and just listened as I told him what had happened in the hotel rooms and at the man's house and even at the church where we practiced. When I was done, I felt like I had run a marathon. We'd gone for two hours instead of one and we probably could have gone another hour. He looked at his schedule book and said he had somebody waiting.

“We've made a lot of progress today, but I have to ask you one more thing. What caused you to leave the group?”

I thought back to those awful days. “When I played the mandolin, I could make it sing. I could just make it light on fire. It was how I got away from what was eating at me every time we'd go on the road. A little kid came up after one of our concerts and asked me to give him my autograph. That had happened before, but this time the kid had one of those little pencils they put behind the pews and he opened up his Bible to the front page. I didn't feel worthy to sign one of the offering envelopes, let alone his Bible. I think that was the last straw. That and the bad feeling I had in the pit of my stomach every time the phone would ring and it would be Vernon calling another practice or telling me about another concert he had lined up. I told him I couldn't do it anymore.”

“Did he push back? Did he ask you again?”