Taking Down the Golden Boy

Taking Down the

Golden Boy

DAVID TACIUM

Copyright © 2018 by David Tacium.

ISBN:            Softcover              978-1-9845-6622-5

                      eBook                    978-1-9845-6621-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Rev. date: 04/26/2019

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Contents

Part I

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Part II

12

13

14

15

Part III

16

17

18

19

20

Part I

1

Slyly he stood waiting outside the main lodge as the campers filed out to retrieve their bedding. When the lad appeared, they traded a wide-mouthed smile of instant liking and went on a walk in the woods. Over the charred logs of a fire-pit, they stopped to scrounge for kindling, only to abandon their twig teepee for lack of matches. Tim nearly sabotaged the whole encounter by stepping into the underbrush to pee. As he zipped up, however, a questionable shape hovered at the edge of the woods, inviting him to hustle across the clearing and plunge into the darkness. He followed the silhouette that darted inside a log cabin.

I hope you’re not frightened, the boy said, sitting like an Eastern sage on a cot facing the door.

Why should I be? What’s there to be afraid of?

Fear’s only natural. But here we’re safe. No one’s going to intrude.

Tim ventured across the boards to his side. The boy proposed they bow their heads. Tim fell to his knees. The boy’s fingers lingered over the nape of his neck, pressing into the ball and socket of his shoulder-bone. Cold dry lips skimmed across his forehead.

Oh all-seeing Lord, thou who have the authority, the boy intoned, lay a blessing on us now.

Tim’s legs were rickety. Like a boxer awaiting the next round, he stumbled back to the opposing bunk and plunked himself down. The springs squeaked in protest.

Thou from whom nothing is hidden, the boy continued, we lay ourselves bare to thy almighty mercy --

The crazed ha-oo-oo of a laughing loon came slapping across the lake. The boy seemed to shine gossamer white, stenciled out of murky moonlight. Little wonder, for it appeared he had slid out of his shirt. Yet he was not too lost in trance to forget practicalities. You’ll have to go back to the lodge. Go and fetch your sleeping bag. It’s damp in here. It’s going to end up a chilly one. You go get yours first, come back and join me, then I go get mine.

Tim stumbled back out into the night, piecing his way over needles and cones like any other creature of the night -- raccoon, weasel, badger, fox, bear – reliant mainly on smell. The pines soughed in the light wind like creaky gray-beard magistrates. Tim fancied lighting their little pyramid. The flames would lick the wood, throwing sparks, until the orange sizzled into puffing blisters and embers. They would lie on their backs in the clearing, staring into the silver streak of Milky Way that ran through a panel of sky. It was a circumpolar early summer sky, blue-black overhead, reddish-gray at the edges, flecked with stars. He identified Vega, the bright jewel straight overhead. The world had no walls, no gates, no borders. A simple plenitude filled his being, a feeling he knew might not stay nor ever return, a moment without desire except to be held onto.

The log-cabin lodge swam in kerosene light. A ticker-tape parade of brown moths swarmed over the lanterns on the porch. Duffle bags lay pêle-mêle amid toiletries, hiking boots, volley-balls, acoustic guitars. The door croaked as he lifted the latch. His eyes swept across the patchwork of sleeping bags. What freedom not to be stuck in their midst! He hopped over snoring mounds, scooped his bag under his arm and made his get-away to the path to the clearing and the cabin beyond, amazed how deftly he found his bearings.

*

He awoke the next morning from fitful sleep, having flailed all night at a whining mosquito. He took groggy note of the tar-paper on the plywood walls, a deer-fly skittering across a window-screen, the cot empty across the floor, the door unlatched. He crawled out of the sheath of his musty bag and set off for the lake to air the thing out. The sun’s sharp-angle rays spilled molten orange-gold through chinks in the forest. The underbrush was steaming. Spider-webs glistened. Dew dangled from fireweed. Blue dragonflies poised in mid-air. Goldfinches flitted back and forth between bushes. A brown thrush belted out a prolonged tremolo.

The island belonged to no one. Two campers had beaten him to the granite ledge. From behind leafy cover he witnessed the guy tilt his head to meet his girlfriend’s lips. The sheer naturalness of it bore into Tim’s mind. The two were violating a regulation that had been read out on the boat -- You may go wherever you like, provided you’re supervised. It dawned on Tim he’d broken the same rule.

The main lodge had been transformed into a mess hall. He surveyed the cross-hatching of picnic tables and fold-away chairs. The boy of the night before, jet black hair neatly combed and parted, sat talking with the leader who had spoken to the assembly the night before. He recalled the rich penetrating baritone voice, the way his stubbly russet beard seemed aglow with promise of miracles to come. Bits of the penetrating message still resonated in Tim’s brain. Oh Jesus that wast impaled on the cross in whose name thy ninety-nine brethren gather here now under the arches of the gates of Zion to give Thee praise -- for we who were stones the builder rejected have been washed in thy blood -- Jesus whose hands and feet were nailed to that cross -- Jesus who didst suffer and bleed naked but for the cloth that flapped around thy loins. No one would have expected such an astonishingly fiery performance from someone who an hour earlier had gotten the campers to make such utter fools of themselves. Tim didn’t mind the wheelbarrow races but charades had never been his thing.

Breakfast trays lay between them like Ouija boards. Tim wondered what kept them talking, a good ten minutes after everyone else had filtered out. Any leader who could command a group as he had would certainly be able to draw out a personal confidence. Perhaps their moments in the cabin had been directly inspired by the man’s exalted speech. At last the two stood and stacked dishes in the trolley. Far from giving signs of disciplinary action, the leader stroked the back of the boy’s head. At the same time he caught Tim out of the corner of an eye, meeting and returning Tim’s hapless stare in full awareness of being observed. Then he deliberately curled his hand inward in a scooping gesture, like a shortstop fielding a two-hopper, twice, three, four times in instant replay, as if for Tim alone to interpret.

Tim was sore at himself for making such a deal about one random gesture, one flick of a man’s stubby fingers, yet unclean thoughts plagued him the rest of the day. He found it difficult to engage in activities. No one was good at volleyball but he was worse, unable to complete a serve. He dropped out of a study session, impatient with the monitor’s hair-splitting. Notice, my friends, that it doesn’t say in the Holy Spirit, it says of the Holy Spirit, he said, unless it was the other way around, wielding his Bible as if to crush a heresy or a fly or both with one blow. Tim Evans you’re too darn sensitive, he chided himself. It had been his mother’s idea, not his own, for him to come to this island where he was now stuck with a bunch of people he didn’t even know.

Twenty-four hours passed before he saw the boy again. He wore the same beaded vest over the same silken white shirt or another just like it. He was loitering on a forest path, as was Tim. Both claimed they’d been looking all over for the other. You just disappeared, Tim said. I thought maybe you had to leave. I dunno, a family thing. Or maybe you’d gotten into trouble.

Trouble? What for?

I dunno. I noticed you were talking with the one who spoke at the assembly. I was a little worried.

Whatever for? Pastor Hunt just wanted to catch up. Since he left our church I don’t see him quite so often.

Oh, of course. Sorry, it’s really none of my business.

That’s all right. He’s the youth pastor. He’s taught me a lot. About love. About the four loves.

Four! Tim remarked, meaning to say Four? He vaguely recalled hearing something about agape and eros but the other two escaped him. The boy merely nodded. He gave his name as Stephen Seton with a lilt of interrogation, as if waiting for recognition, but all Tim recognized was the radiance in his eyes.

The time for brooding was over. Rambling along, they discovered a common complaint. Stephen confessed to feeling unsettled by the clowning that went on around them. He objected to some of the jokes. They were clean enough but they didn’t strike him as funny; he wished the girls wouldn’t laugh, for it only egged the jokers on. They hadn’t come to the island for frivolities. He pointed to the underbrush. You know, these ferns are perfect for hiding under. I mean, if ever you had to.

That’s funny, Tim remarked, I was thinking exactly the same thing.

The only way this type of vegetation can survive is by nestling under the forest canopy, hiding from the sun. Whereas our light has to shine. He assumed the lead, as one knowing how to survive for weeks in the bush. His gait was gangly, rising and dipping as if he’d recently sprained an ankle or pulled a muscle.

They had to watch for roots that bulged across the pine-cone path. Chipmunks darted over fallen trunks and rotting branches. It’s like jungle, Tim huffed. Especially when you’re a product of the flat old prairies.

Fashioning branches into machetes, they cut a swath through the impenetrable wood. His pocket knife out, a pioneer on uncharted land, Tim bent down over a small white flower with sun-yellow stamens and sliced into the soil, estimating the radius needed to excavate the plant without exposing its roots. Stephen identified it as white trillium, the provincial emblem native to the deciduous forests of the Shield. This got them speculating. Was the forest in fact deciduous or was it really coniferous? Tim surmised a mix. Stephen suggested one had to predominate. Each held the other to be right.

It sure is beautiful, don’t you think? Tim said at last as he touched the petals.

Yes, Stephen agreed. So white! It’s such a shame.

Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I made sure I didn’t just yank it up. No one had told him this, Tim added with pride: he just knew it. You have to wrap the roots in a humid plastic bag and bring a bit of its environment with it so it’ll feel less displaced.

Stephen was wide-eyed. "Such complexity! It can’t be mere chance. There has to be a maker. There has to be a purpose."

Sure, Tim said. Just not easy to spell out.

That’s the mystery of it! Just like our meeting. It didn’t happen just by chance.

Instantly ill at ease, Tim forced out a smile. Perhaps Tim’s purpose was part of a Higher Purpose nevertheless. Perhaps he had singled out Stephen because Stephen had singled out himself, and perhaps this was their Maker’s doing, to make Stephen stand out, just for Tim, as one swings back to pick up a hitchhiker who’s caught one’s eye. It wasn’t his clothes that struck Tim so much as the way he wore them. Yes, the way his white silk dress shirt and beaded butler’s vest moved with him, the way they called him forth, so that watching him standing across the floor was like watching golden stardust on Oscar awards night. His high cheeks, full lips and smiling green-gray eyes projected the kind of glamor Tim associated with the opposite sex. He had no clear idea what he himself looked like, except for the zits that had been rising around his nose like mushrooms in morning dew for the past four years. It pained him to stand before a mirror studying his face. Perhaps as a whole it wasn’t so bad, but it was easy to spot flaws in detail. The cheeks were too wide, the mouth too prominent, the nose turned up. The way one looked was supposed to be immaterial. His sisters of all people understood. Cynthia turned her nose up at make-up and Evelyn was doggedly dowdy. Tim alone was hung up on other people’s judgment. His face was a geiger counter of multiple needles. The more intently he studied himself in the bathroom mirror, the more the tiny muscles quivered and pulled, until finally it was grimacing at him as if to say aren’t we little fools, you and I both. Next to Stephen he could stop worrying about himself. He had come unstuck from himself, ready to abandon himself to a force beyond his control, like one of Christ’s disciples, ready to abandon earthly possessions and forsake mother and father. his back. So, your name’s Timothy. Paul’s epistles. I always loved that name.

They continued together toward the lake, past a glade and up onto the granite ledge where the two love-birds had kissed. Tim removed his runners and dipped his feet in the lapping water. The cold surface scissored his ankles. Stephen spoke behind

His mother always addressed him as Timothy when she meant to correct him. All at once it did not sound so bad. He turned to his new friend. And you’re Stephen.

Yes, spelled ph. Not v.

Great name too. They stretched out on the granite and stared up. Cumulus clouds spooled east to west. See that shape? It’s like a poodle.

Stephen aligned his eyes. I’d say more like a wiener dog.

A big fat basset hound.

They looked into each other’s querying eyes. Ignoring the flies, Tim pulled his t-shirt high over his head. Stephen undid the buttons of his shirt. Tim’s eye twitched as it traveled across Stephen’s smooth sun-smitten skin, piebald with mosquito bites, and his thighs extended and spasmed. The woods, the granite, the lake, all of nature basked in nudity.

Tell me who you are, Stephen said.

I -- I If we are the life we have lived, the retreat would be over before he had sorted through all his contradictions. Uh, you mean, like, where I’m from?

I don’t know. Start with what you think’s important. I’ll start if you’d like. I was born abroad. In Bolivia. I usually don’t come out with it. I don’t want to have to deal with prejudice.

What’s wrong with being born in Bolivia? Doesn’t mean you’re a Bolivian. I mean, you’re not even Latino.

You’d be surprised. People always remind you if you’re in any way different. I find.

"And even if you were Bolivian, what difference would it make?

I don’t much care what people think, do you?

Tim boasted indeed he didn’t either. He’d always had a soft spot for people who didn’t fit in, he who everyone just naturally assumed one of the squad. He had played hockey and soccer and could act as extroverted as he had to. He could do the boy-next-door smile. But though he fit in, it often left him feeling strangely disappointed with himself. So how was it you were born in Bolivia? he asked.

My parents were doing missionary work at the time. My father’s Frank Seton. Once more he paused for a sign of recognition You may have heard of him. The author.

Tim frowned at his own ignorance.

He writes devotional works.

Wow! For a living?

Oh no. He has a day job. He’s not the kind of writer who’d write for money.

I can’t wait to get hold of one.

They’re hard to find. They’re mostly out of print. But the latest is supposed to come out this fall. You could attend the launching.

Tim couldn’t conceal a gloat. A bad pun raced through his head: all the Evans family had ever launched was an inflatable dinghy. Why would Stephen want to know about his family? Reluctantly he divulged a few details, his two older sisters, his greater feel for Cynthia the eldest despite the rebellious streak that kept getting her into binds. Stephen listened attentively, opining she probably needed him. Tim must not give up. Even the staunchest Christian homes often had a black sheep.

The talk swung onto where they lived. As suited his silken shirt, Stephen lived in an old classy part of town, alongside the Assiniboine. What about you? he asked Tim. "Where do you live?’

Tim flourished his stick, parrying and thrusting at an invisible sparring partner. I live in Glendale, he blurted, even though he was in no mood to start describing the Quality Plus Homes neighborhood with its Jolly Mug, Pizza Place, Burger Heaven. There was nothing in Glendale, no community club, no local library, no fire-hall, no bowling alley, neither schools nor churches, but Glendale did have a brand-new K-Mart, which in the minds of most residents more than compensated.

Is something wrong with your eye? Stephen asked. You’re squinting.

It’s the sun. I’m really sensitive.

You were squinting last night too. I noticed, in the lodge.

I guess I’m in the habit, Tim conceded, delighted to have been so closely observed. Squeezing his eyes shut had become effective against the quiver that made him look so nervous. Let’s have a swim, he suggested impetuously. He unloosened his trousers. His white Stanfields hung loosely enough to pass as a swimsuit. No one’ll know the difference, he urged.

Stephen darted a bashful look. The boat leaves in forty-five minutes, don’t forget.

We’ve time. Come, just in and out. Sun’ll dry us. He ventured to the edge and sprang into the curtain of shimmering silver wavelets. A cold shock encased his body. He swung around. Stephen lay as if lost in a dream, leaning on an elbow on the rhinoceros hide rock between swatches of light green lichen. Tim breast-stroked back, head above water. The shoreline moss made him slip. He had to use a fist to clutch his sopping briefs, which were no longer white, just to keep them up around his waist.

He lay shivering in the sun next to Stephen. The plunge had conferred a certain honor on him. He had acted on the spur of the moment, carrying out a whim they might eventually recall with amusement. He turned over and took up a sharp-edged stone, using it as chalk to inscribe parallel serpentines in the granite. See? Your initials.

The trace was faint indeed, but Stephen took the stone and scratched TE in front of Tim’s SS.

Of the D’Urbervilles. Tim laughed. Ever read it?

It had been on the curriculum of both their high-schools. They agreed the novel was long, but both had gotten into it. Stephen had found the emphasis on ill-omens exaggerated, along with the earth-mother pagan touch. He’d written on antinomianism.

Anti -- anti-monian? I’ve heard of anti-semite. Antediluvian --

"— Anti-Christ too, of course. No, nomian. Antinomian. It’s about divine providence being above moral law."

"Elope was new on me. You know, when Tess and Clare spend that last night alone in Stonehenge before they arrest her. Apparently what they were doing was eloping. Don’t you think it’s weird? The word, I mean."

Stephen said he empathized with Tess being bullied into wedlock, being of the belief one should never have to submit to bullying, which sadly went on for all sorts of stupid reasons. Like for being a shaky swimmer, Tim thought. He saw himself swimming across and buoying Stephen up while gliding him shorewards. They were more or less the same height, and Stephen seemed a little lighter, so it would have been feasible. The Christian overtone in his fantasy of saving Stephen would haunt him long after so much of his faith had proven unsustainable. For now it was delightful to hang out apart from the group, almost as if they were out on Stonehenge.

*

Alliances forged on this island are hallowed the youth pastor said, slow and full-bodied, at the benedictory assembly. Hallowed be your bonds and may they fructify. May you be blessed looking forward, together, toward the common goal. He invited the campers to speak of their bonds. Surely he did not mean the couple who had French-kissed on the rock at daybreak. Romance was not the thing. Surely he was speaking directly to Tim and Stephen, who sat side-by-side to the far left. The pastor kept casting glances at Stephen as if for him to stand forth heroically to deliver testimony. Perhaps they’d even arranged it. To Tim’s relief Stephen did not testify. In fact, he seemed to avert the pastor’s eyes. Tim would certainly not go public, even if their late night tryst was no longer a secret just between themselves and God. They’d left their testimony in a wrinkle on the ignaceous rock. One might presume TESS was a girl’s name and wonder why there was no s on LOVE followed by some guy’s name. They wouldn’t get it that TESS stood for two people. No one would crack their code.

Amid screeching gulls the ferry pulled off the dock. The lodge disappeared behind a receding line of ivory birches grafted by slabs of dark evergreen. Tim began to feel a new phase of loss and regret. What should he have done or said differently? On the landing he took note of the three yellow buses, revved up and waiting to swallow the campers. Roll was called. Stephen’s name got proclaimed. The chances of the two of them winding up on the same bus being one in three, Tim was hardly surprised when it didn’t work out. Tough. Just too tough. Maybe it was the melancholy of freshly discovered attachment that made him vulnerable to the temptation to go against the rules: he charged recklessly to the platform of Stephen’s bus.

When shortly afterward the organizers carried out a second roll-call, Tim was a lame duck. The invigilators went from bewilderment to frustration as they recounted heads. He looked at him as the last of the stooges. I goofed, I know, he said with an innocent shrug.

How did you manage that? one of them said, slapping his forehead. "The bus numbers are clear as day. We announced the procedure four times. He seemed little older than the campers except for his balding pate. The co-invigilator, of bouncer proportions, just kept nodding. Do you know what this means? It means they’re searching for you back there. The driver may already have turned back."

Doesn’t anyone have a walkie-talkie? Tim suggested.

There would be a pit stop a half hour down the highway. They were going to transfer him. He was ordered to stay in his seat, as if he was going to hi-jack the bus to the border. He rued his act of disobedience -- until Stephen materialized, in the empty seat next to him. Timothy he said. Hi. I saw you climb aboard at the last minute. Is something the matter? Sunlight studded his raised brow. The cat had Tim’s tongue. You made an honest mistake, that’s all. Maybe there was a purpose to it. Now we can talk some more. He spoke with his hands, his fingers strumming the air as if it were a harp. Tim laid his own on his knees, exhibiting them, but what he really wanted was a closer look at Stephen’s. He could pretend he read palms. They could place their palms flat together to see whose were longer.

Here, have a sip, Stephen said, unscrewing the top of his canteen.

They alternated swigs, neither bothering to wipe the spout. It was only water, lukewarm and tasting of stale algae, but to Tim it was like taking communion. Their thighs touched. Stephen Seton was a hero who summed up all the joy Tim would ever know on Earth, all the joy he was going to desire, to the boiling point. Feel free to call me Tim, he said. Actually I prefer to be called Tim.

Just Tim? Stephen’s voice conveyed a hint of disappointment. All right. Tim.

Or Timothy. Either. You know, I never went to a retreat before. Are they always like that?

Like what?

Tim looked out at a blur of shutters, the line of trees they sped past. He couldn’t find words to ask what had been going on between them on that first night. Possibly Stephen had no answer. It’s neat, Tim hazarded with a short nervous laugh, the way light’s reflecting off you.

Stephen lay his fingers across his chest. You find? said his eyes. No, this retreat was different. First time something like that ever happened to me.

Like what?

I can’t quite put it in words.

For me it was a coming to grips, Tim hastened to say.

Yes. It was like being anointed!

Tim wished he could say for certain Stephen had really taken off his shirt in the cabin. He distrusted his inventive mind, his knack for fancying what was not. He could not put a frame on the question. Instead, he asked Stephen whether he’d confided in anyone.

The bus hit a bump, jolting rows of campers sideways. A rucksack toppled from the overhead ledge, just missing their heads.

Or did you? Did someone spot you and force you to say where you were?

No one forced me. But yes, I had to share. It was like the dark night of my soul. Or I couldn’t say what it was. Or what it meant. I needed perspective.

I see. And so you talked to him about the four loves? Tim enjoined.

We all need understanding. You and I. Which is why we have mentors.

"He’s your mentor?"

Stephen nodded evasively. I got some guidance from him at one time. Will you pray with me, Timothy?

There was something intimate about the act that Tim could only welcome. They bowed their heads. Stephen placed a blessing on the lake and trees and the wonderful friendship that had budded just as had springtime. Tim risked a practical consideration. We should try to stay in touch. They exchanged phone numbers. The two scraps went into their respective pockets.

Problem is, Stephen added, the whole family’s going on a mission out West. We’ll be gone all summer.

"The whole summer?" It came out as a protest.

Stephen nodded. The bookings had been made, he couldn’t cancel. The time will pass. It’s not that long in the context of a lifetime.

I guess not.

The bus coughed into low gear and chugged into the massive empty lot of a service station where another bus had already pulled up. A vein of lightning zigzagged over the darkening eastern sky, followed ten seconds later by a deep thud. Early summer storms were known to topple trees. Tim thought of pounding rain, of the spot where the trillium had grown turned into a frothing hole. The youth pastor strutted alongside their flank, peering up into the windows. Under the mane that fell long past his ears,