The Less-Dead Page 5

  Carson’s about to mouth off to his father, but I stop him. “Dude, don’t. Just do what he tells you. I’ve got everything under control. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  Will puts a hand on Carson’s shoulder. “Noah’s right,” he says. “Listen to your dad. And thanks for everything. Really. I had a great time.”

  Carson looks up. His eyes are glassy. He’s holding back tears. “I hate the son of a bitch.”

  “Nah,” Will says. “You don’t hate him. You just think you do. Anyway, remember, the three of us are going to the Red Room real soon. You guys are gonna rock.”

  {seven}

  “LOOK, DADDY, it’s Noah! And he brought a friend! Now we can play a real game!”

  Will and I just stepped into my backyard. On the small field of grass, right beyond the patio, a baseball game is in session, with Melanie up at bat and my dad on the pitcher’s mound. When my father sees us, he races to the shed, tosses us each a glove, and says, “Spread out, boys. She’s hitting solid today. There’s a man on first and third. No outs.” Like I said before, baseball’s my father’s other religion. And let me tell you, he’s a fanatic.

  “Cool.” Will slips on the glove and gives it a firm punch. He doesn’t even question the invisible men on base or the fact that my dad didn’t bother to say hello. He runs out to center field and I take first. Meanwhile Melanie swings her bat hard, warming up for a homer. I’ve got to hand it to the kid. Most girls her age play softball, but not my sister. For her, it’s baseball or nothing. And not only is she the best hitter on her team, she’s one fearless catcher.

  Right now she’s a little wound up and misses the first pitch. “Take it easy, Mel,” my dad says. “Concentrate. Wait for the ball. Remember? The secret is patience and self-control.”

  Two fruits of the Holy Spirit. It’s amazing how my dad’s been brainwashing Melanie and me with Bible verses since birth. Like just the other day, when I was weed-whacking, he made a joke, saying, “Cursed is the ground … by the sweat of your brow you will eat your food.” Hilarious, right? I’m on the road to recovery, but I’m still in need of a serious deprogramming.

  On the next pitch, Melanie connects and sends the ball flying over Will’s head. “Whoa, would you look at that!” Will yells. He scrambles to get it, but by the time he does, she’s home.

  “Yay! That’s three runs in!” Melanie grabs the bat and gives home plate a whack. The kid is a major show-off, but since she’s cute, no one really minds. Including me. She follows up with a single and a triple, and after she delivers another big hit to the outfield, my dad says, “Okay, Melanie, remember our deal?” He taps his watch. “It’s six o’clock. Time to go inside and do your homework.”

  “Aw, already?”

  “Yes, you know the rules.”

  Will jogs toward us and tosses the ball to my father. “Hey, Melanie, those were some hits! And what do you know?” He points to her hat. “You’re an Angels fan!”

  She beams. “Yeah! Are you?”

  “Definitely. That’s my home team. I moved to Austin when I was about your age, but I’m originally from L.A.”

  “Really? Hey, I’ve got a ball signed by Orlando Cabrera. You want to see it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is that okay, Daddy? Can I show Noah’s friend the ball, and then do my homework?”

  “Um, okay, honey.” My father smiles and holds out his hand to Will. “Sorry, I guess I got carried away with the game and didn’t introduce myself. I’m John Nordstrom, Noah’s dad.”

  “I know,” Will says as they shake. “I’ve heard your radio show many times. And I have a friend who’s a huge fan. I’d recognize your voice anywhere. My name’s Will.”

  My dad is flattered, but since humility is one of his favorite virtues, he just nods. “Nice to meet you, Will.”

  I want to say, Congratulations, Dad. You officially met a gay person. But I don’t think that’ll go over too well.

  “Come on!” Melanie grabs Will’s hand and pulls him toward the house. “I’ve got all the Angels trading cards too!”

  Suddenly my father and I are alone. It’s weird being here in the backyard with him. Before I got sent to the Rock, when I was playing for McCallum High, he’d always drag me back here to practice my pitching. I hate to admit it, but my father taught me how to throw my infamous curveball—the one no one could hit last season.

  “So …,” my dad says, “is Will a new friend from church?”

  It takes a lot of willpower, but I somehow manage not to roll my eyes. I swear, if I had a redneck gunslinger for a friend, as long as he went to King of Glory Christian Center, well, that would be just fine. “No, Dad. Will’s not from church. I met him on the Drag Saturday. It turns out he goes to my school. In fact, I was going to ask you a favor. You see—”

  “Your school? You mean he goes to the Rock?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  He shakes his head. “Noah, you know how I feel about your choice of friends lately, and if this boy goes to the Rock, well, I can only imagine what kind of trouble—”

  “Dad,” I say, “Will needs a place to stay. He’s a foster kid, and right now he’s got nowhere to go.”

  My father’s quiet for a while. “Nowhere at all? Are you sure about that?”

  “Yeah. His social worker’s been looking, but she can’t find him a home. I’m pretty sure he’s been sleeping out in the woods.”

  “The woods?” He sighs. “Well, we can’t have that. I’ll talk to your mother. If she says it’s all right, he can stay with us this evening. I’ll get in touch with some people tomorrow. We’ll figure something out.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  It’s a done deal. My mother would never turn Will away. In fact, she’s probably already invited him to stay for dinner. I hand my father my glove, the one he bought me for Christmas last year, right before baseball season. He’d broken it in for me, oiled it and everything. He runs his fingers over the leather and sighs again. “Come on, let’s see if Mom needs help in the kitchen.”

  Inside, my mom is slicing mushrooms. “Noah, your friend Will is having dinner with us. Why don’t you set the table?” She hands me a stack of dishes, and my father a hunk of cheese. “John, you can grate the Parmesan. And remember, use a delicate touch.”

  My dad shakes his head and smiles. My mom’s the only person who can get away with bossing him around. As he slides the hunk of cheese over the grater, he says, “Laura, it turns out Will needs a place to sleep tonight. He’s in foster care, and apparently has nowhere to stay. I’ll see what I can do about the situation tomorrow. Anyway, is that okay with you? If it’s not, I can—”

  “Of course it’s okay.” She turns to me. “Noah? Is Will completely alone? No family at all?”

  “Well, his parents died when he was ten. They were killed in a car wreck. Since then, he’s been in different foster homes, and bounced around a lot.”

  “Oh.” She dumps the mushrooms into a pan of sizzling butter and frowns. “How sad. He seems like such a nice boy. John, when you’re done grating the cheese, you can put clean sheets on the guest bed. And don’t forget the pillowcases. They’re in the linen closet.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  When we’re all seated at the dinner table, my dad bows his head. “Lord, we thank you for this wonderful meal, and for our guest, Will. Please bless our fellowship tonight, and our conversation around the dinner table. In Jesus’s name we pray, Amen.”

  Short and sweet. Glory, hallelujah.

  “Amen,” Will says. He opens his eyes and looks around. “Thank you so much for inviting me, Mr. and Mrs. Nordstrom. The food smells delicious.”

  Will sounds like he’s kissing up to my parents, but the truth is he’s totally sincere. And starving. My mom passes him the basket of French bread and he rips off a huge piece.

  “We’re glad you’re here,” she says. “And you’re more than welcome to spend the night. John’s going to look into a few possibilities for you tomorr
ow. He’ll try and get you settled.”

  “Oh, thank you, but please don’t go to any trouble. Really, I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” my dad says.

  Melanie passes Will the spaghetti; he heaps it onto his plate. She laughs. “You’re pretty hungry, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m always hungry.”

  She hands him the pot of sauce and watches as he ladles it on top of the spaghetti. For her enjoyment, he shovels a huge forkful of food into his mouth and chews.

  “So, Will, tell us about yourself,” my dad says. “Are you a junior?”

  Will swallows his food and takes a sip of water. “Senior,” he says. “I’ll be eighteen pretty soon. When I graduate, I’m planning to head out to L.A. Well, if I can save up enough money. I’ve got a friend there, and hopefully a job lined up.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful,” my mom says. “What kind of job?”

  Will hesitates for a moment. “Uh, it’s with the L.A. Youth Connection. They work with foster kids. A guy I know runs a program for … well, for teens with special needs. He wants to raise awareness, promote tolerance, provide counseling, stuff like that. If he can work something out, I’d be his assistant. It wouldn’t pay much, but that’s okay. I’d be doing something I like. Something I believe in.”

  “Sounds like a worthy cause,” my dad says. He takes a bite of French bread, chews, and swallows. “But tell me, Will, does this group also provide spiritual guidance for these teens? And maybe a good church for them to attend?”

  I stop chewing and glare at my dad. I want to throttle him.

  “Because I feel that’s very important,” he goes on. “It’s noble to want to help, but in my opinion what these teens really need is God.”

  “Maybe they already have God,” Will says.

  “Well, yes, of course that’s a possibility, but considering their backgrounds …” My father trails off. The Bible Answer Guy has officially put his foot in his mouth.

  Will looks at me.

  I set down my fork. “So what are you trying to say, Dad? That the L.A. Youth Connection should hire a group of evangelicals? Make sure all the foster kids go through the five-point plan of salvation?”

  “Noah, please,” my dad says. “That’s not what I’m—”

  “Or maybe we should send them all free Bibles, and make them listen to your show?”

  “That’s. Enough. Noah.”

  While my father glares at me, Will says, “Listen, I’m sorry, Mr. Nordstrom. I didn’t mean to cause a problem. And I should probably explain something. You see, the group I hope to be working with promotes tolerance for gay teens.”

  Oh, great. Here we go.

  My dad blinks. “I see.”

  My mother glances around nervously. She reaches across the table, takes Will’s hand, and gives it a squeeze. “Well, I think that’s just wonderful, Will. And I want you to know our church welcomes everyone.”

  “That’s for sure,” Melanie says. “Last Sunday there was this smelly guy talking to himself, sitting right behind me. I’m pretty sure he had lice. They didn’t even kick him out.”

  Will laughs. He pushes some spaghetti around on his plate. “Mr. Nordstrom? I … hear what you’re saying, but don’t evangelical Christians believe that homosexuality is a sin?”

  “Well, yes,” my father says. “But we’re all sinners—in need of the Lord.” He pauses for a moment and clears his throat. “Will, I should explain something too. You see, the problem I have with a secular group like L.A. Youth Connection is they assume gay teens are certain of their sexual orientation. My question is, how can a teenager be sure he’s gay at such a young age? Maybe he’s confused and needs counseling?”

  I can see where this conversation is going, and I don’t like it. Will takes a deep breath. I nudge his foot under the table and shake my head. Don’t, Will. Don’t open this can of worms.

  “I know what gay is,” Melanie says. “It’s when a boy wants to marry another boy. That’s so weird.”

  Will chokes down a laugh. “Well, it is different, Melanie, but it’s not that weird. Not as weird as, say, space monkeys or mutant ninja turtles.”

  Melanie thinks this one over. “I guess.”

  “Anyway, to answer your question, Mr. Nordstrom, most gay kids know they’re gay from a pretty young age. The problem is when people tell them it’s wrong. Or say it’s a sin. That’s usually when the kids need counseling. L.A. Youth Connection believes that gay teens need to accept themselves for who they are.”

  “Wait a minute,” Melanie says. “Are you gay, Will?”

  “Melanie!” my mom scolds.

  “What? It’s just a question.”

  Before Will can answer, I say, “Mel, enough already! Can we just eat dinner? Can we stop talking about this?”

  Will looks down at his plate.

  “I think that’s a good idea, Noah,” my mother says. “Please, let’s enjoy dinner. And mind your own business, Melanie.”

  Melanie frowns and sticks her tongue out at me. I give her the evil eye.

  “I apologize, Mr. Nordstrom,” Will says. “I shouldn’t have brought any of that up.”

  “No, it’s fine,” my dad says. “No harm done.”

  My father studies me from across the table as we eat in silence. In defiance, I stare right back at him.

  Suddenly he clears his throat. “Well, I certainly hope you make it back to L.A., Will. It sounds like the perfect job for you.”

  Yeah, let’s hope he moves back to L.A., right, Dad? Out of sight, out of mind.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  After dinner, Will offers to clean up. My mother protests, but he insists. “Please, it’s the least I can do, Mrs. Nordstrom. I’d like to help.”

  Finally she gives in, heads to the adjoining family room, and takes a seat on the sofa next to my dad. He turns on the news. Meanwhile Melanie runs upstairs to finish her homework.

  Will and I work together—I clear the table while he loads the dishwasher—and we don’t say much. As he rinses off the last plate, he says, “Noah? Are you sure you’re cool with me being here?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know. Your parents are really nice, and Melanie’s great, but things got a little tense over dinner. Plus, you seem kind of freaked. Maybe I’d better leave?”

  “No. You’re not leaving. And I’m not freaked.”

  I hear my mother gasp from the family room. I look up, peer more closely at the TV, and see a familiar face on the screen. A mug shot. It’s Melanie’s former Sunday school teacher, Warren Banks. Below the photo are the words Suspect in Murder of Gay Teen. I shut the refrigerator, walk into the room, and motion for Will to join me. Instead, he stands there frozen, watching from a distance.

  “John?” my mother says. “I don’t understand. How could this be?”

  I turn up the volume. The newscaster continues.

  “Warren Banks, suspect in the murder of Austin teenager Kyle Lester, is a former member of King of Glory Christian Center—a local independent church. Earlier this year, Banks left King of Glory and joined an Austin branch of the Westboro Baptist Church, whose main headquarters is in Topeka, Kansas. The Westboro church is widely known for its Web site, God Hates Fags dot-com. Banks is twenty-five years old and a former employee at a software company.”

  I glance back at Will. His eyes are glued to the TV.

  Now, beside the mug shot of Warren Banks, News 8 is showing a clip of a group from the Westboro Baptist Church marching and holding up signs that say GOD HATES FAGS! FAGS HATE GOD! AIDS CURES FAGS! AMERICA IS DOOMED!

  The newscaster goes on. “According to police reports, Kyle Lester was last seen alive with Warren Banks outside Urban Legend, a downtown bar on Sixth Street. The owner, Herb Underwood, claims that Banks was a regular customer. Banks has pleaded not guilty to the murder, and right now police are awaiting DNA results.”

  I take a closer look at Banks on the TV screen.
The only time I ever spoke to the guy was when I picked up Melanie from Sunday school class. Drily, he’d tell me the Bible verse she was supposed to memorize for the following week so she could get a star next to her name. To me, he was just another church nerd. Never in a million years would I have thought, Murderer.

  “But what complicates matters further in this case is that another body was found this morning near Town Lake—a teenage boy who had been in the foster care system. Due to his age, his name is not being released. According to police, this boy had been killed in the same manner as Kyle Lester. Apparently he’d been strangled with a rope, which was found at the crime scene. A cross had been carved into the flesh of his chest. A note had been left using letters cut from newspaper—part of a Bible verse condemning homosexuality, one similar to the note found with Kyle Lester. ‘Leviticus 20:13—If a man lieth with mankind, they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.’”

  My stomach plummets. Another murder. Another gay foster kid. It could have been Will.

  “Coroners are determining the time of the teenager’s death. If the boy was killed before the arrest of Warren Banks, Banks will be a suspect in this murder as well.”

  News 8 goes on to their next story, something about a hazing at a UT frat party.

  I walk over to Will. He’s staring straight ahead, the color drained from his face. “Will, are you okay?”

  “I don’t know. I just … I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “Me neither.” I take a deep breath. “There’s something I should tell you. That guy, Warren Banks, the one they arrested, he used to go to our church.”

  Will looks at me. Except for the TV droning, the room is deathly quiet. My parents are sitting there like statues. “And remember when I asked you about Kyle Lester?” I say. “Here’s why: a week before his murder there was a crazy guy calling in on my dad’s show, saying all this crap about gay people, and—”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I heard the show with Doomsday.”