Sing You Home Read online

  They are not militant, crazy people. The protesters are calm and organized, and wearing black suits with skinny ties, or modest floral print dresses. They look like your neighbor, your grandmother, your history teacher. In this, I suppose, they have something in common with the people they are slandering.

  Beside me, I feel Vanessa's spine go rigid. "We can leave," I murmur. "Let's just rent a video and watch it at home."

  But before I can pull away, I hear my name being called. "Zoe?"

  At first, I don't recognize Max. The last time I saw him, after all, he was drunk and disheveled, and trying to explain to a judge why we should be granted a divorce. I'd heard that he started going to Reid and Liddy's church, but I hadn't quite expected a transformation this . . . radical.

  Max is wearing a fitted dark suit with a charcoal tie. His hair has been trimmed neatly, and he's clean-shaven. On the lapel of his suit is a pin: a small gold cross.

  "Wow," I say. "You look great, Max."

  We do an awkward dance, where we move toward each other for a kiss on the cheek, but then I pull away, and he pulls away, and we both look down at the ground.

  "So do you," he says.

  He is wearing a walking cast. "What happened?" I ask. It seems crazy that I wouldn't know. That Max would have gotten hurt, and no one relayed the message to me.

  "It's nothing. An accident," Max says.

  I wonder who took care of him, when he was first hurt.

  Behind me, I am incredibly conscious of my mother and Vanessa. I can feel their presence like heat thrown from a fireplace. Someone in the front of the line buys a ticket to July, and the protest starts up in earnest, with chanting and yelling and sign waving. "I heard you were part of Eternal Glory, now," I say.

  "Actually, it's a part of me," Max replies. "I let Jesus into my heart."

  He says this with a brilliant white smile, the same way he'd say, I got my car waxed this afternoon or I think I'll have Chinese food for dinner--as if this is part of normal everyday conversation instead of a statement that might give you pause. I wait for Max to snicker--we used to make fun of Reid and Liddy sometimes for the glory-be snippets that fell out of their mouths--but he doesn't.

  "Have you been drinking again?" I ask, the only explanation I can come up with to reconcile the man I know with the one standing in front of me.

  "No," Max says. "Not a drop."

  Maybe not of alcohol, but it's pretty clear to me that Max has been chugging whatever Kool-Aid the Eternal Glory Church is offering. There's something just off about him--something Stepford-like. I preferred Max with all his complicated imperfections. I preferred Max when we used to make fun of Liddy for saying "Jeezum Crow" when she was frustrated, for being gullible enough to believe him when he told her that Rick Warren was mounting a presidential campaign.

  Full disclosure: I'm not a religious person. I don't begrudge people the right to believe in whatever they believe, but I don't like having those same beliefs forced on me. So when Max says, "I've been praying for you, Zoe," I have absolutely no idea what to say. I mean, it's nice to be prayed for, I suppose, even if I've never asked for it.

  But do I really want to be prayed for by a bunch of people who are using God to camouflage a message of hate? There are beautiful, wholesome teenage girls standing in front of the ticket booth handing out flyers that say: I WAS BORN BLOND. YOU CHOOSE TO BE GAY. Their clean-cut attentiveness, their claim of being "Good Christians" are the icing, I realize, on a cake that's laced with arsenic. "Why would you want to do this kind of thing?" I ask Max. "Why does a movie even matter to you?"

  "Perhaps I can answer that," a man says. He has a cascade of white hair and stands nearly six inches taller than Max; I think I recognize him from news clips as the pastor of this church. "We wouldn't be here if the homosexuals weren't promoting their own agenda, their own activism. If we sit back, who's going to speak for the rights of the traditional family? If we sit back, who's going to make sure our great country doesn't become a place where Johnny has two mommies and where marriage is as God intended it to be--between a man and woman?" His voice has escalated. "Brothers and sisters--we are here because Christians have become the minority! Homosexuals claim they have a right to be heard? Well, so do Christians!"

  There is a roar from his congregants, who push their placards higher in the air.

  "Max," the pastor says, tossing him a set of keys, "we need another box of pamphlets from the van."

  Max nods and then turns to me. "I'm really glad you're doing well," he says, and for the first time since we've started talking I believe him.

  "I'm glad you're doing well, too." I mean it, even if he's on a road I'd never walk myself. But in a way, this is the ultimate vindication for me, the proof that our relationship could never have been mended. If this is where Max was headed, it was not somewhere I'd ever have wanted to go.

  "You're not going to see July, I hope?" Max says, and he offers up that half smile that made me fall in love with him.

  "No. The Sandra Bullock movie."

  "Wise choice," Max replies. Impulsively, he leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. I breathe in the scent of his shampoo and am viscerally hit with an image of the bottle in the shower, with its blue cap and its little sticker about tea tree oil and its health properties. "I think about you every day . . . ," Max says.

  Drawing back, I am suddenly dizzy; I wonder if this is the ghost of old love.

  ". . . I think of how much happier you could be, if you let the Lord in," Max finishes.

  And just like that, I am firmly rooted in reality again. "Who are you?" I murmur, but Max has already turned his back, headed to the parking lot to do his pastor's bidding.

  The bar is called Atlantis and is tragically hip, set in a new boutique hotel in Providence. On the walls a projector ripples color, to simulate being under the sea. The drinks are all served in cobalt glassware, and the booths are carved out of fake coral, with cushions fashioned to look like bright sea anemone. The centerpiece of the room is a huge water tank, where tropical fish swim with a woman squeezed into a silicone mermaid tail and shell bra.

  Fortunately, my mother has decided to go home after the movie, leaving Vanessa and me to have a drink by ourselves. I am fascinated by the woman in the tank. "How does she breathe?" I ask out loud, and then see her surreptitiously sneak a gulp of oxygen from a scubalike device that she's concealing in her hand, which is attached to an apparatus at the top of the tank.

  "I stand corrected," Vanessa says. "There is a career path for women who dreamed of being mermaids when they were girls."

  A waitress brings us our drinks and nuts served, predictably, in a large shell. "I could see where this would get old very fast," I say.

  "I don't know. I was reading about how, in China, theme restaurants are all the rage right now. There's one that serves only TV dinners. And another that only has medieval food, plus you have to eat with your hands." She looks up at me. "The one I'm itching to go to, though, is the prehistoric restaurant. They serve raw meat."

  "Do you have to kill it yourself?"

  Vanessa laughs. "Maybe. Imagine being the hostess: 'Uh, miss, we reserved a table with the hunters, but we were seated with the gatherers instead.'" She lifts her drink--a dirty martini, which tastes like paint thinner to me (when I told Vanessa this, she said, "When did you last drink paint thinner?"), and toasts. "To Eternal Glory. May they one day succeed in separating Church and Hate."

  I lift my glass, too, but I don't drink from it. I'm thinking about Max.

  "I don't understand people who complain about the mysterious 'homosexual agenda,'" Vanessa muses. "You know what's on that agenda, for my gay friends? To spend time with family, to pay their bills, and to buy milk on the way home from work."

  "Max was an alcoholic," I say abruptly. "He had to drop out of college because of his drinking. He used to surf whenever the conditions were right. We'd fight because he was supposed to be running a business, and then I'd find out that he ditch