Restoration, Book Two. “Autrefois”

By Bayla Dornon

Set in America during the final chaotic months of Donald Trump’s failed presidency, the RESTORATION series details the heroic efforts of a philanthropic humanist foundation to reach out to and save the victims of patriarchal religions and domestic abuse.
Despite the advances in contemporary culture’s acceptance regarding the spectrum of genders and human sexuality, gay kids still have it tough— especially when their parents are members of an ultra- fundamentalist cult.
For Chris Brenner, escaping from home is just the first step in his race for liberation. At the Center for Restoration, the young gay man meets Mary and George, two other young people escaping from their own intolerable family dynamics. Together, they struggle to heal and learn in a supportive environment.
But despite the bright lure of first love, Chris and his friends must still struggle with a society coming apart, torn by the darker undertow of social media addiction and the national misery inflicted by the divisive Republican administration, with its racist and sexist agenda. Against the backdrop of this tumultuous epoch, the personal tragedies, choices, mistakes, and evolution of Chris, Tom, George and Mary weave an unforgettable tapestry of modern life at the turning of the age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bayla Dornon
• Release date: Dec 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005590932

Bayla Dornon

Bayla Dornon’s first book is “Gay Testaments, Old & New” an edited compilation of texts from both famous and obscure literature that paint a vivid and exciting portrait of men loving men.In 2020 and 2021, Dornon published the four-book RESTORATION series, the story of twenty-year old Chris Brenner, a gay man fleeing from his ultra-religious parents and their efforts to 'torture him straight' through religious conversion therapy. Escaping to the Center in San Francisco, Chris meets and befriends fellow initiates George and Mary — and falls head over heels in love with Tom Griffin, a charismatic Priest at the San Francisco Center for Restoration. The four novels follow these young adults as they struggle for independence and restoration from indoctrination and abuses of religious and patriarchal families and society.In 2022, Dornon has released the new series of “Jake Bennett Adventures”, the stories of sexy bisexual rookie LA cop Jake Bennett, trying desperately to make his way in the asphalt jungle of Los Angeles.Married to one man since late 1988, Bayla Dornon is an author, critic, playwright, former teacher, silly pagan, photographer, cat-lover and videographer. A third generation Californian, Dornon and his husband recently escaped the absurd desert of San Diego and now live happily ever after in Seattle.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Once upon a time, as a sophomore at the University of California San Diego, I had the great privilege to take a literature survey course on the symbolism of the cave from a brilliant professor. We covered a wide variety of pieces, including Homer’s Odyssey. This was the first time I had read Homer (in translation only, hélas). As he explained his view of the great classic, Professor Randall made the assertion that, at the time it was written, the literature actually served to rehabilitate the battle-scarred warriors returning from the exploits detailed in the Iliad. Trying to wrap my brain around this, I suddenly made a connection: I lifted my bowed head and said, You mean it’s like a deprogramming manual for burnt-out Trojans? Excited, the Professor corrected my mistake (it was for burnt-out Achaeans), but Yes! It was, in essence, a kind of rehab guide.

Years later, after I had successfully left the church in which I was so abusively raised, I, too, found that I needed a deprogramming manual— a guide that would teach me how to think logically, reasonably, and properly. I couldn’t find one. I’ve read a lot of literature in the intervening decades, but not one has provided the level of deprogramming I knew I needed, after having been brainwashed by hysterical fundamentalist Christianity from the age of one to twenty-seven.

In the nineties, having discovered a series of texts that were particularly helpful to me, I tried to cobble together a book that would facilitate escape for religion for others bent on freedom. The result was Gay Testaments: Old & New, which I self-published in 1997, with the aid of my husband. It sold over a thousand copies, surpassing my most timid dreams.

But as I progressed through some much-needed psychoanalysis during the Trump dumpster fire current Republican administration, I became aware that the much-loved, esoteric and highfalutin texts I had gathered in that previous volume were so rarified that they remained all but useless to the vast majority of Americans still trapped within the unreasoning confines of religion.

How could I help them?

Did they simply have to go on the same long, painful (and expensive) psychoanalytic journey I had taken?

Yikes!

Then, my brilliant counselor James suggested that I rewrite my disastrous early history, without making the life-destroying mistakes that had led me to sacrifice my true identity for the fake Christ-centered one the church dictated to me. And so I wrote.

Within a few months, the two parts of RESTORATION, Book One were written.

Then rewritten.

Then read by husband, argued over, and then rewritten again.

That book covered the exodus from my family and church which I should have made at the age of nineteen. My fictional creation, Chris Brenner, was well on his way up the steep path of emotional and intellectual freedom I should have climbed back then.

But, as I wrote Book One, I realized: it wasn’t only the teachings of the church, and the intense psychological pressure to conform to heterosexual identity exerted by my family and church, that had so horribly deformed the natural progress of my life and development. Tragedy and real trauma had also smashed at me repeatedly, and the grief and pain, combined with the evil teachings of my church, telling me that I was hateful to God as I was, were what had really broken me.

So, to honestly strive for Restoration, I would also have to rebreak and reset all of the malformed and shattered metaphorical bones in my mind. That painful and rewarding exercise soon grew into a separate work, which formed the basis of RESTORATION, Book Two: Autrefois.

I chose the name Autrefois because of the beautiful and haunting Pink Martini song of that name. The word itself has many translations from the French, which is a clue to the range of its evocative power. Madame Google translates the word as, once, formerly, in the past, erstwhile, yore, and (my favorite) once upon a time.

Because the truth of life (or one of them, anyway) is that every wound we receive makes us more vulnerable to that another one in that place. Every regret deepens the bitterness of old regrets; every scar creates a weak spot just waiting to be opened afresh. The maniacs from my church didn’t invent my vulnerability: they exploited it, preyed upon it, used it for their own advantage and their own gain.

Autrefois, then, is my painful examination of the past; not as it happened, but as it felt: Memories are concerned, first and foremost, with emotion; secondly, with facts.

The joy of analysis, for me, was the rediscovery of happy feelings and memories, long buried under all the muck and garbage of the bad times. For those who finish the marathon, as I was lucky enough to do, there is a magical sweetness that returns to the past.

It is this sweetness, mixed with the memory of regret, and the sadness of aging, that are so elegantly addressed in the words and music of the song, Autrefois. As I worked, this song became an emotional metaphor for my own healing, and a template for understanding the journeys of both Chris and Tom.

And finally, for all those who, like me, fell madly in love with Tom Griffin and mourned his terrible loss, take comfort from the song: He, too, had a wonderful life, once upon a time.

Bayla Dornon

San Diego, California. November 2020.

Synopsis of RESTORATION, Book One

Part One: The Only True Religion

It’s early December of 2019, and twenty-year old Chris Brenner has arrived on the streets of San Francisco with no phone and almost five dollars to his name. Unwashed and desperate, he searches for the Center for Restoration, a humanist philanthropic foundation dedicated to helping the victims of religious and patriarchal abuse. His luck finally takes a turn for the better when he meets the tall charismatic Restoration Priest Tom Griffin in a Starbucks. Tom takes Chris home with him, they make passionate love, and the next morning Tom brings the young man to the Center.

New members at Restoration must complete a two-week Probation, along with drug and disease screenings and daily group counseling. Also in Probation at the Center is a young man from Manhattan who gives his name as George, and a twenty-one-year-old woman named Mary, who has sought the Center because her home life had devolved into physical abuse.

The three Probationers quickly bond over the course of their two-week Probation, and at the end, all three are admitted as Initiates into the Center, a position which includes living quarters, a stipend, and a three-year course of study.

It also includes the right to participate in the free and open sexual life of the other members of the Center, which is largely what Chris and George had been seeking.

At the end of their Probation, Tom takes the three young people out for a night on the town in San Francisco; but later, Mary’s father, who has tracked her to the Center, attacks and severely injures Tom, thinking Tom had been sleeping with his daughter.

Part Two: Liberation

After weeks in a coma, Tom reawakens, and finds that Chris has faithfully waited for him, remaining by his side through the ordeal.

All three of the young Initiates continue their studies of the humanist writings and secular philosophies that have liberated the members of the Center, though family drama consumes their free time to such an extent that more than once each considers dropping out of the Initiate program.

Meanwhile, the rapidly rising national tide of intolerance for sexual and racial minorities, promoted and inflamed by Donald Trump, has come to The City, and a growing threat of violence looms over the Center. Beset by a crusading reporter printing lies and half-truths, the Center seems surrounded by enemies, and is saved in their hour of need through the unexpected intervention of leather-clad vigilantes. Following the release of tension, members of the Center are glad to make a trip to Los Angeles to participate in a biannual conference for Restoration, and the trip cements Chris’s dedication and devotion to Tom and the Center.

With spring just around the corner, Chris and Tom decide to look for a place to live together. But as they are apartment hunting, a terrible auto accident occurs, killing Tom and leaving Chris badly injured.

It is there, in the horror and wreckage at the end of Book One, that Autrefois begins.

Lorsque au soleil couchant les rivières sont roses

Et qu'un tiède frisson court sur les champs de blé,

Un conseil d'être heureux semble sortir des choses

Et monter vers le coeur troublé.

Un conseil de goûter le charme d'être au monde

Cependant qu'on est jeune et que le soir est beau,

Car nous nous en allons, comme s'en va cette onde:

Elle à la mer, nous au tombeau.

When in the setting sun the rivers run red

And a shiver of warmth runs over the wheat fields,

A plea for happiness seems to rise

And ascend to the troubled heart.

A plea to taste the charm of being in the world

While we are young, and the evening is beautiful,

For we pass away, as the wave passes:

The wave to the sea, we to the tomb.

Paul Bourget

RESTORATION, Book Two

Autrefois

Chapter One

Chris stared through the steel ring he held between his fingers, the sweat-shined black leather thong dangling from the ring.

This is all there is left of Tom, right here, in the center of this shiny ring: nothing. That’s what I have left of him.

He slipped the big ring and its thong back into his jeans, pushing it down carefully to the bottom of the pocket, making sure it couldn’t fall out and be lost.

It had been three days since the accident, and Chris had slept most of that time while his minor concussion healed, wandering in dreams filled with noise and confusion. Most of the dreams that he could recall on waking had to do with his family; his mother and father, and his two sisters. But the dreams were better than remembering, which had become an ordeal in itself. His traumatized mind couldn't shut off the endless cycle of events that played like a video, looping forever.

His little sister's death; fleeing from his home when his parents discovered he was gay, and revealed their plans to send him to a Christian camp in Illinois for 'conversion therapy'; running away to San Francisco, joining the Center for Restoration, and falling in love with Tom; Tom getting gay-bashed, and his long recovery; the attack on the Center, and the conference in Los Angeles; looking for an apartment, and the accident. Chris was completely unable to stop the monotonous recapitulation in his mind, except by sleeping or working.

Today Chris simply couldn’t stand the ringing silence anymore; and so, sore and frightened, he went to the Garden looking for Lucille. He found her sitting on a stool at her potting table, head in her hands, staring unseeing out the grimy back window towards the compost bins and trash cans stacked behind her shed. He knocked softly on the Dutch door, and Lucille looked up.

Knowing how painful words were in the midst of great loss, Lucille didn’t speak to her young protégé; she just gave Chris a friendly hug and handed him the rake. As he always seemed to now, Chris leaked a few embarrassing tears as he experienced a wave of gratitude, or any other emotion. Lucille smiled, putting her old hand on her own heart, and there was a tear on her cheek, as well; but still she said nothing, just pushed him gently toward the patio.

Twice while he raked the leaves, Chris’s mind wandered away from the task at hand.

As if suddenly remembering an important detail, he thought, me and Tom are going to look for an apartment together. Then, with crushing despair, he remembered— Tom was dead.

I forgot, his mind wailed silently, over and over, oh my god! I forgot!

Chris kept his eyes down as he worked, because he knew that the people at the Center couldn’t seem to stop themselves from watching him, as if he were about to explode or do something amazing. But no amazing feats had happened that day, Wednesday, June third: Chris had quietly and efficiently done his chores in the Garden; he had showered and eaten; and he had remembered, over and over again, that his big wonderful lover was dead. After the third time he remembered, the young man grew angry at himself, and he raked harder, tearing some of the fresh new foliage from the rhododendron and the dryopteris ferns. Then he had stopped, staring hopelessly at the damage he had caused.

And the golden afternoon had slowly worn away into a grey dusk under the big tree in the old patio.

That evening, for the first time, Chris actually felt hungry again. Steeling himself for the ordeal of being with other people, he trudged slowly across the Great Hall and into the dining room, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. An empty chair presented itself to his view, and he lowered himself painfully into it.

Though mostly undamaged in the collision, Chris’s body ached terribly from the bruising impact, and from the unbearable, clenching sobs that had racked his body on awakening that first time, in the hospital. The image of Tom’s dead body had flashed repeatedly before his eyes, regardless of whether they were open or closed, infesting his brain with a panic so intense he almost passed out from lack of oxygen. He breathed in great shuddering gasps between spasms.

Serves you right for training your abs so hard, his mind mocked. Now you can’t stop spasming, and you’re going to suffocate because your abs are so strong!

He had gotten up to go to the bathroom, and the machine next to the bed had begun beeping. A woman had come in and clicked buttons as he closed the little bathroom door. She was gone when he came out.

He must have slept, somehow. In the grey morning, he vaguely remembered someone in the hall outside talking; an indistinct murmur, probably a man, or a woman with a very low voice. He had slept again.

That next morning Chris had returned to the Center, to Grace’s Infirmary. She had regularly given him Ibuprofen for the muscle aches, and he’d lain alone in the white sheets, the sheets Mary had washed and dried and folded, staring at the dancing sunlit patterns on the curtain between him and the Garden. Most of the time he had slept. Every so often the image of Tom’s dead body had arisen before his mind, but now it filled him with horror and dread, and he asked Grace for something to help him sleep.

Should we go talk to him? asked George, his forgotten fork hovering over his slice of fish.

Don’t you think he would have sat next to us, if he wanted to talk? countered Mary, biting an asparagus tip. Let him make the first move. Mary grabbed the Kleenex out of her pocket and harshly dried her own eyes, leaving them redder than ever. He’ll talk to us, when he’s ready.

They watched Chris, but he sat staring at the table, not blinking. The two friends returned to a heated discussion of the relative merits of George continuing a relationship with Sarah. George felt that Sarah should set the terms, since he was obviously playing the field while an Initiate at the Center; Mary thought it was inconsiderate to Sarah for George to see her and a lot of other women at the same time, too, without plainly telling Sarah he was sleeping around. The two friends batted the ball back and forth on that one through the rest of dinner.

George sat back, and Carla appeared at his elbow.

Are you finished? she murmured. George looked up at her enormous bosom and smiled. As the Initiate bent down to gather his plate and cutlery, Mary stomped on George’s foot under the table. His megawatt smile quickly subsided to a pained grimace as Carla walked away.

George, give her a break! growled Mary. Jeez!

Chris stared at his empty plate, trying to remember if he had eaten or not. I can’t remember eating, but this plate is empty. Did I sit down at a dirty plate? That doesn't seem right. The young man looked up, scanning the dining room for clues. Others were finished and leaving, and Chris hurriedly got up and left, avoiding all eye contact, absorbed in the sight and sound of his feet hurrying back to the Infirmary.

A thought tried to surge into his mind, and Chris savagely shoved it away, pushing it back down into his unconscious mind.

Look at the floor, he raged at himself. Look at the wooden floor, look where the constant feet have worn the floor. Don't think of anything but the floor. Watch for the edge of the stairs. Now climb the stairs. Count the steps. Turn left and left and left again— oh shit! I'm going to our room. Turn around. Count the steps going down, walk across the Great Hall. Go to Grace, to the silence and the tablet that will make me sleep. Count the steps down the long hall…

Like a mosquito, the thought he denied followed him, almost silent, erratic, waiting.

Sir? Janie stood in the hall outside Jason’s little office, looking through the open door. You asked to see me?

Thanks for coming, Janie, said the Director, motioning her into a chair. No, leave the door open. Thanks.

Jason picked up the paper from his desk and sat on the edge of the chair. Tom made no will, and he had no directive in place for any kind of service, or disposal of his body. However, he was listed as an organ donor on his driver’s license, so I have donated in his name. I wonder, had he ever said anything to you or the other Initiates? I’ve asked several of the Priests, and no one can recall.

Janie looked into the distance, thinking. I don’t remember anything specific, sir, she answered slowly, except, I think, he once said he wanted his ashes scattered in the Pacific? You should ask Billy.

That’s what I remembered, too, sighed Jason. I’ll ask Billy, when he gets back. Jason rubbed at his eyes. I haven’t informed Chris yet that I have Tom’s keys and things, and his phone. Tom’s apartment is paid through the end of the month, but that’s only three more weeks.

Janie nodded. We’re going to have to clear his stuff out.

Jason nodded.

I don’t think we should ask Chris to help with that, said Janie slowly. He needs more time to process. I can handle the apartment, if you want. Lulu and I can deal with it.

That would be wonderful, Jason sighed. I have to deal with the insurance, and see about Tom’s apartment, before I go out of town for a few days, and I don’t have time. I'm concerned about Chris; I don't want him left alone too much right now.

I understand, sir. Janie frowned. And I’ll talk to George. We’ll keep an eye on him. The young Initiate blew her nose. This has been so hard, she added.

Jason just nodded miserably.

In his bed in the infirmary once more, Chris lay on his side and wrapped his own arms around his body, trying to remember the feel of his lover’s warm body.

Tom loved to cuddle, his mind muttered, over and over.

Thoughts came slowly, and echoed weirdly in his head, the same thought, over and over.

He loved to cuddle. He loved to cuddle. He loved to cuddle.

Chris pulled the pillow against his chest and buried his face in it until he gasped for breath. His body breathed, against his will.

He loved to cuddle… And then the long-repressed thought, like bubbles rising from the last words of a drowning man, rose to the surface of his mind and burst across his consciousness. It’s my fault he’s dead; it’s my fault he’s dead; it’s my fault he’s dead.

Chris sat up naked in bed, sweating, gulping for air. He picked up the ring from his little night stand, holding it before his eye, staring through the ring at the window beyond. There’s nothing inside. And yet, everything.

Outside, the wind was picking up, and tiny twig fingers tapped curiously at the window.

Inside the infirmary, unnoticed by anyone, Chris’s twenty-first birthday slid slowly, clockwise, down the drain.

Chapter Two

Hey Lulu, come look at this, said Janie, as she laid a small pile of notebooks on the bed next to Tom’s clothes.

What'd you find? asked Lulu, coming into the bedroom from the little kitchenette. The pregnant blond Priest sat awkwardly on the corner of the bed, her knees well apart. Her black jacket hung slightly out from her sides where her belly was growing.

Janie held a stack of notebooks, and handed her friend one with a large numeral three written on it with a silver sharpie. Like synchronized swimmers, the two women each opened a notebook to its first page.

TOM GRIFFIN JOURNAL TWO, read Janie slowly aloud. (Halloween continued) I was right, there are plenty of these. Annen gave me two more. So here goes… Janie stared unseeing at the page, her eyes unfocused as she thought.

And listen to this one, said Lulu. ’TOM GRIFFIN JOURNAL THREE. Dear Brynn, I’ve sat and stared at that greeting for about five minutes, drawing circles and squiggles around it. I can’t imagine ever sending this to you, or saying that to you, but how the fuck else do you begin a letter? OK, no more swearing, I know you hate it’…

Lulu’s voice broke and she stifled a sob. That’s so…Tom! So sweet, and so vulgar.

Closing the notebook she held, Janie turned around and sat on the edge of the bed, holding it gently in her crossed arms against her heart.

Lulu continued reading silently for a moment, then she too closed the notebook she held and laid it softly on the pile of journals. Janie slipped another notebook out of the pile, with an ornate numeral six drawn on the cover.

Friday November 9, 2012, she read.

He kept a journal, said Lulu simply, nodding her head. All these years, he recorded… his whole ten years with the Center: it’s all in here.

OK; but what should we do with them? asked Janie slowly in a frightened voice. Do we throw them away? Or give them to Jason? Or Chris…?

Lulu turned suddenly. We can’t throw them away, said the Priest, looking carefully into the young Initiate’s eyes. These are Tom’s journals, they’re important. A new thought struck her. Chris would want to see these.

Janie looked away, out the window of Tom’s apartment. Her mind, still bewildered and slowed by grief for the tall handsome Priest, was starting to throw out suggestions and ideas again.

No. We can’t throw these away, that would be disrespectful, she said. A waste of all Tom’s effort in writing down these thoughts and feelings.… But, Tom was a Priest for almost seven years, and a Scout that whole time. There might be stories in these journals, names, phone numbers…

Lulu was nodding, and wiping a tear from her cheek with the heel of her hand. You know, Janie, if we give them to Jason, he’ll probably destroy them. Ethically, it would be the right thing to do, added the Priest. To protect everyone’s privacy. Wouldn’t it?

Poor Chris, said Janie, and bowed her head. I want to read these, to hear Tom’s voice again, even if it’s only in my mind. Think how Chris would feel if he knew these existed.

Do you think he does know about them? He was here all the time, before… said Lulu.

But… would reading these help him, or just hurt him more? Janie stared at the pile of notebooks.

Then the young Black woman got up suddenly and began carefully folding the clothes she had taken from the closet, the task she had been performing when she found the notebooks on the middle shelf on the right side of the closet.

Is your back any better? asked Janie.

Lulu stood slowly, picked up a black silk shirt and began carefully folding it.

A little, but really, stretching is the only thing that helps, replied Lulu.

The two women worked side by side in silence for a moment, arranging and folding the leather, silk and cotton garments of the late Priest, each thinking.

This is your second, isn't it? asked Janie.

Yeah, I have a fifteen year old, Theda. Lulu laid the silk shirt aside. But she lives full time with her father.

That's a shame, murmured Janie. She picked up the leather pants and refolded them with the inseams inside.

I met Tom the day I came to the Center, back in January 2014, Lulu reminisced. I was twenty-nine, and I thought he was an arrogant ass. But my Scout, Winston, said, ‘Don’t be too hasty to judge old Tom; he’ll be your friend, if you let him’. He was so right; there’s no one in the world I trusted more.

Janie nodded, lost in her own sadness.

I think we should give them to Chris, stated Lulu suddenly after several moments. They’re personal items, and Jason said Chris could have some of those, if he wants them. Then she turned back to the closet and brought out the three pairs of expensive black shoes, which she put in a large cardboard box.

Janie placed the extra set of sheets and towels on top of the shoes. Then she took a pillowcase and slipped the journals into it, slowly wrapping the case around the books. She held it a moment, and looked at Lulu. Ethically, I think we should give them to Jason, to protect everyone’s privacy. But I can’t bear the thought of Chris never seeing these, and we both know Jason probably wouldn’t let him see them. Not until he himself had read them, and possibly censored them, anyway.

Maybe not at all, added Lulu. She unplugged the little speakers from the nightstands beside the bed and put them in a different box, to give to Chris.

Janie took the framed black and white nude off the wall and looked closely at the signature. Bruce did this? It’s really good.

Lulu nodded. He's so talented, isn’t he? She held up the leather pants. These are too big for Chris, aren’t they?

Janie nodded. It would be years before he’d grow into the pants. I’d say donate them. He won’t want old pants sitting in his drawer reminding him of…

And the shirts, too, said Lulu sadly. Chris will never be as big as Tom. She placed all of the folded clothes in the box with the shoes and sheets.

Janie picked up the dirty clothes hamper from the closet floor and dumped it out on the bed. Three T-shirts, two tank tops, five socks: all black. The two women studied the little pile for a moment.

I guess Tom never wore underwear, did he? said Lulu and giggled, even as she wiped her eyes.

Janie smiled. Then she picked up one of the dirty shirts and sniffed it. Tears filled her eyes again and she sobbed. It smelled like Tom.

This might fit Chris, Janie said, and stuffed it in the pillowcase with the journals. Lulu just nodded.

Anything else in the bathroom? asked Janie.

It’s all in the box, said the Priest.

Finally, everything was sorted and boxed and ready for donation. They laboriously dragged the bed frame, mattress, nightstands, and chair to the door and set them carefully just inside. Then Janie added the box with the shoes and sheets and clothes. A truck was coming to collect the donations, sometime after twelve.

Does Jason have his personal things: his phone and his wallet and stuff?

Yes, and he’s going to hold them for a while, and give them to Chris later, said Janie. After the memorial. She picked up the pillowcase.

Lulu opened the box and took out a cable with a charger. Then he’ll be needing this, she said.

Janie nodded. It’s so hard to get organized, she remarked, as she opened all the boxes and began resorting items.

Shock does that, replied Lulu. So many distracting thoughts…

They took the boxes back into the apartment and began going through them again.

The women commented on each item, recalling memories, sharing their feelings softly, without drama, almost reverently touching Tom’s shoes, and his coat, and his fine clothes.

An hour later, Janie sat in the Lyft on her way back to the Center. She held the pillowcase with its few small items, the speakers, one dirty shirt, and nine notebooks, on her lap. In her mind, she was rehearsing what she would say to Chris when she gave him these things.

Chris walked by the social room where Bruce and Helen were leading a small group on his way to Jason's office.

Whenever someone is taken from us, we remember again that life doesn’t last forever. Helen paused. We lost a wonderful coworker and friend this month.… Chris hurried past the door, trying not to hear.

How did you like the exhibit, Chris? asked Jason.

The young man sat in the Director’s little office on the second floor, wearing his ‘grieving’ face. People expected him to grieve, to show sorrow, and so Chris made a conscious effort to show them the things they expected. He didn’t think about it, he just automatically did it. He had been this way for most of his life, becoming little by little the person people expected, and less himself— until the day he couldn’t lie to his mother anymore, told her he was gay, and heard with horror his parents’ plan to send him away to a conversion therapy camp somewhere in Illinois.

Now Chris sat, sad-eyed and hunched in front of Jason, eyes fixed on the golden letter opener on the desk, trying to listen carefully. Another part of Chris, the more powerful and happier part, wanted to go outside and rake leaves, then go for a long walk in the late spring weather.

It was very interesting, answered the young man, especially when Bruce explained to me how the exhibit was supposed to work. You come in on one level and look down through this hole cut into the floor, and see this circle with a lot of confusing colors, but it doesn’t really seem like much. Then you turn right and walk down these open stairs, and as you get lower you see that you were looking at a spiral colored like a slow rainbow from top to bottom.

Sounds very interesting, Jason said.

It was about the difference perspective makes. There were a few other pieces, too, but the rainbow spiral was the most striking, and the biggest.

It sounds like you got a lot out of it; I’m very glad.

Taking Chris to the art exhibit was an excellent idea of Bruce’s, Jason thought. Important to get him out of his home ground for a little while, especially since everyone here is also grieving.

Yes, sir. I did.

Jason nodded again. Chris, I want you to have Tom’s phone, Jason was saying. Chris looked at the device. There may be photos you’d like to transfer to a device for safe keeping; songs you could play; or other things.

Like that video of me screwing Dave, the fool with the faux hawk, Chris thought.

By the way, I didn’t look through the phone: I figured that's private. Jason handed it to him. Do you know the security code?

Chris nodded: it was Tom’s real birthday, 032185. Chris stowed the phone in the other front pocket of his jeans and murmured his thanks.

Would you like to have his wallet?

Chris looked at the black leather wallet in the Director’s hand. Tom never used the wallet, unless he was driving. Chris knew Tom had a very bad habit of stuffing everything in his pockets: keys, cash, cards, receipts; but he'd learned his lesson when some important papers had gone through the wash in his black jeans, and had used the wallet after that, as necessary. Many days he just had an ATM card in his pocket with some bills and coins and nothing else.

Except his keys… Chris wondered where those keys were. Chris had been thinking just today that he'd like to go to Tom's apartment.

No, sir, he murmured, knowing there was nothing important in that wallet. And certainly nothing that will bring Tom back from the steel slab in the city morgue. The wallet was useless. And his keys?

Jason nodded. I put Janie and Lulu in charge of cleaning out Tom’s apartment. I assumed you would not want to bother with that right now. Chris looked up in surprise, and Jason caught the flash of fear and annoyance across the young Initiate’s face. Is something wrong? the Director asked.

Well, no, stuttered Chris. But, his things, his clothes, Chris started to say, when Jason held up a hand.

I asked them to save anything personal, anything of sentimental value, for you.

There might be something, thought Chris frantically. Something of his that only I would recognize. They don't know what they're doing! They have no right to touch his things. They shouldn’t! His shoes; he loved those shoes. And the leather pants with the built-in bulge down the right leg where he loved to stuff his cock and balls! They can’t touch those things. His black silk shirts. No!

Jason, watching closely, recognized the panic rising in the younger man, and came around his little desk to help Chris to his feet. They’ll save some things for you. But you can’t wear Tom's clothes, they’ll never fit you. And believe me, in a little while those things, well, they would be just a nuisance to you, not a happy reminder of good times. It's better to let them go.

Chris chewed furiously at the inside of his lower lip, but nodded. They’ll save some things for me? he said, hope and dread shining in his eyes. His voice rose in panic: They won’t just throw his clothes in the trash, will they?

No, of course not! exclaimed Jason. We are donating his clothes and shoes to a thrift shop down the street, where Lulu says he liked to shop. Tom would have wanted it that way, Chris. So that someone else could make use of his things. It will be OK.

Dry-eyed and miserable, Chris swallowed hard, wishing he had tears to show for the big man; but now his tears only seemed to come when he was alone. All he wanted to do was leave the Director’s office and be somewhere else, anywhere else.

Thank you, sir, he said, eyes on the floor as he turned and walked out.

Jason shook his head mournfully, picked up his phone and sent a text to George and Janie.

Mary hurried down the street toward the Real Foods market where Rachel worked. She had decided on the spur of the moment, as she was passing within a block of the store, to stop in and see if Rachel was there. I could just text, she thought, but it will be nice to surprise her if she's here. If she's not, I can text her then.

Mary had been visiting her mother in the new apartment, across the Bay in El Cerrito. It had taken them