Angel

The speech had the desired effect. The members of the congregation voted almost unanimously (Mike Davis was still against it) to fix the steeple. They formed a fund-raising committee then and there and approved taking money from the existing budget to get started on the project as soon as possible.

That evening Paul took Ian to a fancy restaurant to celebrate the victory. Then they came home and made love. Afterward, Paul said, “You know, you inspired that sermon. You and your tattoo.”

Ian got up and sat astride Paul. Paul ran his hand over the image on Ian’s arm.

“So I’ll be getting that trip to Tahiti soon?” Ian asked.

“We’ll see,” Paul said, brushing Ian’s hair back behind his shoulders.

“We could go to Provincetown, Massachusetts. We can get married there.”

“Why not Iowa?”

“The ocean is sexier than corn.”

Paul’s face became serious. “Do you want to get married?”

“Do you?” His eyes were wide with expectation.

Paul’s heart sank. As he searched for just the right words, his face gave him away.

“I was just joking around,” Ian said. He rolled off of Paul and lay down beside him, looking up at the ceiling.

Paul turned to him, resting his head on his elbow. “I would if I could.”

“I understand. There’s Sara, the love of your life, and then there’s whatever I am. The troubled kid you’re helping out.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You’re right. It’s not.”

Paul sighed deeply. How had that happened? How had the mood shifted so quickly? He was trying to decide whether to argue this one out or to leave it there and turn off the light. They weren’t going to resolve this in one night, and things would be back to normal in the morning. The only difference would be how much sleep they got.

Ian made the decision for him. “I’m tired,” he said. “Why don’t we just go to sleep?”

“You know I love you,” Paul said.

“I know,” Ian said, and he reached over and switched off the light.

Ian drifted off into gentle snoring, but Paul lay awake. He was thinking about his wedding to Sara. How beautiful she had been in her mother’s wedding gown, with the cascade of tiny white baby’s breath in her hair. He remembered the little flower girls and ring bearer who had added an element of chaos to the event by stopping midway down the aisle and deciding, right at that moment, to lie down on the floor. During the months that Sara had been frantically planning the pageant of the wedding, Paul had wondered if they wouldn’t be better off eloping and getting it over with. He had not been prepared for how powerful it would be on the day to be surrounded by all the people who loved him and to have his entire community welcoming them into their lives as a married couple.

This new love was every bit as powerful as the love he had felt for Sara. Yet he was trying to contain it, to keep it in a bubble, separate from the rest of his life. The result was dozens of tiny rejections. “This is Ian, a young man I’ve been helping out.” That was the worst one of all. It not only distanced Ian, it minimized him. Paul was afraid Ian might start to have doubts about their relationship, but he didn’t know how to stop the rejections.

Chuck the Mailman

What is religion but the form? What is it but the mountain? Paul was attracted to the church as Edmund Hillary was to Everest. Being a church member was not enough. He had to climb to the top because it was there. He had to be a minister. Learning the rituals, the sacred texts, the history: they’re not the essence of faith but tools—like a mountaineer’s pickax and rope—that help you inch along the surface. Paul had never realized what it would mean to have people looking up to him. Fall, and what a long way down it is. At least at the top of the mountain, people are aware of the danger. Any mountain climber will tell you that the summit is only the halfway point. You still need to make it down safely. But with religion, when you get to the top, no one expects you to stumble. No one told Paul he was only halfway there.

Personal cars, UPS trucks, and delivery vans were always driving in and out of the church parking lot, but the mail truck had its own distinctive sound. The mail was never earth-shattering, but as soon as he heard the postal engine, Paul felt compelled to immediately leap up and walk out to Julie’s desk to collect it. It was a landmark in his day. Julie had a good rapport with Chuck, the regular postal carrier. He was blond, slim, probably around thirty, with feminine mannerisms. He and Julie would usually chat for a few minutes before he continued on his route. Paul had always been too focused on the mail to pay much attention to the person who delivered it.

On this day, mailman and minister happened to converge on the office as Ian walked past the window, pushing the lawn mower. It was hot outside, and Ian had taken off his shirt and had it hanging off his hip through a belt loop. He peered into the office window and waved as he went by.

“Ooh, he has his shirt off!” Julie said.

Emily giggled. “He is so cute!”

/> Chuck handed the bundle of letters and magazines to Julie, who separated the third from the first-class mail in one motion and gave the letters to Paul.

“Hi, Chuck!” she said to the mailman with a genuine smile.