Boy Erased: A Memoir of Identity, Faith and Family. Garrard Conley
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accurate parody of his sister. “Watching scary movies on your big romantic date night.”
Brandon was dressed in his Sunday-morning blazer. He wore a bright pink rose in his lapel, one he must have stolen from a neighbor’s garden. He liked to dress up like his favorite video-game characters. When we asked who he was today, he said, “I’m James Bond from GoldenEye,” and made a gun of his index finger and thumb. I was glad for his occasional interruptions, the way his sudden appearance caused Chloe to unconsciously scoot away from me.
Every movement on that couch was either a victory or a failure. Often both. I was on a different side of the war from one moment to the next.
Brandon removed a candy cigarette from his pocket and acted as though he were about to perch it delicately on the edge of his lips. Instead, he bit into it. “Don’t forget you’re rooming with me tonight,” he said, making a stabbing motion at me with what remained of the cigarette. “Psycho II. Bates strikes again.”
We watched the camera move in a gyre up from Leigh’s gaping pupil, Hitchcock’s shot held intentionally for one second too long, the fear excruciating in that second. Chloe scooted closer.
“It’s still scary,” she said. “Even with the stupid sound effects.”
I FIRST LEARNED about sex when I was Brandon’s age, on a stormless night when my father wasn’t snoring and I could be certain he was awake. I felt the house relax and settle into its hidden joints, and so I could walk through the dark living room without fear, running my fingers across the cool glass of the living-room table, fingering the sharp plastic jonquils in their china vases. I sat in my father’s leather recliner and switched on the television. Since the living room shared the same satellite connection as my father’s bedroom—but not my mother’s—I could see what he was seeing in those sleepless hours after he had already exhausted his prayer. I watched the snow-fizzled channels settle into hints of a bare thigh, an open mouth closing over something long and hard, bright red lipstick shining through static. I heard the woman’s low moaning—so scripted, so different from my father’s spiritual moaning. But the display didn’t last for more than a minute or two, the amount of time I imagine it took for my father to feel the weight of his guilt. Still, I would tell my mother of his transgression the next day, knowing even then that by airing his secret I might better hide my own darker secret.
“I’m sure it was by mistake,” she said, always the mediator. “Why would you spy on him like that?”
Then she forced a smile and said, “Let’s make crème brûlée tonight. We’ll get your grandmother’s silver out and everything.”
I HAD BEEN lying on a sleeping bag in the dark basement of Chloe’s house for about an hour. I decided to sit up and listen for Brandon’s steady breathing before I made my attempt up the stairs. I kept the condom package tucked into the elastic band of my pajama pants; the plastic scratched my skin, burning. I had no idea how I planned to do it. Sneak up to her room and announce my intentions? Stand in her doorway in the hopes that she made the first move?
“I’m not asleep, in case you’re wondering,” Brandon said. I heard him throw his sheets to the ground beside his bed. “Your movie kept me awake.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I thought it might be fun. Theft, murder, cars sinking into tar pits.”
“You know?” he said, bare feet slapping the concrete floor as he came toward me. I made out the outline of his cowlicked hair, then his thin arms sticking out of his pajama top. “You’re not like her other boyfriends. You’re a lot nicer.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
He stood at the edge of my sleeping bag, his toes wiggling into the taffeta lining. “Can I ask you something?”
My eyes adjusting to the dark, I could see that his face was contorted, twin wrinkles running down the center of his forehead. I could hear footsteps coming from the spot on the ceiling directly below Chloe’s bedroom floor.
“How do you get your character to level up to fifty?” He smiled an impish smile. Whatever he had planned to say was still unsaid.
He sat down on the edge of the sleeping bag. “Do you mind?” he said, holding the television remote close enough so I could see it. He switched on the television and crawled over to the PlayStation to press the power button. We settled into our gaming positions, hunching toward the screen. We were now standing in the chamber of a large Gothic castle lit by torchlight. Dark red carpet shot across the room from one door to the next, and guards in gold uniforms stood before every entryway.
Brandon’s eyes glazed over. He licked his lips unconsciously. “This part is tricky. Those guards will come running if I move another inch.”
“Check your inventory first.”
The two of us riffled through potions and equipped stronger weapons. Brandon had obviously not kept track of his inventory. Using too many potions when he didn’t have to. Tossing crossbows aside without first selling them in the market. Though I continued to think of Chloe in the bedroom above us, I tried to block her out. I had already crafted an alibi: How could I leave if her brother saw me?
After a few more hours of intense concentration, we both lay back on the sleeping bag.
Brandon propped himself up on his elbow, his palm cradling his chin. “You know what?” he said.
“I don’t,” I said.
“I think he’s probably gay,” he said, his voice suddenly breaking at the last syllable. He looked away. His breathing was shallow. It took several seconds for me to realize that he was talking about our avatar.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I really do,” he said. “So much hair gel.”
When he looked back at me, we both knew what we were.
We decided to keep playing until he reached the next level. By the time an orange sunrise worked its way through the blinds and shaped itself into slanted rectangles across the concrete, Chloe had already prepared breakfast by herself.
“Surprise,” she said, standing on the bottom step, refusing to touch the basement floor. She didn’t sound at all surprised. She hadn’t bothered to change out of her cotton gown. I tried to shut out her pain, kept my eyes on the wadded sleeping bag at my feet. “Breakfast is served.”
MY FATHER wrote a note to God, left it in my desk drawer, and told me never to open it. Never to touch it, but to leave it there. It was the formal promise he made to God after the car explosion that he had folded into a tiny square and tucked away behind the scores of mechanical pencils I would chew in frustration when I couldn’t get my journal entries to come out right.
That last summer I spent at his dealership, old enough for my curiosity to outweigh my reverence, I read the note.
Heavenly Father,
Thank you for saving me from literal hellfire. I have made a promise to you that I intend to keep. From this moment on, as for me and my house, we will serve You. I promise to raise my son in the church. I promise to be a God-fearing man and to bring others into Your divine flock. Please, spare my son from all that I have suffered, and from my mistakes. Spare him from the confusion of the world. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings Thou hast perfected praise. Let him rest in the truth of Your holy Word.
Your Servant
“WHY HAVEN’T you answered any of my calls?” Chloe asked.
A week of silence had passed since our failed night. I was sitting on my bedroom floor, the PlayStation controller tucked into the triangle between my crossed legs, the phone nestled against my shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“How do you not know? You either answer or you don’t.”
After a minute of silence, she hung up.
Another week passed. Two. I opened the