For a few days, I didn’t see Brian until that day. He didn’t attend the mass. I wasn’t sure if he sat in the open-air lounge where some seminarians were hanging out about an hour ago. My heart felt like it wanted to retreat from pumping blood while my legs refused to take any step forward.
Brian’s face said it all. He was hurt. He was indignant. I didn’t know if he was more hurt or more indignant. But I was sure I was the last person he wanted to see that morning. But there I was standing right before him. His face looked worse than Good Friday, when the Lord died on the cross. His eyes were sharp, perhaps as sharp if not sharper than the lance that poked the Lord’s side while he hang on the cross. If it was true that one’s eyes were the windows to one’s soul, I saw how enraged Brian was.
I thought about Father Roger and his promise to keep my name out of the mix in this massive mess. I could see his lips uttering the promise they won’t expel the seminarians involved in the fiasco. I believed him and I was stupid to do so. I knew my concerns about the seal of confession applied to a spiritual direction were real. I knew I wasn’t being deceived by my suspicious senses. They were telling me something. Trust only in the Lord. Trust only in the word of the Lord.
The day was just beginning and it felt it wasn’t going to be a good one. A large cumulus cloud was already forming in the northern sky. It was dark in the opposite direction. It looked like it was going to rain real hard. The wind was beginning to gather strength, as the scent of kalachuchi flowers wafted in the late March air. The covered corridor appeared abandoned. Most seminarians were either packing their stuff or having their final breakfast of the year before they head home. Only Brian and I seemed to have remained not doing either.
Brian looked like he hasn’t had a sleep. The dark circles below his eyes were prominent. Although his hair was gelled and he appeared to have just had a shower, he looked tired. He was wearing a pair of white jeans and a plain white T-shirt that was almost like an undershirt. He looked neat and tidy in spite of the mess that was going through his head at the time. I wanted to get into his head to find out what exactly he was thinking, what was his plan. He was just expelled from the seminary after twelve years since he was fourteen. Priesthood was the only solid thing in his life. And now it was ruined. His chance of getting to another seminary was next to nothing. No seminary would accept him without the recommendation from the faculty at St. Ignatius. But after all that had happened, it was highly unlikely Father Roger would write him a recommendation letter.
He still owed me money. He still owed Lawrence a few hundred pesos. Getting back that money was at the bottom of my priorities. I was pretty sure he wasn’t even thinking about how much he owed me or Lawrence. He was probably thinking how much I owed him for my betrayal. He was probably thinking that the five hundred pesos he still owed me wasn’t enough to pay for the beers he would need to consume just momentarily forget that his life was screwed over, that I screwed over his life.
Who would have thought I could betray Brian? I came close to doing it a few years ago when we were in philosophy. He and Tyron went to Gigi’s Place and they invited me to follow them there. I was tempted to tell Father Andrew about it, but I didn’t because I treasured and respected our friendship. At that time I was convinced they were just having fun, like what young men were wont to experiment on a new experience, to explore how entertaining inebriating beverages could be and how far one must go before he could get the boot from the seminary. I could have ended his journey then, but I didn’t because I treasured our friendship although we were not speaking at that time or to be more precise I stopped speaking to him for whatever childish reason.
As I attempted to take a few step forward towards the lounge, something inside me clicked. “This wasn’t my fault. If you had chosen me over Gerome, if you had not treated me like shit, if you had been more attentive, if you had not taken me for granted, …” There were a thousand ifs playing in my mind, all of them blaming Brian and none claiming any personal responsibility. I had been his doormat for many years, because I allowed him to treat me that way. I had been his bitch in this sacred prison and I played the part so well until now.
I could have retreated and avoided going through the lounge, but there was no way out of it. I didn’t want to disrespect Brian more by avoiding him, although he probably thought what did I have to come near him.
“What have you done, you fucking faggot?” he screamed at me in Tagalog, as he approached with clenched fists.
I readied my face, my gut and my chest to receive what I thought was a well-deserved jab. No punch landed in my body.
“You better watch your back and your family,” he threatened me.
I didn’t know which was more painful, the threat coming from once a dear friend and a personal defender or being called a faggot by the one I lovingly cared for.
Did he ever call me that on my back during one of his partying days with his pals? Did he ever ridicule me and called me his bitch while he behaved like my closest ally? Did he?
To this day I don’t know the answers to those questions, not that they still matter.
Brian walked away after uttering the threat. He never looked back. I watched him headed to the bishop’s residence which was just outside the fence of the seminary.
That day it became clear to me that I have become a persona non-grata at St. Ignatius. I knew that fighting for my right to stay there would be futile. Almost everyone in the community including those who didn’t get the boot wouldn’t trust me. I would be in exile within the confines of the seminary. My remaining loyal friend – Enrico – was also leaving. I wouldn’t be able to survive without a friend, a confidante, in the hostile environment that I helped shape.
It was time for me to depart as well, but I knew my journey to fulfill my childhood dream and calling wasn’t over.
There’s got to be some place, there’s got to be some way.
But it can’t be at St. Ignatius, where I would be constantly watching my back, keeping my nose clean and steeling my resolve to be one day a full pledged man of the cloth.
