I walk to the stairwell maybe twenty feet away on legs that quake. I take the stairs slowly. Then I run up. I stop at the fifth-floor door, praying that he saw me. Even harder that he didn’t.
My pulse roars between my ears, and louder as the silence settles around me. None of the doors open. I take the stairs two at a time to the tenth floor and look down between the rails.
My eyes are hot. I can smell the putty smell of that stairwell on that day.
“You’re not in trouble. I just want to have a brief word with your father.”
By the time I lie down on my hotel bed, my body’s numb and heavy. I take off my clothes, put on a robe, and wander onto my deck.
What did you think would happen, Luke?
I look over the rail…nudge some snow off with my finger. Watch it fall.
I keep the shared location on all night, but put the phone between two hardbacks on the bookshelf. So I can’t see his reply. If there is one.
The next morning, I get a new phone—and a new number.Part IIIOneJune 1, 2001Luke
“Oh merciful Father in Heaven. We are gathered here today to minister to your child, Luke Gabriel McDowell. Please lift up your holy messenger. Sharpen his focus and open his mind to the truth of what it means to serve you as our great God. Help your humble servants, myself and Mr. Jay Barlean, to serve as conduits for your great Word and fulfill our promise to his father that we mentor Luke on his route to become a warrior for the faith. Until the hour he is ordained formally into your ministry, we know that his heart and mind are permeable. We know we can overcome temptations. We know we can conquer earthly desires for a taste of your glory. Help us overcome, Lord. Let this be a time of healing and refinement for our young friend Luke. In Christ’s name. Say it with me, men. Amen.”
I open my eyes and see the pink sunset between the evergreens around my family’s cabin at Lake Tahoe. Everything is lush and green. Nearby, I hear splashing—probably the kids I know from fourteen summers spent here cannonballing into the lake that forms our collective backyard. I inhale. Something good. Maybe Mrs. Ghiglione’s prosciutto.
I think of eating it around their table beside Peter Ghiglione last summer, and when I try to breathe again, it’s like my lungs are locked up. My head spins a little as I try two times to suck back air and finally get some.
Seth O’Grady, who just offered the prayer, puts his hand on my back. Jay Barlean pushes the screen door open.
“Let’s go inside and get started, guys. I think with any luck, we can get through all the steps by Sunday morning.”
“You know, Luke—we did this last summer with another warrior. We’ve kept in close contact, and that boy’s been temptation-free.”
I think of Josh Deegan and Dave Moore and Bobby Knightson—all the boys like me at Evermore. I wonder who. For months after, I think of Josh or Dave or Bobby in my mouth as I beat my erection.TwoJanuary 2019Luke
Bernard arrives at six sharp. No surprise…and yet it feels like one. I feel like a stranger standing in my foyer, wearing my dark jeans/dark blazer/pale pink dress shirt combo. Like an imposter holding my phone, chewing my favorite Eclipse gum. It’s Tuesday night, the night I almost always do a business dinner. That’s where the black Escalade parked by my front walk will take me: down to the Mission District for dinner.
It’s no big deal.
I take a second to voice text my scheduler before I open the front door. I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, but it will have to be bumped back. The chief foreman on the lower school expansion needs to brief me on some unexpected overages, and there’s no other spec of time except the hour when I should be getting my flu vaccine.
Before I start down the stairs, I look over my shoulder. No one’s here—I don’t have staff in the house on nights and weekends—but I’m plagued by the sensation that I’m being watched.
Given what I’m doing, maybe that makes sense.
The feeling follows me as I stride toward the curb. I open my own door and lunge smoothly into the back seat. It’s a skill I’ve been coached on—like nearly everything at this point. Every hat I wear puts people’s eyes on me. Every move I make reflects on Evermore, its mission.
Like it or not—and I don’t, sometimes—I’m the focus of intense media scrutiny and even more intense fandom. Two years ago, I found a woman in my bedroom when I got home from a trip to France. The year before, I gave a speech, and as I stepped off the stage, someone bumped into me—with the butt of a rifle. The media treats me more like a celebrity than a pastor most days. I do a lot of advocacy work with Hollywood and fund-raisers with people of wealth, and all of that draws interest. Every Sunday, I stand before a crowd of 30,000 while 14 million watch on devices and TVs.