Wrath of God, the top of the ad read. Below it, a few lines of smaller text were printed:
Searching for faith during sinful times? Tune in to hear the Lord’s message, from the Reverend Russell Dale. Call in with prayer requests and points for theological discussion.
“Hang on.” Peter looked at his watch, then looked at the ad again. “Their first show’s on, live. Right now.”
“God, I’m so glad we don’t get the L.A. stations here,” I said. “I don’t know if I could handle hearing my aunt’s voice. I’d probably break out in hives.”
“Well, I want to hear it.” Peter stuck out his lip in a fake pout. “From your stories I’m expecting a fundamentalist cartoon villain. Like the bad guy at the end of a Scooby-Doo episode who talks about how they could’ve gotten away with it if only it weren’t for those meddling gay kids.”
“I wish my aunt was that easy to get rid of,” I said. “Then maybe I could’ve fought back instead of running away.”
“What do you think she’d do if an actual gay person called her show?” Peter tapped the ad with his finger. “Would she self-immolate from fear of tainted phone lines?”
“Probably. Or she’d pretend to faint and my uncle would pretend to revive her on-air.”
“You should do it,” Sharon told her brother, grinning. “Use the pay phone. Tell her you’re searching for faith in these sinful times.”
“Oh, my God, I should.” Peter’s eyes got comically wide, and he turned to me. “Can I? Please? I’ll tell her I’m having sinful homosexual thoughts and I need her to pray them away.”
I laughed. I can’t believe it now, but honestly, the idea sounded funny to me. “Sure. Just as long as I don’t have to talk to her.”
So that’s how the three of us wound up gathered around the pay phone at the back of the store. We had to hunt to find enough dimes for the long-distance call, but we were having a blast, each of us psyching the others up.
Peter dialed the number, holding the phone out so we could all hear as it rang. I thought whoever picked up would tell us to take a hike, but when the voice answered and said, “Yes, caller, did you have a prayer request?” I got a sinking feeling in my chest.
I should’ve reached over and hung up right away. Instead I stood there, a rabbit in the headlights.
Peter didn’t notice. “Yes, hello, ma’am,” he said, using the same superpolite voice he uses when he’s on deliveries and hoping for a good tip. “I was hoping you’d pray for me.”
“Certainly,” my aunt said. Her voice was so smooth, and my heart was pounding so hard. “Could I get your name, please, sir?”
“It’s Paul, and no need to call me sir. I’m only eighteen.” Peter’s voice caught, as if he was embarrassed, but he was still grinning.
“All right, Paul,” Aunt Mandy purred. “Where are you calling from?”
“San Francisco. It’s hard, living here.”
“My, you’re calling from a very long way away,” my aunt said, her voice stuffed with fake sympathy. I’d heard her do this countless times before. “Tell me, Paul, my child, why is San Francisco such a difficult place to live?”
I could tell Peter was on the verge of cracking. He was enjoying tricking my aunt a little too much. “I suppose it’s because of all the homosexuals.”
Sharon clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Then her eyes cut to me. I don’t know how I must have looked, but the smile drained off her face in an instant.
“Ah, yes, your city is known for that form of sin,” my uncle said. He sounded gruff, but kind of bored, too. As though he had better things to be doing than talking to “Paul” about San Francisco’s homosexual problem.
“Yes,” Peter said. He was almost choking from trying so hard not to laugh. It probably added to his performance as far as my aunt and uncle were concerned. “Sometimes I get, um…urges.”
Peter burst out laughing as soon as he finished his sentence,