Cruel Logic: The Philosopher Killer
A Theological Thriller Novel
By Brian Godawa
Cruel Logic: The Philosopher Killer (A Theological Thriller Novel)
1st Edition
e
Copyright © 2023 Brian Godawa
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews.
Cover design by Brian Godawa.
Character art on back cover by Cam Harless.
Warrior Poet Publishing
www.warriorpoetpublishing.com
Texas, U.S.A.
ISBN: 978-1-942858-91-1 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-942858-92-8 (hardback)
ISBN: 978-1-942858-93-5 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-1-963000-26-9 (Large Print)
PROLOGUE
Charles Cullen sat and stared into the face of thirty-nine-year-old Sarah Robinson. Her eyes were red and drowning in tears. Her long black hair was pulled back behind her head, her hands and feet tied to the chair with plastic zip ties.
Sarah’s nine-year-old daughter Maxine was tied up beside her—and bawling in tandem. Cullen had duct taped the little girl’s mouth because she had such an annoyingly shrill pitch to her fright. They sat in the kitchen of the Robinson vacation home in the mountains of Big Bear Lake, California.
Cullen had just used a ball-peen hammer to bash in the skull of John Robinson, husband to Sarah and father to Maxine. He wiped the splattered blood and bits of brain matter from his hands with a kitchen towel. A shower later on would allow him to clean his own bald head and freshly shaven face. He would leave the blood spatter on his glasses to clean later. He didn’t want to smear it all over the lenses.
Cullen was grateful for the good luck of the Robinson family owning this vacation home. It had allowed him the freedom to take his time. The house was located deep in the woods at the end of a long lane well away from the main residential neighborhoods. The forest of large Douglas firs acted as a sight and sound barrier to incidental discovery.
John Robinson had been a Hollywood movie producer with enough money to own a second home, something only the wealthier Southern California residents could afford. Of course, none of that had any bearing on Cullen’s choosing these victims. That choice had occurred by random chance. The ancient Greeks called it Moirai, or the Fates. They believed that every mortal lived out the destiny assigned to them by the divine laws of the cosmos—from life to death with all its suffering. Fate.
Cullen was not an ancient Greek. But he was a tenured philosophy professor at Thomas Burke University in Riverside. And he did feel that a certain ruthless rationality drove him to this deed. Something that he was now exploring with this unlucky captive family.
Minus one, whose blood was spreading across the dark wood floor around his crushed head.
Cullen noticed that Sarah was now exhausted enough from weeping that she could listen to him. He knew his educated English accent could sometimes be disarming to Americans. He had studied at Cambridge.
“How do you feel right now?”
She looked at him incredulously through her sobs. “Why are you doing this? Why would you do this? I don’t understand.”
“I think the real question I’ve been asking myself is why I shouldn’t do this to you. I have struggled with this dilemma for weeks now. Since the time I first happened upon you.”
“Please let my child go,” Sarah whimpered. “Do whatever you want to me. I don’t care. But please let her go.”
Cullen could see the girl’s eyes dart back and forth between her mother and him, desperately trying to understand. At her mother’s offer, the girl snorted with panicked breaths through her nose, whining behind the tape.
Standing, he walked over to the girl and placed his hand on her shoulder. She cringed, expecting violence. Instead, he smiled and looked back at her mother.
“Quite the opposite, my dear Sarah. For this experiment to work, you are the one I will be letting go. But only after I make you watch me do horrible things to your daughter.”
“No! No, no, no!” Sarah blurted out. “God, please! Oh, God, no!”
Maxine began shaking and struggling in her chair. Cullen finished his thought. “But that is not my endgame. For I have planned my worst for you.” He paused. “Oh, you will live. I guarantee you that. But you will wish you did not—for the rest of your meaningless existence.”
“Why?!” Sarah cried out. “Why?!”
She broke down into hysterical weeping again.
Cullen grabbed the little girl’s long brown hair tightly in his hand. She cried out, still muffled by the tape over her mouth.
He stared at Sarah unblinkingly. “You said so yourself, Mrs. Robinson. Because I am God.”
1
Five Years Later
Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people. The quote from Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung came to Dr. Joseph Kallinger’s mind as he walked through the second set of inner security gates at Bratten State Hospital for the criminally insane. Of course, no one ever said the “criminally insane” part anymore. It was considered offensive language that stigmatized the inmates. These were now called “patients” for the same reason. Wouldn’t want to stigmatize mentally ill criminals just because they’ve assaulted, raped, or murdered other people. So it was just “Bratten State Hospital.”
An overweight station guard had let Joseph through after inspecting his credentials. They called the guarded security entrance to the hospital the “sally port.” Another guard, also overweight and bursting out of his uniform, led Joseph and Anna Zwanziger, his Ph.D. student, down the government building hallway of two-toned painted cinderblocks—ugly gray and cream—and a floor laid with what looked like linoleum tiles from the 1970s.
“For god’s sake, it’s the twenty-first century,” Anna muttered to him. “Why do all these state hospitals have to look like clichés out of an old TV crime show?”
“The benefits of public funding,” Joseph replied. “Just use it as fodder for an interesting description in your dissertation.”
One of the overhead fluorescent lights flickered as if to accentuate his words.
“Maybe I should make my topic about the impact of state hospitals on climate change from the lack of environmentally-friendly CFL bulbs,” Anna said.
Joseph smiled. “Now that would get you government funding.”
They turned down another hallway toward their destination, another flickering light marking their path.
Anna was a bit cynical, but Joseph liked her sharp mind and indomitable spirit. After all she’d been through, here she was at twenty-four years of age and already in her second year of grad school studying forensic psychology. She was the best student he had ever had. In fact, she had more promise than he had ever had. That was why he’d been willing to use his access to the hospital to help her get some interviews with the psychopath Charles Cullen for research purposes.
“I’m a little scared,” Anna said. Joseph thought he heard a quiver in her voice.
“He hasn’t displayed any violent tendencies in the four years he’s been here. He’s been a model patient. You’ll be safe.”
She retorted, “From his mind games?”
Joseph nodded with resignation. Cullen was a genius at playing people. When he’d been a philosophy professor, he’d reminded Joseph of the late William F. Buckley Jr.—if Buckley had become a vampire. Complete with the upper-class English accent, soulless eyes, social politeness—and a dark unsettling presence beneath the surface.
Joseph grabbed Anna’s arm and looked into her eyes. “Are you not feeling up to the task?” He asked the question condescendingly, forcing her to toughen up.
She swallowed. “Yeah, no, I-I am ready. I just have some triggered memories.”
“You’re right,” Joseph sighed. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m not going to lie. He will try to get inside your head. But you’ve got this. I’m confident he’ll be sorry if he does.”
Anna shared a nervous smile with him. He held her arm reassuringly. But not too long or too familiar for their academic relationship.
The guard cleared his throat to move them along, and they followed.
Anna said, “So he got his doctorate in philosophy at Cambridge in the U.K. with an emphasis in…”
“Ethics,” Joseph completed her statement. “Postdoc work at Yale. He had been teaching at TBU for five years before the murders.”
“And he had no previous history of violence?”
“Not that we know of.”
“What brought him to the U.S.?”
“American Exceptionalism. That’s what he said in the trial.”
“Sounds like irony. Do you believe him?”
“I’m not sure you can believe anything he says at face value.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
“He is a psychopath, Anna. Organized. Everything he says and does is calculated. But in a way, that means he’s predictable.”
Like a student reciting a catechism, she responded, “You just have to discern the pattern cluster.”
They reached the Ward 4 wing. Opening the doors with his keys, the guard led Joseph and Anna down a short hall to a room used for counseling patients. A couple doors down, the nursing station opened onto a large group lounge where patients were watching television, playing card games, and other activities.
Beyond the lounge area was a hallway leading to patient dormitory rooms, about ten of them on this wing. A state hospital really was set up like a hospital rather than a prison. The security level was not as tight. There were psychiatric technicians, or psych techs, who were capable of handling patients and dispensing drugs, but no security guards in the wing. And the patients moved about quite freely within their unit. This short hall by the entrance held the administration room, counseling room, a closet, and a “quiet room” for when patients got out of control, became violent, or just needed to cool off. It had previously been called the “seclusion and restraint room.” But of course, that description was too triggering.
The guard opened a gray metal door with a small window in the top half. It creaked as they walked inside. Another government building cinderblock room, windowless and empty other than a single table and three chairs.
“He’s on his way,” the fat uniformed guard announced. He shut the creaking door, leaving Joseph and Anna alone.
They sat in the two chairs facing the door. Anna let out a breath as though she was about to engage in a sporting event.
Joseph broke the silence. “Remember what we talked about: Do not answer any personal questions he directs to you. If you start to feel overwhelmed…”
“Try not to display it,” Anna interrupted, finishing the point with a snarky, “and tap you on the leg under the table. Save me, my hero!”
Joseph gave her a half-smile. Good. That’s the tough Anna.
The door opened with a creak, and a psych tech entered the room. Charles Cullen shuffled in behind him. He appeared about fifty with a lean, wiry frame.
Cullen’s eyes immediately found Anna, watching her like an unblinking predator. He didn’t bother acknowledging Joseph. A snakelike grin appeared on his long face beneath a pepper-gray beard and handlebar mustache. A bearded, bald-headed cobra. And he had heterochromia, two differently colored eyes. His left eye was blue and his right light-brown.
The psych tech stood back against the wall while Cullen sat down in the remaining chair at the table. The patient didn’t look at all menacing in his outfit of khaki pants, dark-blue pullover sweater under a brown wool jacket, and bow tie. He looked like an English professor ready to teach a class. Patients at state hospitals were allowed to wear their own clothes. If Cullen had gone to prison, he’d be wearing an orange jumpsuit and be cuffed and chained to the table.
Joseph could not help but comment, “You’re all spiffed up today.”
“Dress for success,” said Cullen. “I want to afford my interviewer the utmost respect.”
Still staring at Anna, Cullen described her with some glee. “And I see my interviewer is no less spiffy in her modest yet elegant pantsuit. Fiery auburn hair tied back to assert strength. Intensely bright hazel eyes. Lovely skin on a very healthy five-foot five-inch frame. You didn’t tell me your grad student was so captivating, Joseph.” Cullen’s Queen’s English made him seem like an aristocrat.
“Dr. Kallinger,” Joseph corrected him.
“Forgive me. Dr. Kallinger.” Aristocratic politeness.
Joseph stole a look at Anna. She was sweating.
Cullen still fixed his eyes on her. “And what is your name, dear?”
“No,” said Joseph. “You agreed not to ask her name.”
“Then how shall I refer to her? At least tell me her pronouns.”
Joseph said, “Young woman is fine.”
“Anna,” she blurted out. Joseph glared at her. She looked confident. “As you well know, I’m here to do research for my dissertation.” She met Cullen’s stare squarely. “You don’t have to know my last name.”
“Fair enough,” said Cullen. “And I thank you for granting me that dignity. Now, may I inquire as to the topic of your dissertation?”
“The impact of social construction on criminal mental disorders.”
“Wonderful,” Cullen said. “A hermeneutic of suspicion. Criminal pathology is defined by those with privilege and power.”
She protested, “I haven’t assumed Michel Foucault’s postmodern views. But I’m hoping maybe you’ll be helpful in the research.”
“Ah, the delusion of objectivity,” he said. “Anna, I would be delighted to help disabuse you of your unconscious bias and unexamined presuppositions. Together, maybe we can find our way through this madness.” He grinned at her. She rolled her eyes.
Joseph butted in, “Thank you for your willingness to contribute, Charles.”
“Dr. Cullen,” he replied. Joseph felt the sting of his own demand used against him.
“Dr. Cullen. But remember, no personal questions of Anna.”
“So I cannot ask why you pronounce the name like the German “Ah-na rather than the English An-na?”
The slippery serpent. He was already searching for more personal details. And he was on target.
“No, you cannot,” said Joseph.
“Well, then, let us waste no more time in exploring my mental illness. Shall we sally forth?”
Anna pulled out her phone and tapped her recording app. Then took her notebook out of her handbag and clicked her pen open. Clacking away on a computer keyboard would be too disruptive to a flowing conversation. “So in relation to the crime that put you in here…”
Cullen interrupted her. “Actually, Dr. Kallinger put me in here.”
Anna looked up with curiosity.
“His forensic testimony at my trial supported a Guilty but Mentally Ill verdict.”
Guilty but Mentally Ill, or GBMI, was different from Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity in that the latter verdict released the defendant from guilt of the crime, ensuring their release from the state hospital upon physician-diagnosed mental health. In contrast, GBMI meant that the defendant would receive psychiatric treatment for their illness, then serve their full sentence once diagnosed as mentally healthy. This was a newer and still controversial charge, but the prosecution had been able to make it stick in court. Joseph’s testimony as a court-appointed expert had contributed to the prosecution’s success.
Anna was nodding, following along. She asked Cullen, “Do you understand what your diagnosis was?”
“Antisocial Personality Disorder with Delusions of Grandeur. It has a nice ring to it.”
“So, do you really think you’re God?”
“Depends on how you define God.”
“The all-loving, all-powerful creator?”
Joseph was a step ahead as he watched. He knew exactly where Cullen was going next.
“That God doesn’t exist. If she was all-loving, she would not want evil. If he was all-powerful, he could stop evil. Evil exists. Q.E.D., God is either malevolent or impotent. Not much of a god, that.”
Anna sighed. “I’m not an ignorant undergrad. I’ve read David Hume. I’m familiar with theodicy and the problem of evil.”
Cullen raised his brows, apparently impressed.
“So how do you define God?” Anna asked.
Cullen side-stepped her question. “Some Eastern cultures consider the insane as holy instruments of the gods.”
Joseph intruded, “We live in a Western culture.”
“Well then,” said Cullen. “Aristotle said that no genius has ever existed without some touch of madness.” He paused. “And what is madness? The inability of a mind to comprehend reality? Or is it the ability of a mind to comprehend reality? To embrace our ‘delusions of grandeur.’ To face the consequences of our own ideas.”
Joseph noticed Anna furiously taking notes. Cullen continued his pedagogy. “How do we really know that lunatics are not the normal and the normal are the insane? Who defines sanity but those in control. And the power to control…” Cullen stopped, then whispered menacingly, “is the power of a god.”
Cullen watched Anna’s pen scratching. “That’s ‘god’ with a small ‘g.’ But a god, nonetheless.” He paused thoughtfully before adding, “I quote, ‘We need fantasy to survive because reality is too difficult.’”
Anna stopped writing. “Aristotle?”
Cullen smiled. “Lady GaGa. Come now, Anna. You really must do more thorough research. But visit me anytime. I’d be honored to tutor you—for as long as you would suffer me.”
Joseph jumped in. “That was inappropriate, Dr. Cullen.”
“What can I say?” Cullen replied with more grinning insincerity. “I was born this way.”
“The people you murdered,” said Anna. “Did you do so because you were born to kill them?”
Cullen became condescending. “It was because I had meningitis of the brain when I was young. Or a head injury. Or elevated serotonin levels. Or I was molested by a family member, abused by my alcoholic adoptive parents, suffered from ADD. When I was young, I set fires, wet my bed, and tortured puppies. Would that narrative satisfy your materialist assumptions?”
Anna remained silent. She and Joseph were well aware Cullen was only mocking commonly ascribed causes of psychopathy.
Cullen added, “Or—God told me to.”
Joseph remembered well the trial. The crime photos of the killings. Sarah Robinson’s husband and daughter. The blood. The disfigurement.
“But you claimed to be God,” said Anna.
“Puh-tate-oh, puh-taht-oh,” Cullen quipped. “Is there a difference?”
There was a certain logic to his madness. If Cullen thought he was God, then telling himself to do something would be God telling him. When Joseph had testified at the trial, he’d seen Cullen as a clear case of the Cluster B personality traits in the DSM-V, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for Mental Disorders. Antisocial Personality Disorder with an emphasis on grandiose delusions—as Cullen had quoted. Egocentric, hyper-controlling, narcissistic, immutable fixed thoughts.
Despite Cullen’s brilliance of intellect, he was not immune to the pathology of mental illness. But in contradiction to his claim of God “telling him,” Cullen didn’t manifest traits of paranoid schizophrenia, a common diagnosis in this institution. He had no hallucinations or disorganized thinking. He was fully functional and rational. And that was why the court found him criminally responsible for his actions.
Cullen interrupted Joseph’s thoughts. “I like you, Anna. And believe it or not, I like you as well, Dr. Kallinger. I respect you. You did exactly what I wanted at the trial.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Joseph.
“Another day I will explain. But not today.”
The delusion, thought Joseph. To claim control over my testimony. Is he just trying to play me?
Anna said, “For this first interview, I would like to talk about your past. Your family history. Your medical and psychological background.”
“How boring,” said Cullen. “You want to find out what made me snap. Did I have any precursors that might have foreshadowed my heinous deed? I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. But I’m happy to oblige you. For the sake of academic rigor.”
They talked for forty-five minutes. Joseph had learned much of Cullen’s background in his psychological examination for the court during Cullen’s trial. Cullen spoke of being an only child raised by parents who were both Cambridge professors: his father in mathematics, his mother in microbiology. He had been raised in a quiet academic life without incident, though apparently without familial affection. He’d never married.
A family obsessed with “the life of the mind” could explain Cullen’s own lack of emotion. But could it breed a psychopath without conscience? Cullen had no psychiatric history to speak of, though a recent MRI at Bratten’s medical facility yielded a benign brain tumor. That might account for aberrant behavior in some cases. But the Robinson murders had happened over five years ago, so it wasn’t likely. All in all, Cullen was right. His history was not very satisfying for uncovering explanatory factors in his mental illness.
Joseph found a pause in the discussion to break in. “It’s getting late. I think that’s about all the time we have for today. I’ll let you know when we can schedule another visit.”
Anna jumped in. “Thank you for your time and transparency, Dr. Cullen.”
Cullen gestured with his head toward Joseph. “Just watch yourself with Pretty Boy. Consent is no argument against intimate fraternization when a power differential exists.”
“Dr. Cullen!” complained Joseph.
“Thank you,” said Anna. “But I have no intention of jeopardizing my degree by having sex with my grad advisor.”
“Good for you,” said Cullen. “Would you like to take a selfie with me before you leave?”
Joseph stood up, shaking his head. “Okay, we’re done here.” He glanced at the psych tech standing silently by the wall.
Joseph had been teased with that pretty boy put-down all his life. He had been a fashion model when he was first in college to help pay his way. At forty-three, he kept his hair rich black with coloring to keep out the gray. His hazel eyes were accented by a strong brow with bushy but carefully groomed eyebrows. He was no tweed-jacketed, slovenly college professor stereotype. Or for that matter, a wearer of anachronistic bowties. He wasn’t going to apologize for it.
“Au revoir, my psychological archeologists.” Cullen gave a sweeping hand gesture and followed the psych tech back to the patient lounge. Meds dispensing would commence shortly.
Joseph could not believe it. Anna had risen to the challenge and even gotten the last word on Cullen. Impressive. She was stronger than she knew.
He felt his phone vibrate and checked it. The caller ID read “Dad.” Joseph declined, then checked his watch. “It’s a half hour back to the Riverside campus. Let’s get going. I have a lot of grading to do.”
2
Danny Ranes sat in the back of his family’s Toyota RAV4 watching his father argue courteously with him. His mother sat in the front passenger seat. They were driving Danny to his dorm at Thomas Burke University in Riverside, California, for his freshman year fall semester.
“I just want you to promise me that you will be careful and not follow the crowd. It’s how the Enemy draws us in. Compromise always starts small.”
“Don’t worry, Dad,” said Danny. “I won’t stain your pastor reputation with my prodigal son ways.”
“I didn’t say you’re a prodigal.”
Danny’s mother sighed. “Danny, that’s not what your father’s worried about. It’s just that you do tend to be more of a follower at times.”
“I’m eighteen years old,” Danny responded. “I can make decisions for myself. And I’m following Jesus. Doesn’t that count as being a follower?”
“Son, don’t talk to your mother that way. We only say these things because we love you. You know we love you.”
Danny said, “It’s just that ever since I picked TBU, it seems like you two never stop criticizing my choice.”
“We’re not criticizing,” said his dad. “We’re just concerned that a secular school won’t support the Christian education you received in high school. You’re going to be under attack by secular professors and godless ideas.”
“What about being a witness?” Danny protested. “Should I spend my whole life in a Christian bubble?”
His parents were quiet. They knew he was right. What was the point of being a Christian if you didn’t live in the world and show them the benefits of a life of faith? Christians are real people. We have fun too.
Truth be told, Danny had not experienced much fun outside playing in the church band. He loved playing music. But he felt sheltered and kind of tired of the Christian subculture in which he’d been raised. Christian school. Christian fellowship. Christian church groups. Christian music. Christian movies. And substandard music and movies at that.
Danny didn’t have a big problem with secular music. He liked Hollywood movies and shows. Sure, they were sometimes excessive with sex or violence, but secular people were human beings living a human experience too. He wondered whether he had missed out on a normal life in some ways. It wasn’t that he wanted to take drugs and get drunk and have sex. Though he sure hoped he would get married before he died or before Jesus came back. Danny sometimes imagined himself being taken up in the Rapture before he had a chance to have sex. Feeling like he would have missed out on getting laid brought him mild shame.
His dad’s words brought him back to the present. “Son, you’re right. Jesus sent us into the world to be a light. We can be in the world but not of it. Just promise your mother and me one thing. That you’ll keep in contact with us? Keep us in the loop? If you ever feel…” He paused embarrassingly, “… tempted or such, just know that we’re here if you want to talk.”
“Thanks, Dad. I will.”
Sharing his “sin struggles” with his parents was the last thing Danny would ever do. Their clean image was too important to them. He put his earbuds in to listen to some worship music.
Danny’s father was Larry Ranes. The congregation he pastored wasn’t a mega-church. More of a mid-sized mega-church wannabe. Its worship style was typical non-denominational evangelical. Not that Danny knew much about denominations. He wasn’t even sure what evangelical meant other than “seeker friendly,” contemporary Christian worship, Hillsong-type stuff.
Switching over to his secular hip hop playlist, Danny let the beat energize him. Yeah, they had some bad lyrics—okay, a lot—which was why he didn’t let his parents know. But it was bold music—authentic. More so than some Christians he knew. In truth, hip hop was his favorite genre of music.
His parents were in their forties. Dad was like a Christian Tony Robbins: tall, handsome, dark hair, and positive thinking/success-oriented. But a Christian version of positive thinking and success. His mom was a beautiful blonde Southern California housewife. She’d met Danny’s dad in college. “Getting her M.R.S. degree,” his parents always joked. They weren’t legalistic fundamentalists—thank God! But they also weren’t like those megachurch millionaire preachers. They were more like serious-but-inoffensive evangelicals.
Danny smiled to himself. He didn’t want to be proud, but as their only child he had inherited his parents’ genes. He was pretty good looking with a good complexion, square jaw, dark-brown hair, and blue eyes. He wasn’t muscular but also not a skinny wimp. Funny that he seemed to know himself more for what he was not than for what he was. Maybe college would help him find himself, discover who he was.
“We’re here,” Dad announced.
Danny looked up. His guitar case hit him in the head. The entire back of the RAV4 was full of his stuff for moving into the dorm. Turning off his music, he turned his attention outside the car window to the panorama of his new home. TBU was an average-sized college with about twenty thousand students. They drove by the student union building on their way to the dorms at the south end of campus. The architecture was California modern functional: basic sandy-colored brick and stucco buildings with desert landscaping. Students bustled around campus, moving in, surrounded by “Welcome Weekend” posters.
It was late September in California, and temperatures ranged from high eighties to nineties during the day with low sixties at night, thanks to the desert environment. Students dressed in shorts during the day, changing into jackets and long pants at night.
The RAV4 pulled up to Danny’s dorm, Barnett Hall, a large but basic block-looking structure with desert-style stucco walls and a flat roof.
“First we’ll get you signed in,” said his dad. “Then we can come back out and get your stuff.”
It took a half hour to do the paperwork and carry Danny’s things up to his room on the dorm’s third floor. This was a small rectangle with one window and a symmetrical layout of two beds and two small desks, all oak wood, as well as two closets.
When Danny first entered with his guitar case and pillow, he spotted a slender androgynous-looking young man with a black brim hat over green hair sitting at a desk writing something. The kid looked up.
“Hi,” Danny said. “I guess we’re roommates. I’m Danny Ranes.”
“Jesse Pomeroy.” The young man’s soft voice had a girlish pitch. “My pronouns are they/them.”
Uh-oh. Danny knew about the whole pronoun thing. Who didn’t? But he hadn’t encountered anyone like that at his Christian high school. Well, there was one kid, but Danny had never crossed paths with him—or her—or whoever.
Jesse got to his feet. “I’ll get out of your way so you can move in.”
“You don’t have to,” Danny responded. “That’s all right.”
“It’s no problem.” Now that Jesse was standing, Danny could see he was wearing an oversized black T-shirt with some fashion logo on it and tight black leggings on his skinny legs and bare feet. A feminine look on a feminine boy. Oh, great. I can only imagine what Dad’s gonna…
Turning as Jesse headed for the door, Danny saw his parents standing in the hallway just outside, holding boxes. They both stared dumbstruck as Jesse walked past them. Entering the room, Dad gave Danny a glaring what-the-heck-was-that?look.
That was when Danny noticed the posters on Jesse’s side of the room, all of them male models dressed up like women in dresses and makeup. Not drag, more like non-binary or cross-gender.
Here it comes.
“Was that a male, I hope?” Dad demanded.
“Yes, Dad.” Technically, “that” was a they. But it was all so new to Danny. And his dad sure wouldn’t get it. So why bother explaining.
“If you ever change your mind, son, just let us know.”
“We’ll be praying for you,” Mom interjected, following Dad into the room.
Danny’s parents finished moving him in. Eyes tearing up, they hugged him, then left. From his third-story window, he watched them drive away. Only then did he head down the wide carpeted hallway to the floor’s communal bathroom. Through open doors, he could see several other students moving into rooms with their family’s help.
After taking a leak in the toilet stall, he washed his hands. In the mirror, he could see shower stalls behind him. Someone was taking a shower. Through a narrow crack in the shower curtain, Danny caught a glimpse of two bodies embracing under the flow of water. He shifted his head just a bit to get a better look. He caught the flash of a breast, then the cool gaze of a girl with long, blonde hair. Averting his gaze, he left the bathroom quickly.
Yeah, this was going to be an interesting new world.