The Gospel According to Luke

by Emily Maguire

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you have to let me talk to you about Jesus. You have to give me the opportunity to show you the way.’

  Aggie considered. How long had it been since a good-looking man – any man, in fact – had looked at her like she had something he needed?

  ‘Okay.’

  Luke licked his lips. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ She squeezed his hand and he jumped. His head snapped down and he inhaled sharply. He stared at their entwined hands with a look of wonder. He pressed her palm with his thumb as if checking to see if it was real. His eyes met hers and he blinked several times.

  ‘You’re covered in poor old Joe,’ he said.

  ‘You too,’ Aggie said, and she went inside.

  4.

  By the time Honey had thrown up her coffee, washed her face, reapplied her make-up and changed her shirt, she was running very late. The bus was long gone, so the only way she would get to school on time was if she ran flat out the whole way. Since she was often running late for school, she knew all the fences to jump and backyards to cut through to get her there by first bell, but this stomach bug caused her to spew her guts up whenever she moved at a pace above a snail’s so running, jumping and dodging were out.

  She’d barely got to the end of her street before the nausea hit again. She looked around for a bush or tree, but there weren’t any. The best she could do was dive into the long grass of a vacant lot. She vomited painfully – there was nothing really to throw up, so it burnt – and then remained on her knees for a moment to recover her breath. She could see used condoms, broken glass and McDonald’s cups strewn amongst the overgrown weeds; her hand was resting on an old Crunchie wrapper. She remembered she hadn’t eaten anything since the Kit-Kat on the way home from school yesterday.

  Honey stood and wiped her face with a baby wipe from the box she’d bought two days ago for this very reason. She took a deep breath, inhaled rotten vegetables and quickly lit a cigarette to block the stench.

  As she reached the footpath, a white Monaro pulled up beside her. Honey knew the car pretty well because she’d spent half of last year spreadeagled on its back seat. Ricky Bashir stuck his head out the window and smiled in that creepy I-know-what-your-tits-look-like way that he had.

  ‘Yo, Honey, wanna lift?’

  Honey definitely wanted a lift. The drive to school was a short one, so she only had to listen to a couple of minutes of Ricky’s I’m-so-fucking-hot-I-can’t-even-believe-it-myself bullshit, but it was more than enough. By the time she got out, promising she would definitely call him, she was thinking that she would rather walk for a day in the blazing sun, vomiting the whole time, than be stuck in a car with Ricky ever again.

  Last year she had wanted to be stuck in that car with him more than anything, and now he made her sick, and nothing had changed about him at all. He wasn’t a bad bloke, really; it was just that she stopped liking him when she met Steve and now when she thought about the way Ricky’s sweat would drip onto her face during sex she felt grossed out. Honey wondered if one day she would look back at Steve and feel sick. She liked him so much, but she had to admit that it was a real possibility that certain things – his habit of spitting on the footpath, or the yellow-headed pimples on his back, for example – would one day make her shudder.

  But for now, he was still her man. She saw him waiting for her at the gate and felt a little shiver of fear. Not that he was scary or anything, just that he was always touching her, and this morning she didn’t feel like being touched. She hadn’t felt like being touched last night, either, but she’d let him, because it had seemed easier than to tell him about the exhaustion and soreness. He was already all tense about the throwing up.

  ‘Hey, Stevo,’ Honey said.

  Steve was looking past her shoulder at the road, his face completely blank. Blank pale eyes, blank pale skin, blank chapped lips. Honey tried to kiss his cheek but he moved at the last second, still not looking at her or changing his expression.

  ‘Did I just see you get out of Ricky Bashir’s car?’

  ‘I missed the bus.’ Honey slapped her forehead. ‘Ricky was passing.’

  ‘Right.’ Steve spat on to the footpath. ‘Did ya fuck him?’

  ‘Yuck, no.’ Honey laughed.

  ‘Well, what am I meant to think, you ridin’ around with that greasy wog? I bet anyone who saw youse would think you were fucking him again.’

  Honey rubbed his arm and smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t get a lift with him again. I didn’t think how it would look. I just felt real sick and –’

  Steve’s head snapped up. ‘You said you missed the bus.’

  ‘I did. I threw up for like, twenty minutes, this morning.’

  Steve squinted at her. ‘You still got that stomach thing.’

  ‘Yeah. Gross, huh?’

  ‘How long’s it been?’

  She stepped away a little, but he moved close again. ‘How long?’

  ‘I don’t know. A week or something.’

  Steve put his hands on her shoulders and looked at her hard. ‘You know what I noticed last night?’

  Honey tried to think. Last night they had hung out at Rex’s place smoking cones and drinking VB. Honey stuck mostly to the pot because it helped with nausea. If Steve noticed she drank less and smoked more he didn’t comment; he was pretty wasted himself. The only other thing that had happened last night was that they had stopped at the soccer field on the way home and had sex behind the toilet block, but there was nothing noteworthy about that.

  ‘Whenever I touched you, you pulled a face. Like I was hurting you.’

  ‘So sometimes you’re a bit heavy-handed. Sometimes you’re rough.’

  ‘Rough like this?’ He squeezed her left breast.

  ‘Stop being weird. It’s embarrassing.’

  Steve took her chin in his hand. ‘You’re preggers.’

  ‘No!’ Honey jumped backward. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘You’re the stupid one. It’s so fuckin’ obvious. It’s exactly the same as when Cassie was –’

  ‘Right, you got one dumb slut knocked up and now you’re the expert.’

  ‘Get a test.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Get a test.’

  ‘You’re fucked in the head, Steve. I’m not even talking to you anymore.’

  ‘Get a test.’

  Honey turned away. ‘Bell’s about to go. I don’t wanna be late for homeroom again.’

  ‘Honey.’

  ‘Gotta go,’ she yelled and started to run. When she got to the dunnies she sat with her head between her legs until the dizziness stopped. Then the tiny amount of liquid still in her stomach came up. Then she checked her undies for the blood that should have come three weeks ago. Then she started to cry.

  5.

  Luke was supposed to be preparing a PowerPoint presentation about alcohol consumption, but his mind kept drifting. No, not drifting, jolting. He had dropped a pamphlet discussing the Christian approach to sex education into Aggie Grey’s office earlier, and she had promised to read it and tell him what she thought. But that had been six hours ago; surely she had read it by now? He reminded himself that patience was a virtue and returned to his work.

  He was busy formatting the word DRUNK so the text flashed like a warning, when he suddenly found himself wondering if those super tight curls of hers were natural. He laughed out loud at the absurdity of the thought and forced his mind back to the task at hand. But then as he was typing up the Bible verses referring to alcohol use, he was suddenly smiling at how when he’d walked into the clinic, Aggie had thrown her hands in the air and exclaimed ‘ah, my brand new friend,’ loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. And he shook his head in wonder at how in the five minutes he spent there he witnessed Aggie comfort a weeping teenage girl with a few whispered words, calm a raging parent whose son had been found with clinic-supplied condoms in his schoolbag, answer a relentlessly ringing phone, accept a delivery of five boxes
of something called Sylk and eat three cinnamon donuts. In amongst all that, she found the time to hear Luke’s request, to accept the pamphlet, to smile and look right into his eyes and tell him she would be sure to let him know what she thought.

  ‘Hey, deep thinker, what’s up?’ Belinda was in the doorway, leaning on the A/V trolley. She had a habit of sneaking up on him, and she frequently entered his office without knocking. He had spoken to her about it before, but she always giggled and punched his shoulder as though he were joking.

  He concealed his irritation with a small, closed smile. ‘I’m in cloud cuckoo land today, I’m afraid. I’m almost done, though. Why don’t you set up the rest of the equipment and I’ll bring the laptop in when I’m finished?’

  Belinda pushed past the trolley and sat on the edge of his desk. Her thighs emerged smooth and tan from her jean shorts. ‘Something’s on your mind, Luke, I can tell.’

  ‘Like I said, just a bit unfocused today.’

  ‘You want to talk about it?’ She put her hand on his arm.

  ‘Last thing I need is another distraction,’ Luke said, not looking at her. ‘You chuff off and get the room set up and let me finish here.’

  Belinda patted him and sighed. ‘You’re a slave driver, Luke Butler.’

  He smiled tightly, typing furiously until the door creaked shut. Then he went back and deleted the gibberish he had typed and hoped that God would forgive him for the small lies he often told to rid himself of Belinda’s attention.

  Like every member of his ministry team, Belinda had been carefully chosen by Luke. He had pored over the academic records and field-work reports of every trainee Christian Revolution pastor in Australia, looking for the four Junior Pastors who would make his vision for the Centre a reality. Each member of his team had to be more than a competent preacher, discipler and counsellor; each had to bring something special to the Centre. Belinda Swan had spent sixteen of her twenty-three years touring with her travelling evangelist family, and had not only gained considerable evangelistic experience, but been educated by her parents, and therefore, she knew her Bible better than anyone.

  Kenny Driscoll was chosen because he was a champion long-distance runner who had turned down a place at the Australian Institute of Sport to instead go to Bible college. He would head up the Fit for Him program. Leticia Stewart had graduated from the Conservatorium of Music with first class honours before earning the same distinction at Bible college. She could play seven instruments, compose for three, and she sang so beautifully it was hard to believe that the angels up in Heaven could do better. Leticia’s skills were such that kids would be drawn to her sessions for the music alone; God willing, they would stay for the message.

  Greg Delaney was the last member of the team to be approved, and the only one whom Luke had to battle the Elders over. At thirty-two, Greg was older than the others, but that wasn’t exactly the problem. The problem with Greg was that he had what the Elders termed a history. He’d spent the years from sixteen to twenty-eight drinking, drugging and fornicating. He was a self-confessed sex addict who, at a rough guess, had been sexually involved with over two hundred people. Not women. People.

  But from the day Luke had found Greg collapsed in a heap on the steps of the CR Church in Darlinghurst, he knew that God had big plans for the man. Luke had been with Greg every step of the way, supervising his rehab, praying for his salvation, assisting his entry into Bible college and helping him prepare for examinations. Greg had done his field work under Luke’s supervision, and Luke was convinced there was no better Junior Pastor in the nation. Greg had life experience. He had walked in the valley of the shadow of death and the Lord had led him out. And while there was a lot to be said for the Belindas and Kennys of the world who had dedicated their entire lives to the Lord, there was more still to be said for the Gregs of the world who knew on a visceral level what sin and temptation were all about. The Elders eventually gave in, but not before warning Luke that one hint of impropriety and Greg would be back to handing song books to elderly city parishioners on Sunday nights.

  Greg had behaved himself perfectly so far, as Luke had known he would. And Kenny and Leticia had set up ten programs between them which brought well over a hundred new kids to the centre. And Belinda worked like a Trojan, recruiting, programming and costing. She typed correspondence, met with parents, sweet-talked the Board of Elders and solved ninetynine per cent of problems before Luke had a chance to worry about them. She made breakfast for the team every morning, took care of ordering all the kitchen supplies and coordinated the volunteer team responsible for laundry and cleaning. And she wore short shorts, low-cut shirts, clingy dresses and shiny lipstick. She knocked on Luke’s door a hundred times a day, never waited for a response before charging in, perching her bottom on his desk, touching, questioning, bothering.

  And again, now, barely a minute since she’d left the room, her voice was assaulting him again as she knockopened his door. ‘Excuse me, Luke?’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘That woman’s here to see you. The one from yesterday?’

  Luke was out of his chair before she’d finished speaking.

  That morning, after Luke Butler had left her office, Aggie had tried to contact her mother. After digging through the chaos of her desk drawers for twenty minutes, she found the scrap of paper containing the ten-digit number her mother had yelled down the phone at her when she last called five or six months ago. Aggie dialled it, then spent several frustrating minutes trying to communicate with the woman on the other end whose language was neither Spanish nor English but something which sounded a bit like both of those. Finally, after repeating her mother’s name over and over the voice on the end said ‘Mizz Grey gone long time,’ and hung up.

  In eleven years Aggie had seen her mother ten times and had spoken to her over the phone, at best, once every couple of months. When they did speak, it was about one of three things: the political struggle for gay, lesbian and transgender rights, her mother’s latest torrid love affair or Aggie’s lack of same. It was better than when Aggie was young and her mother spoke to her only to criticise and admonish, only to point out how disappointed she was that her one and only child was so very dull and drab.

  Aggie, having taken after her father, was tall, heavy-boned, pale and frizzy-haired. Her mother, being a former Miss New South Wales, was slender, creamyskinned and glossy-haired. She tried to train Aggie in her own image, making her wear mousse and make-up from the time she was twelve, dressing her in dark, straight pants and long jackets, telling her to stand straighter, cover those freckles, never wear flats, don’t walk so stiffly, don’t smile so widely, don’t laugh so raucously, don’t be so much like your goddamn father.

  Aggie adored her goddamn father. He was huge and bald and red-faced. His skin was so creased and his eyebrows so grey that Aggie’s seventh grade teacher commented on how lovely it was to see her grandfather taking such an interest in the school. He sang in the shower and danced in the street; he laughed at least half-hourly, and with almost the same frequency, he told Aggie how amazing she was, how special, how absolutely incredibly perfect. When people said Aggie took after her father, she was pleased, even after she was old enough to understand that she had been insulted.

  Still, Aggie moussed and plucked; she practised walking properly and talking nicely. When she was fifteen her mother warned her to stay away from boys because if she had learnt one thing in her miserable life, it was that messing around with boys when you were young and stupid could ruin your life forever. Aggie didn’t really understand what was so miserable about her mother’s life, but she stayed away from boys all the same. It was easy enough to do.

  When Aggie was eighteen, her mother announced that she couldn’t live a lie any longer. She was a lesbian, had always been a lesbian, had only slept with Gerard Grey as an experiment, had only married him because she was pregnant and afraid and had only stayed out of duty. Now that Aggie was an adult, Carrie was free. She moved in with
a twenty-year-old naturopath called Venus, and told Aggie she was welcome to visit anytime, but to make sure to call first.

  When Aggie walked in the front door the following afternoon, her father’s brown plaid slippers kicked her in the forehead. He was hanging from the hallway light fitting, still in the pyjamas he had been wearing when Carrie left the night before.

  Aggie wore yellow to her father’s funeral. Someone – she was too drunk to know who – told her that she was a brave girl, and that wearing bright clothing was a lovely tribute to a man who had brought such colour into the world. But that had nothing to do with it. Aggie wore yellow because it did not suit her skin tone. She wore a short, loose, sleeveless yellow dress because her limbs were freckled, her knees and elbows knobbly and her body shapeless. She did not, for the first time in five years, smother her face in Chanel foundation, correct her uneven lip line with raisin lip pencil, or smooth down her hair with half a can of mousse. She did not define her eyes with black mascara or wear high heels to elongate her chunky calves. She did not remember her posture. When her mother asked her why she would purposely make herself look so awful, Aggie laughed so hard that she threw up her father’s scotch whisky all over Venus’s brown mock-suede boots.

  In the ten ensuing years, the two Grey women had become friends, united in a cause. It took years of thrice-weekly therapy sessions and teeth-gritting resentment, not to mention a couple of significant heartbreaks of her own, but Aggie now accepted that her mother was not to blame for her father’s death, and that some women were just not cut out to be mothers at all. Still, it would be nice if she could occasionally spare more than the time it took to bark a useless phone number.

  Aggie sat at her desk thumbing through the Christian propaganda pamphlet. She resisted the urge to call up the boy who’d given it to her and dropped the pamphlet in the bin. Later, after counselling a fourteen-year-old who’d had more lovers in the last year than Aggie had in her life, she retrieved the pamphlet from the bin and put it in her top drawer. When Mal popped in to say they’d been refused the overdraft so he was going home to talk to Will about investing more of his own money into the clinic, Aggie pulled the pamphlet out of her drawer, put it on her desk and stared at it. She flicked through it while on hold waiting for the electricity company to answer their phone so she could ask for another extension on the bill payment. Having been refused, she read the pamphlet cover to cover, repeatedly kicked the underside of her desk, read it again, taking notes this time, saw two clients, read over her notes feeling her indignation rise and her twisted, self-loathing crush dissipate. By closing time she was ready.