6.
Somewhere in the middle of Aggie Grey’s verbal demolition of his Family Centred Reproduction Education pamphlet, Luke was hit by a bolt of God’s lightning. They were in the recreation room: Luke sprawled on a bean bag, Aggie sitting cross-legged in front of him. They both had coffee, but she had not touched hers because she had not stopped talking since she arrived. He had drunk half of his before leaving it to go cold, because to pick it up and bring it to his lips would mean looking away from her, and he could not seem to make himself do that for even a second.
She talked about her Secular Society and her Individual Rights and her Diverse Community. She argued the importance of a value-neutral model of sex education combined with comprehensive information and decision-making tools. She shook her fists at him for condemning contraception use despite widespread disease, rampant teen pregnancy, overpopulation and hunger in third-world countries. She pointed an accusing finger at his chest, as though he was personally responsible for the six hundred thousand women who died from pregnancy and childbirth complications every year. When she talked about how natural homosexuality was, spittle flew from between her teeth and landed on his left shoulder.
Throughout, he was thinking: I have never seen hair so curly; look at the way it moves in enormous clumps when she shakes her head and then stays there rather than falling back to its original place like every other head of hair in the world. Now I understand why Paul advised that women should cover their heads, for hair like hers would distract the most pious of men and tempt even the angels. And look at the way her eyes are green then brown then green again, and when she’s really irate she squeezes them up tight and they look black. Her voice is so deep and strong, almost like a man’s, but her throat is slim and white and almost certainly very, very soft.
And then God socked him in the chest. Hard. What was he doing, sitting there gawking at her while she spouted her disillusioned, intellectual nonsense? God had not led Luke to Aggie in order to give him something nice to look at on winter afternoons! His mission was clear. He picked up his coffee and drained it, drawing strength from the bitter cold in his throat.
‘Right, I get it,’ he said, cutting her off mid-sentence. ‘More coffee?’
She snorted. ‘Were you even listening?’
‘Of course.’
‘Yeah? What was I saying then?’
Luke bit his lip and rubbed his chin, pretending to be thinking hard. ‘Okay, you think sex is great and everyone should do it as much as possible, with as many people as possible, in as many different ways as possible, without any consequences whatsoever.’
She laughed, picking up both their mugs. ‘And I thought you weren’t paying attention.’
In the kitchen, Belinda was drinking tea and reading the newspaper. Luke noticed she’d changed out of her tiny shorts and T-shirt and into a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. He was thankful she was covering herself in time for tonight’s group.
‘Hey, there.’ Belinda looked up and smiled. ‘I finished the presentation. It’s all set up and ready to go.’
‘Thanks.’ Luke motioned to Aggie to go ahead and make the coffee. He turned back to Belinda. ‘I’m afraid Aggie and I are going to be busy right up until the meeting starts, so if you could organise the seating in groups of six for me, that would be great.’
Belinda’s smile slipped a little. ‘What exactly are you –’
‘Ask Greg if he’ll help you out. He’s in the library, I think. Aggie and I will be in the rec room, so when Kenny gets in tell him he can use the television in my office to tape that doco he needs.’
Belinda giggled. ‘Righto, you’re the boss.’
Aggie passed Luke a mug of coffee. ‘Ready for round two?’
‘Round two?’ Belinda’s voice was unnaturally high.
‘One nil, my way,’ Aggie said.
‘Let’s get back to it, shall we?’ Luke took Aggie’s elbow and led her toward the door.
‘Ah, Luke?’ Belinda was trailing them. Luke stopped and looked at her questioningly. She was looking at his hand on Aggie’s elbow. ‘What is it that you guys are busy with, exactly?’
‘Sex,’ Aggie said.
Belinda’s neck snapped up. ‘Pardon?’
Luke stifled his laughter. ‘Sorry, Belinda, I didn’t introduce you properly. Aggie is from the clinic across the street. We’re seeing if we can agree on terms for a peace treaty.’
Belinda squinted at Aggie, then returned her gaze to Luke. ‘Does Pastor Riley know?’
‘I don’t need his permission to liaise with our neighbours.’
‘I know, but –’
‘Right, I’ll see you at seven.’ Luke tugged Aggie’s arm, and rushed her through the hallway and into the rec room, slopping coffee all over the floor in his haste to close the door.
‘Did I say the wrong thing?’ Aggie said, removing herself from his grip.
Luke sank down into a bean bag. ‘Perfectly shocking. Belinda’s going to need trauma counselling now, I think.’
‘What is up with her?’ She sat beside him. ‘Are you two involved?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘But she wishes, right? I mean, she follows you around like a puppy dog.’
‘More like a guard dog.’
Aggie laughed, knocking his knee with hers. ‘You don’t like her?’
‘No, I do. It’s just that . . . She’s my best junior pastor, I respect her knowledge and faith enormously, but she wants . . . I don’t know, I suppose she wants to be married and thinks that I . . . We don’t even know each other particularly well. I’m the Senior Pastor and that gives me a . . . a certain appeal.’
‘You make it sound like you’re a rock star or something. No offence, but you run a kiddie church.’
‘It’s a status thing’ he said. ‘If you believe that love matches are made by God, then having God choose for you an ordained pastor is like an announcement to the world that you’re purer and more godly than other girls. The problem is that some people think you can reverse the process; make a match with a minister and God will smile and agree. It can’t work that way, but the girls – not to mention their parents – keep trying.’
‘Must be nice. All those women begging for your attention. You can take your pick.’
‘You misunderstand.’ Luke turned to her. ‘A couple of years ago, when I was a junior pastor at the City Church, I started to feel a bit sorry for myself, because it seemed everyone around me was coupled. I thought maybe the whole waiting for a sign from God thing was a metaphor that got taken too literally. I asked Pastor Riley – my boss, well, my earthly boss – I asked if he thought I could just choose someone nice for myself. I reasoned that surely God would want to reward one of his most loyal servants with love and companionship. I loved my work, I loved serving God, but I didn’t feel fulfilled. I was so lonely. All these people around me, every minute of the day and night, and I was still so lonely, you know?’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Well, Pastor Riley really gave it to me. He said if I truly was God’s loyal servant I would be thankful I had not been sent a companion. He pointed out that my sermons and group meetings attracted twice as many people as any other, and said that it was glorious God was reaching so many young women through me. He said I should be grateful for being single. That when God wants me to marry, I’ll know about it.’
‘God’s plan or not, you’ve got time on your side. You’re what, twenty-one?’
‘Twenty-nine last month.’ Luke laughed at her stunned expression. ‘When I was twenty-one I looked thirteen. I seem to have, like, an eight year delay between my chronological and physical age.’
‘Shit. You’re my age.’ Aggie put her mug on the floor beside her and stretched her legs out in front of her. ‘Maybe it’s marriage that does it. I bet if I hadn’t gotten married I’d have the skin of a teenager. And if I hadn’t gotten divorced in such a hurry I’d probably look like your grandmother by now.’
‘What happe
ned?’
‘The usual. I was eighteen and needy; he was thirty-five and opportunistic. My divorce went through the day before I turned twenty-one, and I considered myself lucky that I’d gotten off as lightly as I did.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It was very educational. My next boyfriend, Matthew, was proud of all the disastrous relationships he’d had. He reckoned you grow as a person every time you make a lover hate you and can understand why.’
‘He sounds like a dangerous man.’
‘Ha! Aren’t they all?’
‘ All men are dangerous?’
‘Sure. Actually, I should say that all people are dangerous once you get up close and personal. Just for me it’s always been men. It’s about love really, isn’t it? The person you love the most holds the means to hurt you the most.’
‘I wouldn’t know, having never been in love.’
‘I’m not just talking in love love. Any kind of love will do it. The parent–child thing can be particularly brutal.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that either.’
‘About it being brutal?’
He lifted his hand and touched her hair. It felt softer than he had imagined, and he was suddenly aware that he had been imagining how her hair might feel all day.
‘Luke?’
He dropped his hand and held it under its mate so it could not escape again. ‘Sorry.’
‘No. It’s . . .’ She patted his tightly bound hands. ‘Did you not love your parents?’
‘I didn’t know my parents.’
‘Not at all?’
‘I don’t even know when I was born, really. Depends on whether I was two or three days old when I was found.’
‘Fuck. Found?’
‘I was found sleeping peacefully inside an empty beer carton on Platform 2 at Granville Station,’ he told her. ‘The police never managed to track my mother down so I ended up at the New Hope Boys Home in Redfern. Apparently the police named me before I was delivered to the home, but nobody could ever tell me why they chose this name. The house mother reckoned I might be named after some heroic policeman who died performing great deeds, because otherwise why would they give me such an inappropriate name.’
‘Inappropriate?’
‘Because I’m a darkie.’
Aggie looked at him hard. ‘You’re not that dark. You’re caramel. Anyway, so what?’
‘Well, it caused a lot of disappointment. The couples wanting to adopt a little boy would choose from the information sheets which one they wanted to meet. They’d skip over Hakim Ali and Yin Yip and Johnny Poulos and say that this Luke Butler sounds more their type. They’d say it was because my school reports were so good or because I was so athletic, but then when it came to meet me, these things were suddenly unimportant and they would choose some blond kid who couldn’t even read and who preferred breaking other boys’ bones to actual sport. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the likelihood of me being chosen for adoption was minute, and that it became even smaller with each passing day. People like babies more than little boys, and they like little boys more than big ones, and regardless of age or size, people like light-coloured boys better than dark-coloured ones.’
‘Not all people.’
‘No, that’s true. Some wanted a boy of their own ethnic background, but no one could be sure if I was or wasn’t. I just had to accept that I wouldn’t be leaving New Hope until they booted me out on my sixteenth birthday.’
Aggie put her hand on his knee. ‘So you spent your whole childhood there? God, that’s terrible.’
‘No, it really wasn’t. Sometimes it was actually fun. I had my own little gang with the other boys who were never getting out. Like poor old Charlie who was Koori and told everyone his parents were just having a holiday and would be back any day. And there was Dominic, who reckoned he was French, but no one believed him because he was black and spoke Aussie and everyone knew French people were white and spoke wog. Charlie and Dom were the darkest and then it was a toss up, depending on who had spent the most time in the sun, between Hakim the Leb, Johnny the Greek or me from Granville Railway Station.
‘Alex Morton was in our gang even though he wasn’t dark. We made a special exception because the house fire which killed his parents and sister had burnt all the white off him. He spent half the time in a pressure suit and the other half plastered in bandages through which pus would ooze if he didn’t change them often enough. The white kids rejected him, none of the prospective parents wanted him, strangers stared at him, and his skin was certainly coloured, and so he fitted right in with us. Not that we were picky; safety in numbers is a good thing when you’re an outcast.’
‘It sounds horrendous.’
‘Then I’m telling it wrong. It was fine. I was never beaten or locked in a closet. My basic needs were met, and when I got older I worked in the kitchen and garden for spending money. And I was well-liked within my group, sort of a leader, I suppose. It wasn’t like a Dickens novel or anything.’
Aggie sighed and pressed both her hands to her face.
Luke told her how he had never wanted to lead the gang, it was just that he seemed to have a gift for arguing with racist teachers and beating the heck out of nazi bullies, and this meant the other boys depended on him. Secretly, he never stopped wanting to be white. He spent the silent prayer time at the end of scripture class asking God to give him blue eyes and blond hair, or at the very least, skin that freckled in the sun instead of darkening. God never came through for him; he never got a single freckle, never a sun streak in his increasingly wavy hair. Of course, that was before he was a proper Christian.
When he was fourteen he was assigned My Place by Sally Morgan as his contemporary English text. He read it in one sitting, shaking inside and out for at least the last hundred pages. For the first time in his life he didn’t want to be white. Or more precisely, not being white mattered less than not knowing what he was. He had always considered himself fortunate to have been abandoned at birth. He knew that the boys at New Hope who remembered their parents, whether they were mourning their deaths like Alex or waiting for their return like Charlie, had a much harder time accepting their situation. But now, he was jealous of these other boys. At least they knew what they were!
Luke became fixated on discovering his ancestry, and wondered if, like Sally Morgan, he was part Aboriginal, or if he was, as Hakim insisted, an Arab. He locked himself in the bathroom for hours at a time, comparing every aspect of his appearance to those of men of every possible ethnic background whose pictures he obsessively clipped from magazines and newspapers. His friends joked about his gallery of men, and liked to say that while Luke was busy searching for his roots, they were out in the world getting some.
Of all the boys at his school, Luke was the one most girls would have been happy to give themselves to. He knew this, but did not know why. When Luke looked in the mirror he saw hair like a Sicilian, skin like an Arab, slim hips and long muscles like an Indian, black eyes like an Aborigine. He didn’t know what could possibly be attractive about all that. When girls stared at him in class or on the bus, he assumed they were trying to work out what he was. When they sent their friends to tell him they wanted to get with him, or when he found their love notes in his locker, he assumed they were chasing him because he was a novelty, the way all his friends wanted to get with the Austrian exchange student even though she was chubby.
A week before his fifteenth birthday, he was lying on the grass out the front of the library, reading about the racial breakdown and settlement patterns of the post-war migrant influx, when an Asian girl of around his own age sat beside him and introduced herself as Mai.
Luke said hello, just to be polite, and returned to his book, lifting it up so it hid his face from the girl. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Luke,’ he said from behind his book.
‘You don’t look like a Luke.’
He put down his book. ‘What do I look like?’<
br />
‘I don’t know. But you definitely don’t look like a Luke.’ She smiled and crinkled up her nose. Luke noticed the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge. He had never seen an Asian with freckles; he thought they were reserved for whites.
‘What does a Luke look like?’ he asked her.
‘Luke is a saint’s name. You look too dark and dangerous to be a saint. You should be called Holden or J.D. or something like that.’
Luke laughed. ‘What does Mai mean? Nutcase?’
‘Flower.’
‘It suits you,’ he said, and felt his face grow hot. ‘I mean, you know, because it’s an Asian name and you’re Asian.’
‘That matters, you think? So what will we call you then? Is it Abu or maybe Muhammad? What shall we label you? I am Asian and you are what?’
‘I’m not anything. Forget it.’ Luke picked up his book, burning with shame and wondering for the thousandth time that year why girls were always bothering him.
‘I know what you are, Luke. You’re the same as me.’
‘What the hell are you talking about? You’re a chong. I’m a wog or possibly a boonga or curry muncher. We’re not the same.’
Mai smiled and leant forward as though about to tell him a great secret. ‘We have the same Father. Maybe you don’t know it yet, but you are part of an enormous, inter-racial, multicultural family. And this family is the best one there is, Luke, because it isn’t based on where you came from, but on where you’re going.’
The Gospel According to Luke Page 4