The Gospel According to Luke

by Emily Maguire

  She locked up, asking the cleaner to tell Mal to call her mobile if he turned up before she was back. The bloke knew Mal, from back in the old days when the attached abortion clinic meant almost daily wall and window scrubbing. He told Aggie he would be sure to pass on her message, and also, to tell Mal that he shouldn’t leave a lady alone in such a dangerous place. She smiled and waved off his comment, but as she crossed the road she felt exposed in a way she never had before. She would have liked someone beside her.

  Greg was on greeting duty at the centre. He stood when she entered the courtyard, placing his book on the bench beside him and taking both her hands.

  ‘Aggie, good to see you. I saw what happened. Bummer, huh?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She reclaimed her hands. ‘Is Luke in?’

  ‘He’s in a private counselling session. Some emergency, Belinda said.’ Greg gestured to the bench. ‘You can wait out here if you want.’

  She sat down, hoping Luke’s emergency would be over soon, hoping Mal would call. She glanced at the spine of Greg’s book: The Four Loves. ‘Any good?’ she asked.

  Greg picked up the book and smiled. ‘Oh, yeah, it’s awesome. Have you read any C.S. Lewis? His writings on Christianity?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Oh, you’d like this one, really. It says this thing about –’ Greg flicked through the book, squinting and furrowing his brow. ‘Here: “Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket – safe, dark, motionless, airless – it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.” Awesome, huh?’

  ‘Actually, yeah.’ Aggie smiled. ‘It sounds like something my mother would say.’

  ‘Cool. Is your mum a Christian?’

  ‘Oh, no. She says all religion is a crutch.’

  ‘And she doesn’t limp?’

  ‘My mother not only doesn’t limp, she doesn’t even walk. She leaps, bounds, flies. She treks and hikes.’

  ‘Cool. Maybe you can talk her into leading a hike for some of the kids.’

  ‘Ha. As amusing as that would be, it’s quite impossible. Mum’s hard to get hold of. She moves around a lot.’

  He nodded. ‘You miss your mum?’

  ‘Sometimes. I’m used to not having her around. She’s never really been around.’

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘He’s not around either.’

  Greg considered her a moment. ‘No sisters or brothers?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘You and Luke. You know he never had a friend outside of church before? Not since I’ve known him anyway. I’ve seen him sit in a gutter all night, talking to a drunk until he was sober enough not to hurt himself. One time he sold everything he owned – from car to sports jacket – to raise money for Kosovan refugees. Nobody at the church would have known except a whole bunch of Kosovars turned up one day to thank him. Another time he . . . well, I could tell you a hundred stories, more than that even. But he’s never had a friend who was just for him.’

  Aggie closed her eyes, feeling the heat of the sun on her bare arms, remembering his fevered skin, the hot surprise of his orgasm, his grief.

  ‘What about you, Greg? Do you have a friend just for you?’

  ‘Sure. I have a few I still see. A few who are happy to see me happy, who don’t freak out about me being with Jesus now.’

  ‘Do you have family?’

  ‘I do, but . . . my mum’s okay; she drinks a real lot, so do my brothers. My dad . . .’ He looked down at his hands, curved his fingers up over his palms to examine his nails. ‘Last time I saw him he was begging on William Street. I was a couple of months sober, full of forgiveness and all. I went right on over and said, “Hey, Dad, it’s been a while.” And he just looked at me, and I thought, well it has been a long time so I said, “I’m Greg, Dad.” And my Dad said . . .’ Greg clenched his fists. ‘“Get the hell away from me.” And so I did. Then he called me back and asked if I could spare a dollar. I gave him fifty and he said, “Thanks, kid.” And that was that.’

  ‘That’s harsh, Greg. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s cool. I have my heavenly father now.’

  ‘You sound like Luke.’ Aggie jumped at the shriek of her phone. ‘Mal? Oh, thank Christ! You okay?’

  His voice was high, shaky. ‘Yeah. You?’

  ‘Fine. Where are you?’

  ‘Office.’

  ‘See you in thirty seconds.’ She hung up, already running toward the entrance. ‘Duty calls. Thanks for the chat.’

  19.

  Luke took Honey into his office and listened to her rant for an hour or so. She told him about Muzza and her mother, about Steve and Ricky and some other boys she’d messed around with before. She told him about her dad, the Spanish dancer who had another family in Granada, but who wrote her long, funny letters at least every third month. She told him about how her grandmother secretly hated her for being half-Spanish, and that Steve sometimes called her a spic, even though she looked Anglo. She told him how confusing it was sometimes to feel unconnected from part of herself, and Luke understood, because his parents had abandoned him when he was a tiny baby, and he didn’t know what he was. Honey told him he looked a bit Arab and he told her how he’d been called everything from Lebanese to Indian to Aboriginal and he used to hate it, but then he realised the mystery of his identity was a gift from God, allowing him to identify with all races and cultures. He found a sense of belonging through his place in God’s forever family.

  Then he said, ‘Please don’t kill your baby, Honey.’

  ‘It’s not a baby.’ Honey picked up her school bag from his desk. ‘It’s a bunch of cells. I’m going now. I shouldn’t have even come here. I’m going right across the street and –’

  ‘Honey, please just hear me out. I know you don’t have the money to do it today, anyway, and if you’re so sure that you’re doing the right thing then whatever I say will just be water off a duck’s back, right? So humour me?’

  Honey dropped her bag, crossed her arms and glared. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He scooted his chair across to a bookshelf and grabbed a pale blue book the size and thickness of a fashion magazine. He rolled back over, positioning himself on her side of the desk and opening the book in front of her. ‘How pregnant are you?’

  ‘Twelve, thirteen weeks.’

  ‘Right, okay, great.’ He flicked through the book and when he found what he was looking for he said ‘Great,’ again, and pointed at the page. ‘See here, at only three weeks, your baby already had a heart, the beginning of a vertebra, a closed circulatory system totally separate from yours and the beginning of lungs. And see, look at this! Wow! By four weeks, maybe before you knew he was there, his lungs were fully developed, and the heart started to beat on its own.’

  Honey didn’t say anything.

  ‘Okay, Honey, check this out. A twelve-week-old foetus has everything present that will be found in a fully developed adult. Isn’t that incredible? And look! The little darling inside you is already wriggling its fingers around!’ Luke looked up from the book and smiled; his eyes were shiny. ‘I bet you didn’t realise your baby was so well developed.’

  Honey stared at the picture. Twelve Weeks it said. There were the little nostrils, the stumpy fingers, the heart and tiny ribs. She touched her belly; it was as flat as ever. Was it possible all this growing had happened in there without her feeling it? Wouldn’t you know if a whole spine was forming inside of you? But she had known, hadn’t she? That was the sickness, the tiredness, the woolly-headed dumbness. All her vitality being drained by the busy little person making itself a body.

  Luke read on. In two weeks, the baby would be abl
e to turn its head, curl its toes and open and close its mouth. A week after that, it would start to grow hair, and around the same time, a doctor would be able to tell her if she was having a son or a daughter.

  ‘A son or a daughter,’ Honey echoed, flicking through the remaining pages with increasing panic. She checked the cover. It said Your Baby – A week by week guide by Dr. J. Mitchell. ‘This book is real? I mean, it’s like a proper medical book?’

  Luke nodded.

  She turned back to the start of the book and went over the stages from conception to today. A new panic engulfed her. ‘Luke, I haven’t been taking care of it. I’ve been smoking and drinking. Shit, I smoked a heap of pot last week and I haven’t been eating hardly at all. What if I hurt it?’

  ‘Oh, Honey.’ Luke put his arm around her. He smelt like fried eggs and coffee. ‘It’ll be fine, I promise. I’ve known women who have had terrible car crashes, heroin addictions, been thrown down staircases, all kinds of stuff, and their babies have been fine. Yours will be too, I know it.’

  ‘Steve will kill me when I tell him, and Muzza will kick –’

  ‘Honey, calm down.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I promise you that everything will be okay.’

  ‘I’m so scared.’

  He held her tight. ‘You’re not alone, Honey. I’m with you in this, all the way. I’ll stand by you both.’

  On the walk home, Honey pulled down three posters from telegraph poles and six from bus shelters. She wasn’t so angry with the people who’d made them anymore; she just didn’t want false information spread around. She was too late though. Her mother and Muzza were waiting for her in her bedroom, a poster spread out on her bed.

  ‘You wanna explain this?’ Her mother was still in her work uniform – a tight white T-shirt with Nifty Nails emblazoned in pink across the bust, and tight black pants. In one scarlet-taloned hand she held a can of diet Pepsi; in the other was a cigarette which dropped ash onto the bedspread as she gestured at the poster. Muzza was in his uniform too: footy shorts and a singlet. He didn’t bother to speak, didn’t bother to hide his delight. He lay back against Honey’s pillows, smoking and fondling her mother’s thigh.

  ‘It’s a mistake.’ Honey went to her wardrobe and pulled down her sports bag from the top shelf. ‘Now get out of my room.’

  ‘This what that cash was for?’

  The smell of chlorine assaulted her as she opened the bag. She hadn’t used the bag since the day three months ago when she’d won the 1500m at the district swimming carnival. She was supposed to go on to the regionals, but Steve said that all the girls at regional were ugly dykes, so she’d pretended to be sick when the day came. Honey had seen the picture of the winner in the local paper; she had shoulders like a wrestler and short spiky hair. Honey was jealous and had vowed to never listen to Steve again.

  She began to pull her clothes off hangers and stuff them into the bag, every muscle tensed and ready for the blows that would surely come. She could hear her mother slurping her Pepsi, and both of them sucking back on their cigarettes.

  ‘You goin’ somewhere?’ her mother said.

  She had never felt so happy to have such a limited wardrobe. Clothes packed, she threw in her shoes: black heels, white sandals, sneakers. She carried the bag to her dresser.

  ‘I’m getting sick of this, Honey. You come and go at all hours of the day and night. You hide money from us, get yourself knocked up, your ugly mug is stuck up all over the streets. You better tell me what the fuck is going on, and you better tell me fast.’

  Into the bag went bras and undies, three lipsticks, deodorant stick, blush, foundation, powder, hair clips, scrunchies, tweezers, cleanser, moisturiser, nail polish, razor, pimple gel, sunscreen.

  Honey was on her knees, zipping the sports bag, when the first blow struck the back of her head. It wasn’t hard enough to knock her over. She picked up the bag, stood and faced him. He was smiling. She looked past him and addressed her mother. ‘I’m moving out.’

  Her mother laughed. ‘Oh, yeah? You gonna go live in that fucking caravan with Steve and his old man, eh? That’ll be nice. You gonna bring your little sprog up in a caravan park, Honey? Good luck to ya.’

  Honey took a step to the side. Muzza stepped across with her. She met his eyes. ‘I don’t wanna be here, and you don’t want me here. So get out of my way.’

  ‘Leonie?’ he said, without moving.

  ‘Let her go, Muz. She’ll come back when she remembers that Steve is a bigger cunt than you.’

  Muzza smiled and stepped to the side, waving her past. As she stepped through the doorway, he slapped her hard across the back of the head.

  ‘Leave her, Muzza,’ her mother said.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he said.

  Honey did what she always did: closed her eyes, pressed her lips together and prayed he’d get bored before he did too much damage. But she had an extra thought this time: Please don’t let him hurt the baby.

  Muzza pushed her out into the front hallway. ‘Rack off then, you dumb slut.’ Honey stared at him for a few seconds. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Fuck off!’ Honey turned and fled, feeling blissfully light despite the bag containing her entire life thumping against her side as she ran.

  20.

  Just as Luke was certain his sin was too enormous to allow him to continue as a minister of God, Honey and her baby appeared. He’d had to forget his personal torment and become once more Jesus’ hands and voice on earth. The baby’s life was safe, and although the girl had hard times ahead of her, she had been spared the eternal torment which is the fate of unrepentant murderers. Luke’s calling had not been revoked; God worked through him, still.

  This was not to say he had been let off the hook. Although his mind was eased in regard to knowing God’s will for his future in the ministry, the enormity of what he had done – of what it meant! – had him in anguish. The truth, which could not be hidden from God, was that last night, in the midst of his shame, he had felt bliss. His despair at the thought of never again experiencing such ecstasy manifested itself as a gnawing pain in his stomach and a tightness in his chest. He asked himself what it meant to deny a drive that was more intense than hunger, more insistent than thirst, stronger even than his calling. What did it mean to deprive himself of an experience that made him feel more connected to God’s creation than any other?

  There was a knock on his door and Belinda entered. He was about to ask her why she bothered knocking when she never waited for a reply, when he noticed that Honey was standing behind her.

  Luke pressed his hands together. ‘It’s nice to see you back so soon, Honey.’

  ‘You’ll be sick of the sight of me,’ she said, stepping into the room, a bulging bag over her shoulder. ‘What’s this, three times in two days?’

  My God, You are indeed great! Three times, You have put Honey before me, just as Your angel appeared before Balaam three times and caused his donkey to change direction. As You saved Balaam from stubbornly taking the wrong path, so too have You saved me.

  ‘I was hoping,’ Honey said, ‘that you might help me find a place to stay? Somewhere safe for me and the baby?’

  Luke almost wept. ‘You’ll stay here.’

  ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t. I just thought you might know of, like, a shelter or something, for until I can get a job?’

  ‘Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Let me take care of you, Honey. Let us all take care of you, in His name.’

  ‘In His name,’ Belinda echoed.

  ‘You’re serious?’

  Luke nodded, taking her bags.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me, but thank you.’ Honey’s voice broke a little at the end.

  ‘Thank you, Honey,’ Luke said. ‘And thank our saviour J
esus Christ.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Belinda.

  Honey shrugged and smiled. ‘Amen.’

  21.

  Mal was waiting in his office, pacing in front of the freshly replaced and scrubbed window; his eyes and nose were red. He didn’t answer Aggie’s enquiry about what had happened, just thrust a sheet of paper into her hand. There was a photo of Malcolm with the text, Do you know this man? Maybe you’ve passed him in the hallway or on the street. But did you know he makes his living slaughtering babies and peddling pornography at the Sexual Health Advisory Service on Koloona Street? Help us obtain JUSTICE FOR THE UNBORN. Do not let Malcolm Addison of 7/19 Roe Place live in peace while thousands of babies are destroyed at his hands.

  ‘Every telegraph pole in the street, every wall and door of my building. We stopped answering the phone at about seven this morning. The police want the answering-machine tapes, because of the death threats. We had an escort out of the building.’

  Aggie stared at the terrible photo of Malcolm, taken yesterday during the stoush outside. His face was screwed up, except for his mouth which was open in rage.

  ‘How’s Will?’

  Malcolm shrugged and looked over Aggie’s head. ‘He was pretty freaked out. It’s not his choice, you know, to be part of . . . not everyone wants to be a martyr. He’s going to stay with friends for awhile. He, uh, he needs some space from all this.’

  ‘And you?’

  He shrugged again, looking lost and lonely and afraid.

  ‘Mal,’ Aggie said, taking his hand and squeezing it, ‘we can’t let these people get the better of us. We’ll step up security, maybe get a guard to stand outside looking scary, but apart from that, business as usual, right?’