New Du Rose Matriarch

by Bowes, K T

  Logan leaned against the car and watched the congregation file in, unwrapping a stick of chewing gum and folding it into his mouth. He’d always thought they were a strange bunch – Christians. They had a closeness about them like family, but their behaviour wasn’t real. If anyone dared to slip up and fall from grace, they turned like a pack of feral dogs on the offender and cut them out. Logan shook his head, finding them more dangerous than the violent Chinese criminals he dealt with in Auckland. At least with the Triads, you knew what you were getting.

  “Thus far and no further, hey?” came a friendly voice and Pastor Allen strode up behind Logan, taking him by surprise. They shook hands and Allen leaned against the car, both men observing the small crowd dribbling through the front doors. The sound of an organ rent the air and Allen cringed. “Ah, Mrs Brown on the organ this morning. Tone deaf but a willing heart. Sure you don’t want to come in for a laugh?”

  Logan shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m not in the mood for the proverbial lightning bolt through my head. Got too much to do today for a headache that big.”

  Allen laughed. “You and me both, mate. None of us is spotless.”

  Logan looked sideways at the pastor, eyes narrowed. “You are. You have to be. Isn’t it part of the job description?”

  The pastor looked at him solemnly. “I shouted at my wife this morning because she made some small error of judgment out of pure exhaustion. I was tempted to drop my eight-month-old baby out of a second storey window because he kept me up all night teething. Issues of lust assail me every time I drive past Te Awa mall and see partially clad poster girls advertising bras and knickers and the sin of overindulgence calls from a burger advert. It’s tempting to fiddle my tax return each year because who would notice? Halfway through this morning’s service, I will be sorely tempted to break the lovely Mrs Brown’s fingers, just so she can’t play the final hymn in G Major.”

  “Oh,” said Logan, sounding baffled. “That list probably puts your name first on the lightning bolt.

  “I’m human, Logan. Just like you and the other faulty, broken souls who just walked through that door. If there was a God of lightning bolts today, our little church would burn to the ground!”

  Logan looked into the distance at the clear blue sky and distant mountain with a dusting of snow on its highest peaks. It would be a fantastic day to gallop his horse across the crests and valleys of home. “I’m still not coming in.” He shifted his feet stubbornly.

  “That’s fine, my friend.” Pastor Allen clapped Logan on the shoulder. “It can’t be me who makes you.” He started off across the rough car park towards the front doors as another blast of music squealed out. Logan watched, chewing his gum and feeling isolated from this part of Hana’s life. The pastor was tall and thick-set but wore nothing to indicate his clerical status. His ordinary shirt and smart black jeans disappeared through the doors.

  Logan thought back to the priests in the Catholic churches his mother dragged him to as a small boy, before she refused to leave the hotel. Swathed in black cloth, they resembled forbidding blackbirds uttering words he couldn’t understand. Their churches held no love or compassion. Logan sighed, seeing how his mother sought absolution; he knew that now. She wanted somebody to tell her that loving Reuben was ok and birthing his illegitimate child was fine. Nobody could tell her that.

  Hana talked about the Father heart of God, but Logan couldn’t comprehend it. His own experience of fathers worsened with each nasty revelation. Alfred made a good father until Miriam’s death, but it was as if he felt relieved to drop the pretence at last. Logan felt it like a physical ache, the bite of orphanhood. And what of Reuben? Did he really love him as a son?

  Logan shifted his feet in the dust and allowed his mind to venture back to a different place and time. He wasn’t much older than Jas, going to his guitar teacher for lessons. He tried to picture the room, knowing with hindsight it was a motel on the main highway. The guitar seemed huge, shrinking as his body grew and fitted around it. The olive face and kind grey eyes sparkled as Reuben taught him chords. “Not quite right, tamāroa. Stretch your fingers further, then the note will sound clearer.” His father’s voice was deep and resonant, singing Māori songs of heritage, tikanga and kawa.

  His hands were always scarred and torn. Logan looked at his own, seeing the similarities. A strange, empty ache spread across his heart. Tamāroa meant first-born son and the one to whom a father passed his knowledge and mana. No wonder Kane hated him.

  Logan and his guitar teacher played often, learning songs and practicing although never performing for others. At first, Miriam stayed but as Logan grew she left them to run errands. The memory of the lessons was infused with a sense of safety, companionship and compatibility, until Alfred ruined it with the truth.

  Logan shut his eyes, trying to conjure up his father’s face. It wouldn’t come. All that remained was his voice, gentle, commanding, full of mana and honour. What lengths he must have gone to so he could spend a few hours a week with his own flesh and blood. Was that love?

  Logan felt the deadly emotional cavern open in his chest. The swirling stuff inside threatened to overpower him and he slammed the door, running interference and knowing instinctively it must never escape. He climbed into the Honda, pushing down fear, regret and loss as he pulled out of the car park. He went across country to the Gordonton House where he’d spent the first few agonisingly lonely months in Hamilton as a single man.

  Being in church was good for Hana. It gave her continuity and a sense of being plugged back into something bigger than her own life. Phoenix thankfully stayed asleep for most of the service, cheerful and observant when she woke. As soon as her eyes opened, the older ladies fought over her and she bounced around happily on different trouser-suited laps. The songs were safe and familiar and gave Hana comfort, but Pastor Allen’s preach rattled her.

  “We choose to be offended,” he said. “It’s a choice we make about our own lives and how we want to live. The easy option is to react to an offhand comment with defence or aggression; it’s much harder to ignore it and let it pass us by. I struggle with this issue on a personal level. It’s far easier for me to react badly to something my wife or a congregation member says; it’s a gut instinct to defend myself and I do it all the time. It’s centred in my need to make everything about me. I choose to get nasty back, instead of acknowledging they’re having a bad day, bad year or bad life and don’t mean to say, ‘Hey Pastor Allen, your preach today sucked.’ What they meant to say was, ‘it blessed me.’ I choose to take it personally. Why?” The congregation sniggered at the analogy and stopped on cue. “Why? Because it feels great to be justifiably angry. I can keep my grievance going for years, telling anyone who’ll listen and sympathise. It’s less entertaining to let something go and where’s the mileage in that? Where’s the fun? What am I gonna complain about if I let that opportunity pass?”

  Hana thought the people who offended her and those she’d upset without realising. It formed a frighteningly long list in her head. She thought about Peter North and Amanda, convicted by her justification in holding onto the unfairness of Pete’s laziness and Amanda’s accusation. It was easier to keep the offence going rather than let it go. Hana had dismissed two friendships - because she could.

  “Un-forgiveness,” said Pastor Allen, “is the cup of poison we pour for another and drink ourselves.”

  Hana chided herself as they sang the final hymn, feeling the bite of the message in her heart. The organ struggled valiantly with the timbre of the notes and at one point, the whole thing shook on the wall above the elderly organist hammering away below its elegant brass tubes. Pastor Allen used a wooden smile to cover his grimace.

  Hana made small talk after the service but crept away to seek Allen in his office down the hallway. She fed the baby on a comfy sofa while he checked emails and tidied. Neither spoke. Plonking himself next to her, Allen smiled. “What is it, Hana? I’m sure there’re lots of places you could feed your
baby around the building without being disturbed. Are we going to talk honestly or can I get my lunch?”

  Hana narrowed her eyes at Allen’s mischievous smirk. “You’re an infuriating man,” Hana sneered.

  “Not taking the bait I see,” he smirked. “I hoped you’d stomp off and then I could lecture you about ‘taking offence’ after such a stonkingly good preach.”

  Hana snorted. “Like I’d fall for that gag.” She lifted the baby to burp her.

  “What is it, Hana?” Allen indicated the oozing bandage at her wrist. “I can see you’ve been in the wars again.”

  “It’s a really long story,” Hana sighed. “Have you got time?”

  Logan clattered around in the garage of the empty house sorting out his Triumph Spitfire and other bits and pieces he’d left there. When he looked at his watch and realised it was after two o’clock, he panicked and rang Hana’s phone. He heard a cacophony of sound in the background as she answered, a baby wailing and what sounded like a television blasting out. “It’s ok, Loge,” she sounded happy. “I’m at Pastor Allen’s. He said you should come over.”

  Logan took one more photo of the old car, ready to put it up on the car auction website. He shut the garage and locked the gates before setting off to the pastor’s house, hoping the wise cleric had talked some sense into an increasingly stubborn Hana.

  Allen’s house was in chaos. His two strapping stepsons waged a pitched battle on a games console and Logan removed his boots and saw Hana on a third remote control. A little boy played in the centre of the melee with a pile of Lego, while a boy-baby slumped in a high chair being fed mushy white stuff by Allan’s wife, Sue.

  Logan noticed his daughter by the partly open ranch slider in her car seat, oblivious to the testosterone laden room as she slept soundly.

  “Drink?” Allen closed the front door on the quiet Rototuna estate outside. “I won’t offer you a beer; my wife’s still grumpy after the last time we imbibed together!”

  Logan smiled and had the decency to look guilty. “Yeah, heck of a night, wasn’t it?”

  “Next time you think Hana’s broken up with you, go somewhere else.” Pastor Allen frowned and then clapped Logan on the back. “Just kidding, bro.”

  Logan opted for coffee and leaned against the counter as his host spooned instant caffeine into a mug. “How are you?” Allen turned to eyeball Logan. “And before you give me a load of well-aimed and distracting facts, be aware your wife has told me the whole story.”

  “Which story’s that then?” Logan watched Allen’s wife push the mushy stuff between the baby’s lips while the baby pushed it back out again.

  “How many stories are there?” Allen smiled, shutting the fridge with his foot and handing Logan the coffee. Logan took it, nodding a thank you. He refused to be drawn by the human-nature-expert, knowing Hana would never betray his personal difficulties.

  “You’re talking about Laval?” Logan said and Allen nodded. “I’m nipping her to the medical centre in town when we leave here.” Logan sipped his drink, knowing before it touched his lips it was too hot. “Please don’t say anything, though. She doesn’t want help but it’s infected.”

  “We had a little chat,” Allen said. “She’s carrying all kinds of guilt she doesn’t deserve, but you know that, don’t you.”

  “Yeah.” Logan sipped his drink, his chest tightening at the awful memories of Hana’s kidnap. “She’s not the only one.”

  Allen’s little boy wandered into the kitchen carrying a Lego man. In the lounge, his brothers stumbled over his Lego building in their efforts to beat Hana at the car racing game. “I can’t get him to stay on, Daddy,” the child said, handing over the man and a brick. Allen fiddled around while the boy watched his building with a look of concern at the stampeding males. “They’re gonna break it, Daddy!”

  “Boys!” Allen called. “Watch your feet, please!”

  “Does it matter,” Logan stammered, picking his words with care. He eyed the child, not wanting to break a confidence. “When they have different genetics?”

  The Lego-man clicked onto the brick and the tousled haired child grabbed it with eagerness. Allen stood up straight and observed Logan, so perceptive it made the other man squirm. “Sometimes yes,” he said honestly, “but mainly no.”

  Logan thought of Alfred, hiding his guitar to prevent the only contact with Reuben he would ever know. Was it born of selfishness, a deceit committed out of jealousy and fear or genuine concern? He didn’t know. “Would you stop your boys seeing their father?”

  Allen read Logan’s desperation in his face. He watched his youngest stepchild move out of earshot.

  “I mean, if he wanted to see them, that is,” Logan continued, gulping. He waved his hand and coffee slopped over the side of the mug. “Hey, don’t answer that. It’s personal, I shouldn’t be asking.”

  “It’s fine; you can ask me anything. And he hasn’t yet.” The pastor sighed and ran a hand over his face. “But it would cause me terrible conflict. Brad, the youngest doesn’t even remember him and calls me ‘Daddy’ so it would be awful. But I’d have to deal with it, for their sake. It’s a distinct possibility one day he might want contact and I can’t deny them that.”

  “Where’s their father?” Logan resented his own pushiness, but the awful ache wouldn’t go cease.

  “In prison.” Allen ran a hand across his face. “Sue and I got married when the boys were young; Brad was only one. Now we have Noah too.”

  Logan’s hand shook as he peered into the mug of coffee. “My father lived next door and I never knew, not until his death. Nobody told me.”

  “Ah,” said Allen, understanding in his gentle blue eyes. “And you’re trying to work out who to hate.”

  Logan’s head shot up. “What?”

  “It’s natural to look for someone to blame; I would.” Allen smiled with encouragement.

  “Maybe I am,” Logan agreed, surprisingly open. “But my mother died in the fire with him and the man who brought me up can’t look me in the eye, so there’s no-one left to blame. Except myself maybe, for being so bloody blind!” Logan’s cringed with guilt for swearing in the cleric’s house. He put his mug on the counter unfinished. “I should wait in the car,” he said gruffly.

  “Now this one’s stuck!” Bradley wailed, storming into the kitchen. He handed his dilemma to Allen, who patiently extracted the female Lego person from the yellow brick. He gave it back but the child was distracted by Logan presence. “Do you have the Lord Jesus in your heart?”

  “Pardon?” Logan sent a panicked look towards Allen, finding the boy’s father particularly unhelpful. Allen smirked but his wife gave a sharp intake of breath and stopped pushing food into the baby.

  “I said,” the child persisted, posturing with his hands on his hips. “Do you know Jesus?”

  “I guess so,” Logan hedged, hoping the child would go back to his bricks.

  “Well, do you or don’t you?”

  Logan looked at Allen for help and got none. “I know he exists,” he said, his agitation growing.

  “How?”

  “Because he helped me out recently with finding a special person and stopping her dying!” Logan gushed, wondering how this six year old could put him under more pressure than a Triad.

  “That’s cool!” The child turned on his heel and strode away, “Just making sure,” he called over his shoulder.

  Logan looked accusingly at Allen, who spread his arms in a gesture of innocence. “Brad’s our little evangelist,” he said with a laugh, “seeking out secret believers.”

  “Yeah, whatever!” Logan replied, not believing him.

  Logan peeled Hana away from the video game, even though she enjoyed thrashing the teenagers. “But I’m winning!” she complained.

  Allen helped put the car seat into the back of the Honda and fastened the seat belt as Logan wiped his sleeping daughter’s mouth. The pastor leaned forward casually as they shook hands. “Blame and hate are overrated, my fri
end. They deliberately draw us backwards and never let go. You’ve too much to get on with here.” He waved a hand at the car containing Logan’s most precious possessions. “For now, concentrate on enjoying what you have and leave other people to atone for their poor decisions, if they still can.”

  Hana became quiet on the way into town and to distract her, Logan asked why only the eldest of Allen’s boys went to the Pressy School. “It seems a bit weird,” he commented. “I taught his eldest last year. Neat kid. Did the younger boy not want to go there?”

  “It’s expensive.” Hana picked at a loose thread on the bandage. “Angus gave Roderick a scholarship to play rugby, but Ben’s good at art and there wasn’t funding for that.”

  Hana’s mood worsened as Logan pulled into the car park of the medical clinic. “I’m not going in there!” she exclaimed, refusing to undo her seatbelt. “I want to go home, please. I’m fine!”

  Logan’s anger made his eyes flash like storm water. “No, you’re not fine!” he bit back. “You’re not using that hand and the wound keeps weeping. You’re feeding my baby and obviously full of infection! It’s not fair on Phoe so we’re going in there and you’re being treated! Now move!”

  Hana dragged her feet into the clinic and sat waiting with a look of disdain on her face. “It’s fine!” she muttered, sulking like a teenager.

  “I think it needs to be re-stitched.” The nurse unwrapped the bandage and poked the soggy mess underneath. Hana’s heart sank.

  “Please, no!” she begged, snatching her hand back. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to come.” She glared at Logan.

  Her husband ignored her protests, dangling the car seat from his strong arm and rocking his snoozing daughter. The nurse left the cubicle. “I need the doctor to look at this,” she said, swishing the curtain closed behind her.

  “See what you did?” Hana’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to talk about it! They’ll want to know how it happened and I’ll have to tell them!”