The late spring sun felt good on Luka's shoulders. How far had he walked? He had come downtown to do some shopping - just to get out of the apartment for a while, really, and had just started walking. He'd found himself, somehow, by the water. The warm May air, the smell of the water, the laughter of kids playing in the park, all made him forget the ache in his leg, the fatigue that was beginning to drag at him. How long had it been since he had walked so far? How far had he come? Three miles? Five? Luka knew he should head for the nearest el station, start home before rush hour. But he didn't want to go home yet. There was nothing for him at home. Susan was working, wouldn't be home until after seven. Of course, there was really nothing for him anywhere any more. Two or three eight hour shifts a week - when he was well enough to work them. Two more infections in the past month; two more hospitalizations, both thankfully brief. And things were no better with Susan. No worse, but no better. He'd made no more progress, hadn't gone back to counseling after the last hospitalization. He just couldn't bear to talk about these things any more. Too much pain for too little gain. Maybe he would try again later. When he felt a little stronger.
Luka was still walking. He'd left the lakefront and was walking aimlessly through an unfamiliar neighborhood. He was exhausted. Maybe, he thought, he should try to find a phone (he'd left his cell at home), and call a cab. No, he could sit down and rest for a while. When he'd gotten his breath back he'd find an el station, or maybe someplace to find a bite to eat. He hadn't had lunch.
A set of broad stone steps. Luka sank down, stretching his aching leg out carefully in front of him. It took all his willpower to not stretch his body backwards on the steps and just fall asleep in the sunshine. Instead, he put his head in his hands and rested for a few moments, taking deep breaths. Of course he was tired. He'd walked for miles. Anyone would be tired. After a few minutes he summoned his strength, and managed to rise to his feet, groaning as his aching leg protested. The el station couldn't be very far. There were the tracks ... he'd follow them until he came to the nearest station. Then his eyes fell on the sign in front of the building where he'd been resting. "St. Charles' Catholic Church." He shouldn't have been surprised, and he really wasn't, of course. How many Catholic churches were there in Chicago? Dozens? Hundreds maybe. Oh well, it didn't matter. The steps had provided him with a place to rest, and he was grateful for that.
He started for the sidewalk - but found, inexplicably, that his feet were carrying him up the steps, not down. The doors were unlocked. A moment later he was inside. The room was dim and quiet and cool. It was quite a small church, much smaller than the one where he had visited Bishop Stewart.
Luka let his feet carry him forward. There was nobody here. His footsteps, the metallic click of his crutch were the only sounds; they echoed in the silent room. He made his way to the front pew and sat down. Why was he here? He had tried looking for answers from God. He had tried so many times. At Matenda, and several times since he'd come home again. He'd never found any answers. Even the one time he thought he had found them, from Father Francois in Kisangani, it had turned out that those hadn't been answers at all. Only more questions. God hadn't saved him, hadn't ended his pain. He'd only kept him alive, again, for more pain, and a slightly more prolonged death.
Footsteps startled him. Luka realized that he'd been sitting there for quite some time, with his eyes shut. "Can I help you?" He opened his eyes. The priest, a very young priest, was standing close beside him. For a moment, Luka felt a sense of panic. Many priests passed through the halls of the County ER; visiting patients, comforting the dying. Would this man know him? Looking at him, Luka thought he looked dimly familiar. Perhaps he'd seen him once or twice, years before. But he was too far out of County's neighborhood, and there was no hint of recognition in the young father's blue eyes, just concern.
"No," Luka said. "I just ..." he gestured helplessly, and was suddenly uncomfortable. He shouldn't be here. He reached for his crutch, prepared to rise.
The priest seemed to understand his unease. "Stay as long as you like. If you want to talk to someone, I'll be in my office. If not, God is always here, and He's listening."
"Thank you," Luka said, because he knew he should say something; give some answer.
He looked away from the priest, afraid that he would see the disbelief in his eyes. If God hadn't heard him before, when he was in agony, desperate ... how could he expect Him to hear his prayers, answer them now?
The priest left him alone again. Luka took a breath. Tried to think. He had come here for a reason. Why? What was he looking for? He could have headed for the el station, but instead he'd come, after so many years, back into a church, without anyone urging him. What might he find here that he hadn't found in months of counseling? In Susan's patient love?
What had helped him before, the one time he had found some comfort? When he'd been dying in Kisangani? Had it been the rituals? The confession? The taste of the wafer on his tongue? The gestures? The prayers? Had they brought him back to an earlier time ... a safer time?
Luka tried to pray. He couldn't kneel; his right leg no longer bent 90 degrees, no longer bore his weight, but he shut his eyes and tried to focus his thoughts ... to reach out. He tried to remember how he had felt in Kisangani, with Father Francois ... but as he spoke the words, he couldn't help but remember Matenda, saying those same words ... lying on the floor ... drowning in pain ... covered with flies. He tried to find God, but there was still only pain.
Finally, he rose stiffly and slipped the crutch over his arm. He looked from the main doors far behind him to the smaller door leading off to the side. A weary sigh, and he walked, his leg throbbing, his whole body aching, towards the side door. It surely led to the offices. He would ask the priest, if he was still there (it was quite late, surely he must have left without Luka noticing), to call a taxi for him.
The office door was open. The priest was reading at his desk. Luka got the sense that he had finished whatever work he had been doing long ago, but had stayed to see if Luka would come. The priest looked up, then stood up quickly, obviously registering the exhaustion and pain on Luka's face. He pushed the other chair slightly closer to the doorway, so Luka wouldn't have to walk so far.
"Come in. Sit down right here. I'm Father James."
Luka collapsed into the chair. "Luka."
"How can I help you today, Luka?"
For a moment, Luka couldn't answer. He was going to ask Father James to call a taxi. That was all. But what came out when he opened his mouth was. "You can't. Nobody can." And even he could hear the despair in his own voice.
"I don't think you believe that," Father James said gently. "You wouldn't be here if you believed that."
Luka shook his head slowly. "I'm lost," he whispered. "I don't where to turn anymore." He couldn't go on.
After a moment the priest asked, "You're Catholic, Luka?"
"I was ... raised Catholic. I haven't really ... haven't belonged to a church, gone to mass, for a very long time. My family, my wife and kids, they were killed in the war in Croatia. I stopped going then. Stopped ...believing then ... I tried a few times since ... but I just ... can't find ..."
Another long silence. Luka rubbed his wrists, his aching leg. Finally Father James asked, "So what brought you here today? What are you looking for?"
Luka looked at his hands. What to say? What could he tell this man? What could he hope to find help with? Comfort for? Nothing. Again, the realization that he shouldn't be here, but he was trapped now. He had to tell this earnest young man something. He so sincerely wanted to help, to prove that God could somehow help his pain, solve his problems.
And, suddenly, he was crying. Luka covered his face with his hands, trying in vain to hide the tears. Then his head sank down onto the desk, into his arms, and he gave in to the tears, for the first time in a very long time. In all his sessions with Brian, he had never allowed himself to cry.
Luka had no idea how long he cried. Somewhere during the time he heard Father James rise from his chair and move quietly around the room, heard small rustling noises and footsteps. When, finally, the tears stopped, when he had none left to cry, and he raised his head, Father James was sitting again in his chair, holding a cup of coffee. He pushed a second cup across the desk towards Luka.
"I can get you cream and sugar if you want."
"No. Black is fine. Thank you."
Hands shaking, Luka took the cup and sipped it, and the hot, bitter liquid steadied him a little. But he still couldn't talk, couldn't think of anything to say.
"Are you ill, Luka?" asked Father James after a minute. Luka was startled. How had he known? How had he read him so clearly? "You don't look well," the priest explained. Of course, it was obvious. The weight loss. His clothes hung on him.
"Yeah." Luka said finally. He took another sip of coffee. Would the priest still be as sympathetic when he heard? Or would he assume? Judge? "I'm dying. I probably won't live out the year. I have AIDS. I haven't been sick very long ... just diagnosed about 6 months ago. But it's been resisting the usual forms of treatment; there isn't much they can do for me."
"That must be very hard, Luka. I'm sorry." Only sympathy and concern. "Do you have any family or friends for support?"
"No family. My father and brother are still in Croatia ... and they don't know. I haven't told them. No close friends either, except my girlfriend. She's ... wonderful. The rest of my friends ... co-workers ..." a bitter smile. "I'm sure they'll show up at my funeral and say all the appropriate things."
"Your girlfriend is ... still well?"
Luka nodded. "I haven't ... given it to her, if that's what you mean. We haven't been together very long, and we haven't been ... intimate." He took a deep breath. There had still been only concern and caring from the priest. "I got the disease ... last year. I was ummm... " he focused on his hands. "I was assaulted ... raped ..." The words came almost easily this time. Perhaps he was just getting used to talking about it, after having talked to Carl, and Susan and Brian. Or perhaps it was something else.
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Luka climbed slowly out of the cab, every muscle screaming in protest. He handed the cabbie a wad of bills, and said "Keep it," dimly aware that he was probably giving him a very substantial tip.
"Need help upstairs?" asked the cabbie.
"No. I'm fine." He wasn't of course. He had actually fallen asleep in the cab. Father James had offered to drive him home after their talk, or call Susan to pick him up. But, after they'd talked for nearly two hours, Luka had finally done what he'd planned to do when he first went into the office, and just asked the priest to call a taxi.
The talking had brought him no answers, no miraculous healing. His pain, his trauma, was simply too far beyond the young priest's experience. The answers he had tried to offer had been mostly platitudes, the same ones that Luka had heard a dozen times before. But he had listened sympathetically, asked leading questions that encouraged Luka to talk. And, for hours, Luka had done just that, pouring out his pain, his anger at God, his grief and his fears. And he did feel a little bit better, as if he'd lanced an abscess, and some of the infection had drained away.
Father James had also urged Luka to come back to the church for mass, and had offered to visit him at home, had given him his card and told him he could call any time. Not that Luka would do it, of course. He couldn't go back to this church, anyway. While it had helped to have talked, he knew he wouldn't be able to face Father James again. He knew too much now. But maybe he'd try another. There were, after all, hundreds of Catholic churches in Chicago.
The light was on upstairs. Susan was there. Luka fumbled for his key, then gave up and hit the bell. A moment later the intercom came on. "Is that you, Luka?"
"Yeah ... can you let me in?" The door buzzed as it unlocked, and Luka opened it and practically fell through it. Susan was holding the apartment door open when he got to it, and got her arms around him to support him as he stumbled, exhausted, into the apartment.
"Where have you been?" she asked. "I've been worried sick!"
"I wasn't aware that I had to account for my every move." Luka said irritably. "I went out."
"You could have called ..."
"I left my phone at home."
"There are no pay phones in all of Chicago?"
"Look... I'm fine. If I wasn't, the hospital would have called you, right? You are the emergency contact name in my wallet. Now, I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed."
"You should eat something first."
"I need to sleep." Luka stumbled into the bedroom and fell into bed and was asleep.
