Luka rolled over and looked at the clock. 6:30. Susan was still asleep. He got up quietly, but not quietly enough. Susan opened her eyes, squinted at the clock.
"You're up early," she said sleepily.
"You can stay in bed."
"Do you have a shift?"
"No; I'm just going to go out for a while."
"Out where? It's Sunday, Luka."
"I know."
Susan sat up, pulling the covers around her. "Is everything ok?"
"Yes, everything's fine." Luka smiled at her. "Just go back to sleep."
Luka showered quickly, shaved, and dressed. He had to search for a shirt that didn't look like a sack on him anymore. He had to get some new clothes, he thought. Stopping by the bed, he gave Susan a quick kiss on the top on her head. She'd been sleepily watching him dress. "I'll bring us back something for breakfast," he told her, then took his crutch and headed out.
Two blocks to the el station, up the long flight of stairs. The sign outside the church had said there was an 8 o: clock mass.
At ten minutes to eight he was standing at the foot of the broad stone steps again. People hurried past him, up the steps and through the open doors; mostly older people, alone, but some couples, and a few families with children, and a few younger single people. Luka watched them go. Some bumped into him as they passed him, and mumbled politely "Excuse me."
Could he do this? Aside from the service he'd attended while caring for Bishop Stewart, and a few weddings and funerals, it had been over a decade since he'd actually been inside a church during a service. And if he did it, would it make a difference? Or would it just be a waste of time - of his increasingly precious time.
Luka took a deep breath and climbed the steps, and stood for a moment in the doorway.
The church looked very different than it had a few days earlier. It wasn't anywhere near full, this was obviously a small congregation, and there were several services that day. More people would probably come to later masses. But there were quite a few people there, talking to each other, greeting each other, smiling. There were candles, and he could see Father James up near the altar, talking to someone.
Luka entered the church, remembered to cross himself with the holy water, dipped his knee slightly; took a seat in an empty pew near the back. People walked past him, smiled at him politely, warmly. Then a woman about his age said "May I sit here?"
"Yes." Luka obligingly slid further along the pew to make room for her.
"I could have taken the inner seat," she said. "If you prefer the aisle."
"No, you would have had to climb over my leg. It doesn't bend very well. This is easier. Trust me."
"I'm Beverly. I don't think I've seen you here before."
"Luka."
"Are you visiting, Luka? From Europe, perhaps?"
"No, I live in Chicago. I just haven't been here before."
"I hope you'll like it well enough to come back. It's quite a nice little church."
And the mass began.
It was different than he remembered, Or perhaps it was that he was different. He was certainly a very different person than he had been the last time he had been to a mass. But it was also the same as he remembered. The language was different, of course; English rather than Croatian. And they seemed to stand more than he remembered, and kneel less. (Not that he was ungrateful for that part.) But the rhythm of the liturgy was the same, some of the melodies were what he remembered. And they took him back to an earlier time; a safer time. In church with his mother as a small child. With Danijela and his children as a young man.
And suddenly he was trembling, and wiping his eyes.
A gentle touch on his arm, and a questioning look from Beverly.
"I'm ok," he whispered.
When it was time to go for communion, Luka hesitated. Should he go? The last time had been in Kisangani, when he'd had Last Rites. He still remembered that so clearly - strange that he should - as sick and feverish as he had been, the memory should have been lost in a fog of illness and delirium. Would this bring back less pleasant memories than that? (As if the memory of preparing for death could be thought pleasant - but then, what was he doing here, if not trying to do that again? Was he preparing to face death again, or trying, again, to face what was left of his life?) And he hadn't been to confession. You were supposed to go to confession first - though his long talk with Father James could, perhaps, be considered a reasonable substitute. He had certainly confessed enough. What was he afraid of? That he would stand out? People would look at him? Stare? And Father James would definitely see him. Could he face him?
People were going up. It was now or never. Luka rose. He didn't need his crutch for the short walk.
The service was over. People were getting up to leave. Luka just sat.
"Are you ok?" asked Beverly.
"Yeah. I'm just going to wait for the crowd to thin a little bit."
"Can I drop you somewhere? I have my car."
"No, it's only a few blocks to the el. I really do get around a lot better than you might think."
"It's no trouble, really."
Luka smiled. "Didn't your mother ever teach you that you shouldn't pick up strange men?"
Beverly smiled back. "Ah, but the ones you meet in church are usually safe enough."
"Really, no thank you. I'm fine. The exercise is good for me. My leg stiffens up if I don't use it."
"Well, will I see you back here next week?"
Luka hesitated. "I ... I'm not sure. Maybe."
"I hope I will," Beverly said, and left him with another smile.
The crowd was starting to thin. Luka got up wearily. Was it really only 9 a.m.? He made his way towards the door. Father James was there, speaking briefly to each parishioner as they left. His eyes were warm when he saw Luka, his handshake firm.
"I'm glad you could join us, Luka," he said. Luka just nodded and turned to face the long flight of stairs. He had passed an interesting looking bakery on the way from the el station. Maybe he would stop there and buy something for breakfast.
On the el, his bag of pastries safely on his lap, Luka shut his eyes. Had it made a difference? Had God been there for him today? Everyone had certainly been kind enough to him. He smiled to himself. If it hadn't been for the very conspicuous wedding band on her left hand, he might have mistaken Beverly's kindness for something rather less innocent. But yes, he did feel better. Like a layer of dirt had been peeled from his skin ... from his spirit. And he was tired, but it was a good kind of tired.
His stop. He stopped into his favorite coffee shop and bought two large coffees, then headed for home.
Susan was up and dressed. Luka put his purchases on the table. "Coffee, and an assortment of fascinating looking pastries. I have no idea what's inside of any of them, but they looked and smelled wonderful."
Susan ran to get plates. "You are in a good mood."
Luka smiled. "Yeah, I guess I am."
"Is it related to your mysterious crack-of-dawn errand? I know you didn't go out just to get me breakfast."
"I ... I don't know yet. Maybe."
They sat down to eat. For a few minutes the conversation focused on the breakfast. Then, abruptly, Luka said, "I went to church. To mass." Susan's only response was a surprised look. "The other night, when I was out so late - when you were so worried - I'd gone to the church. I talked to the priest for a while, hoped I could find some answers ... some peace. It helped a little, but he also encouraged me to come to mass. I decided to try; I didn't know if it would help, but I thought it couldn't hurt."
"I think it did help, Luka," said Susan.
"You think so?"
"I know that you've smiled more in the past 15 minutes than you have in the past week, and I don't think it's entirely due to the pastries, as wonderful as they might be."
"I just ..." Luka looked down, feeling his good mood starting to fade away. "I don't want to hope too much. I'm afraid to hope too much. I thought it had helped before, and it didn't. Not really."
"You have to hope," Susan said gently. "That's all you have right now. And I like seeing you smile. If hope will let you smile, I'm all in favor of it."
