THE REVELATION OF JOAN
Chapter 2 The Gospel According to Luke
My wife, Grace, asked me to write this stage of the narrative, and I suppose it makes sense, even though she's the professional. Both Einstein and the quantum theorists agree that the Observer is important, and I observed some events more closely than she did.
Of course, I had known Joan for longer than she had. When I had born, my family couldn't devote their attention to me because Joan was trying to walk and falling down. When it was my turn to try and walk, Joan was entering the Terrible Twos. When I was two, Joan was driving everyone to distraction talking about an imaginary friend called YaYa. And so on.
It took me years to realize that Joan wasn't doing it on purpose. Rather, I was in the rather fluky situation of having been born just a year after my older sister, about as quickly as was biologically possible. Whenever I started to have problems, my parents had just been through them with Joan, and while it meant they were more experienced, it also meant that they were tired of them.
When I got to be ten, the dynamic changed. Kevin, who was five years older than me, was in high school, and it was clear that he was going to be a star athlete, exactly what Dad wanted, and a chip off the old block, which was what Mom wanted. Not only was I in the shade, but Joan was thrown there with me.
At this point the most important experience of my life occurred. I happened to pick up a science textbook that Kevin had thrown aside, and read through it. Suddenly I realized: the universe was not random. Everything in it was supposed to make sense; it WOULD make sense if one dug deep enough. Then I realized that I had the ability to dig deeper than either Joan or Kevin could. I had a mission in life, a mission of my own that my older siblings could not take away. And once I realized that Joan was no longer a rival when important things were concerned, I realized something else. I loved my sister.
Which was why I was having an awkward conversation with her in the middle of the night that summer in 2005. I thought I understood part of the situation: she had gotten herself a new boyfriend, to replace Adam. But I had known Adam for two years, and even then hadn't anticipated that he would mess her up. I knew nothing about this new guy, and not knowing important things scared me.
"Who were you talking to out there, Joan?"
"None of your business!"
"I think it is?"
"Why? Because you think your womenfolk should be kept in a puree?
"That's 'purdah', and no. I'm a man whose mother was once a victim of rape, and wants to spare his sister the same ordeal."
Her eyes opened wide as she realized where I was coming from. "So you think-- it's not like that at all, Luke."
"That's what you said with Ramsey. Then he took you to a junkyard and tried to shoot Dad when he came to rescue you. Look, if you've gotten over Adam and found a new guy, fine. But why won't you tell the family who it is?"
"It's not -- oh, crap." She fell silent for a moment, and I waited. But the next sentence was a complete surprise. "Luke, you once told me you believed in God."
"What does THAT have to do with this?"
She drew a deep breath, as if knowing the next speech was crucially important. "Because I was talking to God. I've been talking to God for nearly two years. Back when you thought I was ill and hearing voices, I was really talking to God."
"No. It can't be."
"But you said--"
"I said I believed in God, as the creative principle giving order to the universe. I don't believe in a God that stands on my front porch."
"'There are more things in Heaven and Earth--'"
"'-- then are dreamt of in your philosophy', yeah." I remembered Friedmann quoting that from Hamlet, during his pathetic attempts to win over Judith. "Hamlet was talking about a ghost. I don't believe in ghosts either."
Joan opened her mouth and then closed it again, as if she had considered arguing that point but then decided it wasn't worth it. Great. She believed in ghosts.
Suddenly I remembered Grace's quote about "seven days", and realized that I had the wrong idea. This wasn't about a boyfriend. Joan said she was talking to God and really believed it, because that's what the guy was telling her. Joan had gotten caught up in a cult.
"I'm going to talk to Mom and Dad," I declared, feeling that this was beyond me.
The effect on Joan was frightening. She rushed forward, grasping me by the arms, and tears welled up in her eyes. "Luke, no! They'll put me in Crazy Camp again -- or worse. I can't lose another summer from my life!"
"Um -- okay," I tried to concentrate, which usually wasn't a problem with me. "OK, let's make a deal. You must promise not to talk with this god person for a week. And I won't tell Mom or Dad for the same period. At the end of the week, we get together again."
"Suppose he insists on talking to me during the week?"
"Tell him to go away. That you made a solemn promise. If he won't respect that, then maybe he doesn't deserve your loyalty."
Joan calmed down and thought it over. Finally: "I promise"
Mom came back about 20 minutes later. Joan and I were standing on the stairs. "So what happened, Mom?" asked Joan.
Mom looked flustered. "It was, ah, personal. I think Grace would rather tell you two herself, rather than hearing it from me. I hope you didn't stay up just to hear that."
"No, we just talked," I said.
"What about?" she said casually.
I wrestled with conflicting imperatives, and finally came out with a single word. "Stuff."
Joan kissed me after Mom had turned away. Somehow that made it seem worthwhile.
We had planned, the next morning, to have a nice organized breakfast for Grace's sake. But Grace wasn't here, and everybody's sleep schedule was messed up, so each of us ended up coming down as we chose. Joan was last; she was fully dressed, and headed for the front door.
"Where are you going?" I called out.
"Bookstore," she said. "I've got a job, you know."
"Make sure you get something to eat, honey," said Mom, predictably.
"Yeah. Cool." She called from the porch.
I had forgotten about the bookstore. If she stayed home, I could keep an eye out for cultists and other suspicious people. But what could I do with Joan at the bookstore?
Peruse books, of course.
I gobbled the rest of my breakfast down. "I'm going to the bookstore, too. To do some, um, research."
"OK," she said. "At least you're improving your mind. I think you should be looking for a summer job. When Joan was your age --" she stopped, obviously reconsidering whether it was a good idea to hold up Joan as a role model. "Nothing."
Joan was not at all pleased to see me at the bookstore, guessing at my motives. But apparently she didn't want to create a scene or rehash last night's argument. "Just sit in the corner, there, and don't scare off any customers. I ought to make you buy a book, too."
I did buy a book, to feel less guilty, but I made sure it was something I wanted, called "Understanding Physics". And though I only intended to use it as cover for being here, I actually found myself getting fascinated by it. I was used to finding information in pieces on the web and trying them together myself. Here was an orderly exposition of a subject of great importance to me, with a vivid and single personality behind it-- but I digress.
Various people came in and out of the bookshop during the day, and they all looked pretty honest. I was starting to feel like I had over-reacted, and wondered if I should apologize to Joan. Then, shortly before closing time, a big bruiser who looked like a hit man from the SOPRANOS walked in.
"Can I help you?" asked Joan dutifully.
"I'm lookin' for some love poetry." He bellowed out.
"Love poetry in general, or something specific?"
"There's a poem that begins, how do I love thee, lemme count the ways."
"That's Elizabeth Barret Browning, SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE." Joan usually wasn't that quick with a source, but she had done a term paper on romantic poets a few months ago, back before her own romance had soured. "Let me show you."
They went back to another section of the store, where I couldn't see them. I dithered about whether to follow them. After all, I might be misjudging the guy. After five minutes, I decided to look into it, on pretence of looking for another book.
They were in a corner, and they definitely weren't talking about sonnets.
"I made a promise, a vow. Don't you understand vows? So many of them end 'so help me God'."
"A vow is a sacrifice of free will, Joan, and we've always been about free will. But once taken, a vow should be kept."
"Then why are you here?"
"That's a good question," I said. "Quit bothering my sister, or I'll -- I'll slug you."
"Luke, don't!" shouted Joan.
The SOPRANOS guy looked down on me. He was a few inches taller than me, but somehow he seemed to be looking down on me from a much greater height. "I like your protectin' your sister. But fisticuffs are not your thing, kid. Cultivate your other virtues, like that great brain of yours." And with no further ado he turned around and walked out of the store, when I had expected him to beat me up.
"What just happened?" I asked. "Was he--?"
"Yeah. And I tried to keep my promise."
"I know. I'm not blaming you." But before we could continue, my cell phone went off. "Hello?"
"Dude, it's me. I need you." Grace sounded very upset.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't want you talking about it on a cell. You gotta come over."
Grace had almost never asked for help before, and on the one occasion that she had, when Adam got lost, I had royally screwed up and nearly wrecked our relationship. I was not about to make the same mistake again. So with a vague explanation to Joan, I got in my car and drove to Grace's house.
She greeted me at the door, and pulled me in. "My Mom's in the hospital. I've been there all day, until Dad sent me home."
"Is it serious?"
"What do you think? Alcohol poisoning."
"But I thought she gave up drinking, back during your bat mizvah."
"Yeah. But apparently she took it up again after the synagogue was attacked. She couldn't take that."
And with that, she started pouring out her soul to me. She had never had this overwhelming urge to talk before because, by the time she had let me into the secret of her mother's drinking, the mother seemed to be on the mend.
She told me of the overwhelming pressure of trying to be the perfect rabbinical family when she was really living with an alcoholic mother and a father in denial. She had only had Adam to talk to -- and now that Adam was in the doghouse, she was talking to me.
"I decided to be a Bad Girl -- let outsiders know that something was wrong, if I couldn't say what."
It was the suicide of Adam's mother that finally jolted her into examining the relationships more fully -- to realize that deep down, she loved her parents in spite of their flaws.
We talked into the night. I sensed that Grace was exhausted and urged her to get in bed, but she still wanted to talk. That created a bit of a problem, because there was nowhere in her bedroom for me to sit, besides the bed itself.
"Just get in, dude. I trust you."
"I'm not sure I trust me. I've never been in bed with a girl before, but I've heard--"
"Yikes, don't tell me all the locker room stories. There's a trick I've seen on TV. I lie under a sheet, you lie on top. We can't actually make contact without getting out and remaking the bed. Which we won't."
"So near and yet so far. Wow, what an interesting application of topology."
"If thinking about topology makes you feel less horny, OK."
So I got in and turned out the light. I could still hear her voice in the darkness.
"I used to think I was a good hater. Society, big corporations, authority, Vice-Principal Price. But I've never hated anybody like I do that arsonist, for messing up Mom."
"I don't think you should go there, Grace."
"Really? What about these creeps who are screwing around with your sister? Don't you hate them?"
That, I realized, was a good question.
Morning finally arrived. Grace finally let me go; in the cold light of day, she realized somebody from the synagogue might come by the house, find me in her bedroom, and jump to the wrong conclusions. I thought of driving home, then realized that I would be facing awkward questions about where I'd been all night. Joan knew I was visiting Grace, and would probably jump to the wrong conclusions herself.
Instead I drove to the Catholic church where Father Ken preached. As I entered I realized that my T-shirt and jeans looked rumpled, after a night in bed. But few people knew me here, and they'd probably think I was into grunge.
The church was full of people doing repair work. I spotted Sister Lily, looking over some papers; I didn't particularly want to get her attention. Finally I recognized Father Ken, by the clerical collar and my mother's general description.
"Father, I'd like to make a confession."
"Fine, go to the confessional booths and I'll join you in a minute."
"Um, I don't know where they are. I'm not a member. I'm not even sure I'm Catholic. So if you don't want to listen--"
"No, that's all right; just give me a minute to talk to Lily."
A few minutes later, as promised, we were in the booth. I started off awkwardly, "Bless me, father, for I have sinned. Or I'm about to."
"About to?"
"It's about my sister." I knew I didn't have to name names, and thought it was a good idea not to. Father Ken knew my mother; I didn't want him to think the whole family was dysfunctional. "She's into some sort of cult. I don't know the right thing to do. Would it be wrong of me to intervene, or to stand aside?"
"Since you say you are not Catholic," said Father Ken, "I'll refrain from interpreting this in terms of official doctrine. What does the cult teach?"
"Teach? I don't know."
"Cult is basically a subjective term, used for groups one disapproves of. The early Christians were regarded by the ancient Romans as a sinister cult. Before they were integrated into the Church, movements like St. Francis' and St. Teresa's were probably considered cults by the orthodox. The real question is, is the cult or its teachings harmful to your sister? 'By their fruits ye shall know them'."
"I don't know."
"Try to learn more before acting, unless an emergency comes up. If you want guidance in interpreting what you find out, I can help you, though of course my advice will be influenced by my own beliefs."
"Thank you, father."
Learn more, and don't prejudge. I should have thought of that myself. Even the messiest events of daily life may clear up once you use your mind.