Luke sat in an empty pew at the back of the church and clung to his bible. There were no other congregants, only an assortment of children at the front waiting for choir practice, and the organist playing heavy chords. He had known there was no service but had nonetheless left work early. Deeply uncharacteristic, particularly on a day in which everything was going wrong and he was being looked to for solutions. Luke Hunter, who always had the answers. His Blackberry vibrated in his pocket. It might be Vera. It might be John, or his mother. It might be work. It might be all kinds of people for whom he didn’t have answers. Who he couldn’t help. Who he had failed.
Or pushed away. He knew that if he pushed too hard, Vera might never come back to him. They were slipping, slipping, further and further and in opposite directions. He longed to grab her arms, to wrap them around him inside his coat like she used to, to bury himself within them, to never let go. But he didn’t know how to do it. He didn’t know how to deal with her secret, with her son. It wasn’t the sex so much, or the pregnancy. The thought of both was like a thump, hard against his chest. But it wasn’t those things; it was the running away, the abandonment, the abandonment of her flesh and blood. And the continuation of that abandonment. He could understand, almost, barely, a hormone-fuelled, fearful, momentary collapse. But now she was a Christian, and an adult, and supported - why didn’t she want to find the child now? Why didn’t she have that strength? Why didn’t she even talk about him? If only she’d ask, he would support her, he’d be the father, he’d adopt. But it was without the excuse of youth that she continued to shut him out, and cut off her parents, and think nothing of her somewhere son.
Now, when her hand crept onto his arm or his shoulder, her nervous, tentative touch only reminded him of frailty. And so of his mother. And filled him with anger and umbrage. And perhaps Vera sensed this, because lately she seemed to have stopped reaching for him altogether, and didn’t notice the needy twitch of his own useless limbs.
Luke clung harder to the closed book in his hand. The children at the front had started to sing along with the organ and the noise was unexpectedly stifling. Luke heard a door opening and the priest entering the hall. He stood up, clutching still to the bible. By the time he reached the car, his fingers were bone white.