Crucifax

by Ray Garton

  The house was always busy with activity—some of the kids even lived there—but it came to life around midafternoon as they finished up their classes and began to gather for the afternoon meeting.

  It was a large four-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood on Lamona Street in Sherman Oaks. Bainbridge knew the property manager well; he was a Christian who strongly supported Bainbridge's work with teenagers, so he'd offered the house at half the normal rent, which was easily paid with each month's acquired donations. Mrs. Wanamaker, a widow from Northridge, spent most of her time at the house cooking for them, keeping it tidy, and helping Bainbridge with organizational details. She was constantly smiling. She was of medium height—nearly as wide as she was tall— with rosy cheeks, fluttering hands, and graying hair. Lately she had been complaining of noises in the walls, frightened by the possibility of encountering a mouse. Bainbridge had set out poison, but Mrs. Wanamaker insisted she still heard them. He feared he might have to call an exterminator, an expense the group could not easily afford.

  Bainbridge sat on the edge of his desk as the teenagers came in and found seats on the chairs and beanbags and cushions that were arranged in a half circle. Most of the furniture had been donated by parents or collected at garage sales and Goodwill stores, but it served its purpose.

  His chest filled with pride as he watched his kids gather in the main room. They were clean, neatly dressed, healthy, and brave enough to surrender their lives and souls openly to their Lord, willing to risk the ridicule and rejection of their friends and families. In this day and age, Bainbridge often thought, that was an act of bravery.

  He counted fourteen kids in the room and decided to get started.

  "Good afternoon," he said with a smile.

  Scattered greetings came from the group.

  Bainbridge stood and pulled up a chair, seating himself at the front of the semicircle with his Bible in his lap. He leaned toward a chubby black girl to his left and said, "Brenda, could you go in the back and get the others?"

  She stood and headed for the bedrooms to get the five teenagers—three boys and two girls—who lived in the house.

  The bell over the front door jingled again, and Bainbridge quickly swept his eyes over the group to see who was missing. Calvary Youth had a membership of thirty-one, but he'd split them up into two groups for convenience. They gathered together each weekend, but today there were to be only fifteen, not counting the residents. When he realized who was missing, his throat tightened just a bit because he knew who was coming in the door.

  Nikki Astin.

  She stood in the doorway a moment, her usual warm smile gone. Her face looked long, her eyes worried as she slowly closed the door, avoiding his eyes as she crossed the room. As she drew closer, sitting across from him, he realized her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying. He wanted to ask her if anything was wrong but couldn't bring himself to speak to her.

  Bainbridge's stomach ached with guilt. Since last July, each time he saw her he sent up a silent prayer for forgiveness, at the same time remembering with a shiver of pleasure that first muggy night he'd taken her into his bed….

  And the second…

  And, a little less than a month ago—

  Please, God, forgive me my weaknesses, my loneliness….

  —the last time in that wretched motel room.

  He took a deep breath and smiled at her, trying to keep his lips from trembling and his eyes from wandering.

  Brenda returned with the others, and Mrs. Wanamaker came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and took a seat.

  "All right," Bainbridge said, "I think that's everyone. I hope the week has gone well for all of you so far. Uh, today we're going on a field trip. I expect we'll be gone for a couple hours or so. Is that a problem for anyone? Do you have any other plans?"

  They responded with "no's" and "uh-uh's" and shaking heads.

  Four or five times each week they went to different locations in the Valley where teenagers were likely to be found—sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes in the evening—and passed out literature, spread the Word, and, if nothing else, tried to make the community more aware of Calvary Youth.

  "Before we go," Bainbridge said, "I think we should turn to the scriptures for some guidance and encouragement. Today I've chosen a verse from Corinthians. It's one we've read and talked about before, but I think it's a good one to keep in mind as we go about our work. It's from the second book, verse eleven, King James. Tor we which live are always delivered unto death for Jesus's sake, that the life also of Jesus might be made manifest in our mortal flesh.'" He looked from one young face to another and said, "Any ideas as to what that might mean? How about you, Jim? You're very literary. Any thoughts?"

  Jim was curled up in a worn, overstuffed chair, frowning. After a moment of silence, he said, "Sounds like it wants us to kill ourselves so Christ can replace us. Take us over. Like in Invasion of the Body Snatchers or something."

  Bainbridge coughed behind a knuckle and said, "Well, I think you're on the right track there. You see, in order for Christ to be able to live within us, we must let our earthly life end. We must 'die,' so to speak, so that He can enter us fully and live within our mortal bodies."

  "So we die," Jim said, sitting up straighter in the chair. "Our, um, personalities, like, die, right?"

  "Well… once we surrender ourselves to Christ, we have new personalities, pure and—"

  "So, like, what's wrong with the personality we started with, huh?"

  "Jim. You're raising your voice."

  "Well? If God wants us to kill our personalities, why'd he put 'em there in the first place?"

  "Jim. Please go to your room until you've calmed dovn."

  Bainbridge watched the boy stubbornly make his way down the hall, wondering what had gotten into him.

  "Well, then. As I was saying. Let's keep that thought in mind as we go out to witness for Him today and in the days to come.

  "Now, I know it's raining outside," he went on, "but we can't let a little bad weather stand in the way of God's work, can we?"

  The teenagers shook their heads; some replied, "No"; Mrs. Wanamaker replied with an enthusiastic "A-men!"

  "Make sure all of you have your Calvary Youth badges. If you didn't bring yours, we have spares. Now, today we're going to the Ventura Care Center, a clinic that performs scores of abortions every month. Most of these abortions are performed on teenage girls." He looked from one face to another, pausing for effect. "This is a very controversial subject, as I'm sure you know, and we're not going to please some people with our stand against it. It has become a powerful tool for the devil in our society. It's an easy way out, a way of committing the sin of premarital, or even extramarital, sex without having to face the consequences. Before we go, I want you all to be aware of—" He stumbled on his words when he glanced at Nikki. Her face was red, her eyes glistening, nostrils flaring; she was looking directly at him. "—of our feelings on the issue of abortion." He opened his Bible. "We've gone over this before, but I think it's a good idea to—"

  Nikki stood and left the room quickly, heading down the hall.

  Bainbridge exchanged a glance with Mrs. Wanamaker. She sniffed and started out of her chair to follow Nikki.

  "No," he said quietly, "let me." He turned to a boy with tightly curled red hair and handed him the Bible. "Here, David, you're familiar with this material. The pages are marked, and the verses are underlined. Just read them, maybe talk about them a bit. I'll be right back."

  "Sure," the boy said.

  Bainbridge went down the hall, looking in each door as he passed.

  "Nikki?" he called softly.

  The bathroom light was on; the door was open a crack. He knocked with one knuckle.

  "Nikki? What's wrong?"

  He heard her sob and pressed the door open, peering in.

  She was sitting on the edge of the tub, leaning against the wall with her face buried in a hand towel.

  "Nikk
i?"

  "Please go away."

  "Tell me what's wrong." His throat was suddenly dry, and he wished he'd let Mrs. Wanamaker handle this. He had a bad feeling about it. "Would you like to stay here today instead of going on the field trip?"

  She sobbed into the towel again.

  "Are you ill, Nikki?" he asked, stepping toward her.

  "I can't go today," she muttered.

  "All right. But what's wrong? Are you sick?"

  Her sob turned into a bitter laugh. "I can't go because I… it wouldn't be right."

  "What wouldn't be right?"

  "Me going to an abor—abortion clinic."

  His blood chilled; he couldn't find his voice.

  Something chittered within the wall facing Bainbridge.

  Nikki raised her eyes to him. They were swollen and red; some of her brown bangs clung to her eyelashes and bobbed when she blinked.

  "I'm pregnant," she whispered. "I wasn't sure at first, but now…"

  Bainbridge leaned against the edge of the sink, feeling weak. "How long?" he asked, thinking it was a stupid question.

  "About eight weeks… or so."

  "Dear Lord," he muttered. Tugging at his lower lip nervously, his words were slurred when he asked, "Who… who is the father?"

  Nikki laughed humorlessly, squeezed her eyes shut, and began crying again as she said, "Who do you think? I haven't been with anyone else!"

  Bainbridge put down the toilet lid and slowly lowered himself onto it, shaking his head as he prayed silently:

  Father in heaven, please let this be a mistake, please don't let this be the truth, dear Lord, I know I've sinned and I am dreadfully, dreadfully sorry and I beg your forgiveness, but Father, please don't let this happen now that I've come this far with the group, with these kids, don't… let… this… happen.

  Nikki said, "I… I can't have the… the baby."

  "What do you mean, you… oh, Nikki, no, you can't do that. You can't. It's a horrible sin, Nikki, a moral crime."

  "What we did… wasn't that a sin?"

  "Well, yes, but—"

  "You said God would be forgiving, understanding, because you've done so much work in His name, that He would understand you were a lonely man, too busy with His work to find a wife, and—"

  "I know, Nikki, I know what I said, but—"

  "Well, He didn't understand, and now He's punishing us. Me, He's punishing me." Her words were strangled with her effort to keep her voice down.

  Bainbridge reached out to her, held her shoulder in a firm grip.

  "Nikki, listen to me. Get yourself cleaned up, take your time, but make yourself presentable. Then come with us to the clinic. Listen to us, think about what you would be doing if you went through with that. Think hard. You don't have to participate. We'll talk later, you and I, we'll pray about it. We'll ask the Lord's guidance."

  "No, I can't go, I can't—"

  "Yes. Please."

  She rubbed the towel up and down over her face, pulled her shoulder away from him, and stood, saying, "Okay."

  J.R. remained in his office after his last appointment of the day, elbows on his desk, face in his hands, staring at, but not seeing, the sports section of the LA. Times, burning with frustration. He looked up when he heard a knock at his door and saw Faye Beddoe smiling through the glass pane. He gestured for her to come in.

  "You don't look so good, Junior," Faye chuckled, closing the door behind her. She'd started calling him Junior the first week of school because, as she said, "That's what J.R. spells, no?"

  "Bad day," he said.

  "Yes, I heard the shouting all the way down the hall. Were the parents shouting at their son, at you, or at each other?"

  "All of the above."

  "Ah."

  "Jesus, Faye, the kid's upset about his parents getting a divorce. Naturally his grades and attendance are going to be affected. But they think it's MTV, too much rock and roll, too much sex in movies—Christ, the only people they didn't blame were God, the Russians, and—"

  "And themselves, of course."

  "I suggested some family counseling, maybe, but no. They want to send him away."

  "Away?"

  "To the Laurel Teen Center." J.R.'s voice was ripe with bitterness.

  "Ah, yes, Laurel Teen Center. Are you familiar with it?"

  "Not exactly, but I have a pretty good idea what it is. When I was teaching up north, it wasn't uncommon for parents to send their kids to a place called the Walston Care Unit, one of those institutions that labels everything, including the most perfectly natural problems of adolescence and growing up in general, as mental illness. I assume this is one of those places."

  "Exactly," Faye said, taking a long, brown-wrapped cigarette from her purse and lighting up. "Most of their programs are covered by insurance. An easy way out for parents who are not willing to deal with their children's problems. Sometimes their own problems." She glanced around the small office. "Ashtray?"

  J.R. put an empty Styrofoam cup on the corner of the desk and cracked the window open.

  "Those institutions have become quite a big business," Faye went on, exhaling a plume of smoke. "In fact, around here they've become chic. And as distasteful as you may find them to be, my friend, there is nothing you or I can do. It's in the hands of the parents."

  "And they're passing it to the hands of the Laurel Teen Center. You know what the mother said before they left? She said, 'Our insurance is so good, we can keep Mel in there until he's nineteen.' That's almost four years!" He stood and leaned against the wall beside the window. "Most of those kids… all they need is a friend. Whether it's a parent, a teacher, or a counselor—hell, even a janitor—just a friend, an adult they can respect and trust, who will accept them without conditions. But when I try to be that friend, something always gets in the way."

  "And if something didn't get in the way, it still wouldn't be any easier. By the time those kids reach high school, they're suspicious of adults who want to be their friends." She chuckled sardonically. "You get stung by the bees enough times, you stay away from the hive."

  For a moment, the office was silent but for the sound of rainfall outside the window. J.R. pressed his back against the wall, chewed his lip, and stared at the floor, shaking his head, feeling angry and a little defeated.

  "Don't let it eat you, Junior," Faye said. "Because it will. You're doing the best you can; that's all you can do."

  "Yeah," he muttered, "I suppose so."

  "You can also let me buy you a beer. Let's get out of here; it's Friday."

  Jeff worked three days a week at Dangerous Visions, a science fiction bookstore on Ventura in Sherman Oaks. Sometimes he helped his boss Lydia sort through incoming used books, sometimes he stocked shelves with new arrivals. Today he was slumped in the chair behind the cash register thumbing through a copy of the L.A. Weekly. Lydia was in the back room going through a box of old pulp magazines that had arrived yesterday. A Eurythmics album was playing on the stereo with the volume low. Two little boys who reeked of grape bubble gum were at the shelf across from the register browsing through the comic books, laughing at the busty, scantily clad women on the covers.

  To Jeff's left was the store's entrance, a glass door with a large window on either side. Outside, the day was cold and wet and gray as old, dead skin. Wind blew in gusts, tossing the rain in every direction, splashing it against the windows so it ran down the panes in small, restless waves, casting liquidy shadows through the store.

  When the door opened, Jeff looked up with his usual come-on-in-and-browse but immediately straightened up in his chair and put the magazine down when he saw it was Lily.

  "Hey," she said with a big smile, closing her umbrella as she came inside. "How's the book business?"

  "Pays for my gas," he said. "What are you doing out in the rain?"

  "I promised my friend I'd drive her home. My friend Nikki? She called about an hour ago and wanted to know if I could come get her. I thought I'd come in here and
see you."

  "Where is she?"

  Lily pointed out the window.

  Jeff walked around the counter to the door and looked diagonally across the street.

  A white van with calvary youth painted on the side was parked at the curb in front of the Ventura Care Center. Reverend Bainbridge stood on the sidewalk beneath an umbrella, his small frame swallowed by a dark green raincoat. Standing around him, holding umbrellas in one hand and literature in the other, were more than a dozen young members of Calvary Youth.

  "They're harping on abortion today," Lily said. "See the girl standing at the back of the van? That's Nikki."

  "Did she try to convert you over dinner last night?"

  Lily rolled her eyes. "God, she's got problems."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah, she…" Lily hesitated. "I probably shouldn't… oh, well, you don't know her, right? She's pregnant." She folded her arms, watching the group across the street, shaking her head sympathetically. "She hasn't told the father yet, whoever that is. She wouldn't tell me."

  "What's she gonna do?"

  "She wants to have an abortion." She chuckled humorlessly. "And there they are in front of the clinic. She felt guilty enough already. An abortion is just gonna make her feel worse, 'cause they think it's a horrible sin. That's all he does, you know? That Calvary guy, what's-his-face? Makes them feel guilty about everything, then promises them heaven. I'm so sure."

  "What'll they do if they find out?"

  "Probably tell her she's gonna burn in hell. Pregnant girls aren't allowed in heaven. Neither are girls who've had abortions. You know, she told me they…" She squinted, leaning toward the door. "Well, look who's here."

  Jeff followed her gaze across the street to the van.

  Mace stood at the back of the van beside Nikki. The wind blew his hair around in long strands, like white worms squirming from his skull.

  "Oh, shit," Jeff muttered.

  "What's the matter? Oh, yeah, he followed you yesterday, didn't he? I saw him. Is he, like, selling something?"

  Jeff said nothing, just watched.

  Nikki wore a long tweed coat, which she held together in front with her fists. Mace was leaning toward her, one arm propped against the back of the van. He wore a shiny white rain slicker and long black boots.