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“Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy,” Belinda Montgomery recited to the congregation.

            Church is the stupidest place to be on your birthday. Even for a P.K.—a preacher’s kid. Fourteen’s an important age. Means I’m not thirteen. I hated thirteen. Bad number.

            “Joshua, Judges, Ruth....”

            But there I was. Front pew, down right. A boring brother on the right; a brilliant brother on the left. Mark’s the bright one; Luke’s the bore. Were it not for them, I wouldn’t seem so stupid and entertaining.

            “Job, Psalms, Proverbs....”

            Mark’s twelve but thinks he’s sixteen. Luke’s nine and whines like it.  

            “Ecclesiastes, Song of Solomon....”

            I felt a fart coming on, knew I’d better not let go and squeezed my buns together. Pews amplify farts. The sputtering is so familiar to Christians, there’s no mistaking it. And if I let go, Dad would stop Belinda Montgomery in the middle of her recital, and he’d peer down at me from his big chair on the platform. He wouldn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. I closed my eyes, concentrated. Pressure. It was coming.

            “Jonah, Micah, Nahum, Habakkuk....”

            I grabbed the edge of the pew, pulled up, pressing my buns harder against it. She was almost done—a second more—and then Dad would start the song service. I’d let go during the music.

            “Zephaniah, Haggai, Zapha—Zecha—”

            I wanted to shout: Don’t blow it now!  How could she get stuck on the second to the last Book!  I’m ready for lift off and she gets stuck on Zachariah!

            “Zachariah,” Dad prompted her. He’d take off a point for that, and she deserved it.

            “Oh, yes,” she said shyly. “Thank you. Zephaniah, Haggai, Zachariah....”

            And then it thundered—thudding so hard it lifted me off the pew—just as she said: “...and Malachi.”

            In unison, a bunch of heads in the choir snapped around in my direction. Dad leaned to the side and glared around the pulpit. I knew he didn’t know which one of us let loose with the timely thunder, but I made sure to look real disgusted at Mark. Mark had a guilty face anyway.

            By lowering his eyebrows about an eighth of an inch, Dad warned all three of us. This was his way of showing disappointment, too. With Dad, warnings and disappointment went together like...well, like sin and pleasure. Nothing made me feel more guilty, though, than Dad’s disappointment in me.

            “Belinda, thank you,” Dad said. “That was terrific.”

            Belinda shyly smiled and returned to her family in the fourth pew. Dad pulled his lean farm-boy frame up to the pulpit. Standing six-five, he’d get a backache every service from trying to read from a pulpit designed for Reverend Jones, who Dad took over for a few months ago, and who was so short he made Munchkins look like Lakers.

            “This morning you’ve witnessed the hard work the Junior’s for Jesus have put into the Monthly Goal. Brother Zidinich and Sister Chapman created the Monthly Goal Program to inspire the children, motivate them to read the Bible. Amen?”

            He explained this last week.

            Mrs. Pennywell threw her arms up and called out:  “Praise the Lord, Jesus, hallelujah!”

            “They’re doing a terrific job,” Dad went on, “so keep praying for them, praise the Lord.”

            Dad’s good at this sincere stuff. Mainly because he was. He never over-did it either. Always had the right words at the right time with equal parts of ham and baloney. You see, he really thought Brother Zidinich was a whiner—heard him say it more than once—and Sister Chapman had conspired with Bessie Hackett to have Dad removed as pastor, just because he played jazz saxophone and because he let a queer come to church. And because of Mom, too.

            “The Spirit’s moving in these children—” That always gave me the willies when he said that. “Amen?” Dad asked the church.

            “Praise His name!” somebody in the choir behind Dad shouted.

            Any other place you talked out loud in the middle of what was going on, it was rude. Not in church, though. You can say about anything as loud as you want, as long as it’s with Amen, Jesus, Lord or you speak in tongues. Most of it’s easy. Speaking in tongues, though, takes some practice.

            “A few announcements before we praise the Lord in song,” Dad said.

            Routine. First a few opening words, then announcements, then Dad got the congregation singing something upbeat, like “There is Power.” I asked Dad once why church songs all sounded so simple. Why the lyrics were so easy to remember, the melodies so predictable. He said, “So the preacher’s kid could sing them in his sleep.”

            I laughed but didn’t see anything funny about it.

            “Monday night,” Dad went on, “Christ’s Messengers meet in North Hollywood. All you 15- to 20-year-olds meet here at six o’clock. Bus leaves at six-thirty. It will be a powerful and entertaining evening of song, prayer and fellowship, and I know you don’t want to miss it.”

            Yeah, right. Like church twice a week isn’t enough.

            Dad looked at his cheat sheet he prepared on Saturday night. It told him the page numbers of the songs he thought would lead into his sermon.

            “Now, if you’ll get out your hymnal, please turn to page fifty-four. Fifty-four.”

            “Amen,” voices responded.

            “‘Bless Me Now Oh Gentle Saviour.’“  Dad liked this one. It let him show off his beautiful baritone voice.

            “Praise God.”

            Harvey Carson, who sat in for Mom at the piano, played the introduction. Dad said: “‘Hear my humble plea.’  Praise the Lord, isn’t it glorious? Even with the world in turmoil—our boys dying in Vietnam, campus riots, assassinations in Los Angeles and Memphis last year—we have a Savior who takes the time—hallelujah!—to listen to our humble prayers. A Savior who answers prayers. God listens. Worship him in song.” And right on cue the intro ended and everybody sang. The way Dad talked right up to the start of a song and led right smack into the first verse, he could’ve been a D.J.

            The song service got everybody on their feet, singing, clapping, raising their hands like criminals. I loved it. Best part of being a Christian. Well, second best. Best part was going to Heaven. Sure felt sorry for all those Catholics. Not only did they not sing, but I heard the priest preached in Latin. Bet that took practice.

            After song service, still sweating and hearts pumping, came the collection. Deacons passed pewter plates with a burgundy felt pad in the bottom. Gave the coins a soft landing. Some churches I’d been to used the magic pouch style. Usually red, maroon, burgundy or black. A velveteen pouch with a round rim and a handle at opposite sides of the opening made it easy and quick to pass down a pew of people. It looked like a magician’s magic pouch. The magician dropped in something like a scarf or a live rabbit or poured a quart of milk into it, and when he reached in and pulled the bag inside-out, it was empty.

            Folks in church kind of saw tithing that way. Mavis Lloyd once told Bessie Hackett, “Every time I put a dollar in the plate, I expect to feel blessed; all I feel, Bessie, is broke.” I heard her say it. I told Dad. He said that’s because she’s supposed to put in five.

            After the collection, Dad prayed over it. Then he started to preach. Dad preached about Hell. One of his scary sermons about burning forever and ever.  All through it, I thought, Hell can’t be real. Nothing burns forever. It’s common sense: fire gets on your skin—it burns it. Wouldn’t be long before you’d be dying in agony. Finally, you’d be a dead crisp.            

            Mrs. Peter, who’s married to Dad’s assistant pastor, had a real dandy of a suggestion one day in Sunday School that just beat the heck out of my common sense. It put the fear of God back in me as quick as I’d figured it all out and gotten some inner peace about it.

            “You see, Matthew,” she said, “God lets you burn but not your skin. You burn, Matthew, and you feel the terrible agony of your body burning. But you never die. You feel the pain for ever and ever.”

            At first, I thought she had to be confused. Then I understood what she was saying, because it’s a well-known fact that even though it’s impossible, God gets the impossible done. And you can’t argue with that, so I didn’t argue with Mrs. Peter. She was nice. But I never forgave her for telling me that.

            Halfway through Dad’s sermon, I used the restroom in back. Dad was revved up. I didn’t want to disturb him, so when I finished, I sat in the back row of the church behind Mavis Lloyd, who spent more time whispering than listening.

            “Vera heard him,” Mavis said through clenched teeth to her pew-partner, Bessie Hackett, a grandmotherly woman in her seventies. “Heard him playing that, that, that Negro music in his office.”

            Peering over her glasses perched on the end of her pug nose, Bessie watched Dad and said: “I wish Pastor Jones were still here.  I pray everyday for God to send him back to us.”

            “Me, too, Bessie.”

            “These missionaries don’t make for good preachers, you know.”

            “Amen to that.”

            “I knew there was something different about him the first day he stood up there and told us that horrible story.”

            “Which?”

            “Horrible. You don’t remember?  About the natives in Haiti.”

            “Oh, heavens, yes. Holes where, where, where their noses should’ve been.”

            “Eaten by leprosy,” Bessie said. “What kind of talk is that in God’s house, for Pete’s sake.”

            “Guess what I heard?” Mavis whispered into her Evangelical Bulletin, held up to direct her scruffy voice in Bessie’s direction. “Heard Deacon Bob drank, drank, drank wine with him once.”

            “Not grape juice?”

            Mavis slowly shook her head.  “A Chardonnay.”

            “And what’s going to be done about  his saxophone playing in the church office,” Bessie huffed, all the while holding a happy, attentive face for Dad’s sermon.

            “Jazz,” Mavis sniffed.

            They were quiet for a moment. I was hopping mad. Then Mavis said:  “Bessie, it’s our Christian duty to, to, to speak up.”

            “We should just keep praying for him,” Bessie suggested seriously.

            “That’s fine,” Mavis said, “But I think it’s time we call Springfield.”

            Springfield, Missouri, was church headquarters. That made me madder. I didn’t say anything.

            “Talk to Crowley?”

            “He’s got to know.”

            “Mavis, I don’t know, what if—”

            “Bessie, next he’ll be inviting more, more, more queers to church, then this, then that. I’ve seen it before—missionaries are just too, too, too liberal. He’s got a red streak up his back a mile wide.”

            Bessie whispered: “What about his family, though?”

            “Wife’s sick. Can’t do her job here, fill her role beside him. Sad. Pity, really. But the church has priorities. Pastor Jones knew, knew, knew the priorities. Pastor Banning don’t.”  Mavis gave Bessie a hard look. “What do you think?”

            “I don’t know what to think.”

            I scooted forward, poked my head between the two old women.

            “Know what I think?” I whispered. They jumped. “I think when you burn in Hell I want to be there with barbecue sauce.”

            I got a gasp in each ear. My anger froze into satisfaction. I turned to Mavis Lloyd, her eyes big, a quiver in her chin. I wrung my hands in her face, slowly licked my lips and said:       
            “I love, love, love barbecue.” 

* * *

            After church, riding in Dad’s Mustang, he was quiet. Thoughtful. Mark asked him if we could eat at Burger Chef for lunch and he said, “Mm-hm,” without taking his eyes off the road. Then he drove right past it. Luke started to say something, his finger poking the window, but Mark slapped a hand over his mouth.

            Sitting in front with Dad, I had a closer look at his face. Was it Mom? Seeing her was an ordeal. She was getting better, but she was difficult. Possessive. Clawing at him to stay longer after every visit. Usually that was Tuesdays and Saturdays. We had skipped Saturday so we could celebrate my birthday on Sunday with her. It was nice not to have to screw up my Saturday for once. Sundays were always screwed up anyway. I felt guilty feeling that way. Adults have it wrong: mixed emotions aren’t always hormones crashing.

            Getting off the freeway in Hollywood, I got nervous. I always got nervous anticipating embarrassment. My stomach got the worst of it. I ached. Because I loved her. But she was hard to like.

* * *

            Brick and glass formed the façade. The large front window was draped with pinkish-purple curtains. The name Brandford Hospital, stenciled in white block letters, arched across the window. We filed into a short corridor jungled with ferns. The front door was recessed into the building. It would be locked. Dad pressed the buzzer beside the door.

            “Brandford,” a voice cackled. “May I help you?”

            “John Banning for Rebecca Banning.” A pause, a buzz, and Dad pulled open the heavy door. We followed him into the foyer.

            To me, the place looked more like a cheap motel than a loony bin. But it was clean. Too clean. A pine counter sprung from the pinkish wall. I didn’t recognize the woman behind it. Probably because we never came on a Sunday before.

            She smiled. Her brown hair was long, straight and shiny. She was in her twenties or something—and cute.

            Solemnly, she announced: “Rebecca’s handsome boys.” Then she smiled at Dad. “Reverend Banning, hello.”

            “Hello.”

            Her eyes stayed on Dad for awhile, then her smile returned and she looked at Mark.

            “Birthday boy?”

            He shook his head and pointed at me.

            Like a puppy in a pet shop window, she cocked her head at me. “Happy Birthday to you,” she recited.

            “Thanks.”

            “Big deal,” Lukey said under his breath. He was depressed. Didn’t like this place. And he was probably looking for the fat lady. I was too. She was one of the freakier patients.

            “Your mother’s waiting. Would you like to see her?”

            Lukey sputtered and said: “Dumb question.”

            Dad’s big hand came down like claws on a crane and gripped Lukey’s head. Lukey winced, sucking air through his teeth.

            “I’m Darla, and if there’s anything you boys need, you ask me and I’ll try to get it for you.”

            Lukey’s mouth opened. Dad’s hand was still on his head.  He shut his mouth. Was I this stupid when I was nine?

            “Is she in her room?” Dad asked.

            “No, they—she’s waiting in the lounge.” She pointed down the hall to her left. “Big open area past the dining room.”

            Dad thanked her. We followed him down the corridor—big duck, little ducks.

            “Matt,” Lukey whispered. “See her?” His head turned right and left as he passed each room.

            “I’ll warn you if she comes.”

            “Yeah, right, that’s what you said the last time.”

            “Okay, I won’t.”

            “Okay, okay, I didn’t mean it.”

            Mark snorted. “That fat weirdo comes near me and I’ll—”

            But it was too late! Lukey suddenly screamed, “Run!”

            Mark and I turned around. Behind us, her wall of hips scraping each side of the corridor, the fat lady, nearly bald, fifty chins hanging to her chest, arms like hams, was charging us. Her lips curled back in a wild fidgety grin.

            We shot by Dad. I looked back. Dad was picking up his pace.

            In a dead run, dodging patients, we came to the lounge, tried to stop, but could only plant our feet and floor surf. My foot caught on a sticky spot on the linoleum, and I was thrown forward. One of my feet clipped Lukey’s leg and sent him sprawling in front of Mark, who tried hurdling him, but tripped in the flailing limbs and slammed into the wall hard enough to punch out a good grunt.

            Dad wasn’t happy. He pointed the direction he wanted us to go with his long preaching finger.  The one he used to point at the congregation; the one he used to point to Hell; the one he used to point to God. More than once I’ve seen him use it to pick his nose, though, so I guess when you take away all the religious stuff, it’s just a finger.  But he certainly had a way of using it that made us know he meant business.

            We filed into the lounge. Several sets of purple love seats faced each other in twos over a coffee table around the room.

            And then I saw the red and blue balloons, the ribbon and the table with the cake. Oh, God, no. Please, God, no. How could she?

            “Surprise!”

            I was instantly surrounded by a group of grown-ups. Total strangers, smiling, clasping their hands together wishing me happy birthday.

            One lady pinched my cheek and said I was a doll-baby. She tried to kiss my forehead, but I ducked away looking for a face I knew.

            The pack parted. At the fringe I saw Mom standing with her arms folded, a proud smirk on her lips, wearing more make-up than I’d seen her wear in this place on any previous visit. Her black hair was combed this time. Her face was white from staying indoors, but she was still beautiful. She wore a white- and green-striped dress, and white deck shoes. Mom never wore deck shoes. She looked like somebody’s Mom from the fifties. I wanted to remind her it was 1966. It was a silly thought, because I couldn’t see Mom wearing a mini-skirt, even though I bet she’d look good in one.

            “Come here to your mother,” she said, wiggling her finger at me. I obeyed. She hugged me, planting a kiss on the top of my forehead. I looked up at her. Her hazel eyes searched my face. A passionate, loving expression seemed to put color in her cheeks. Hugging me again, she whispered, “I love you, Matty. Don’t think because you’re becoming a man that your mother doesn’t love you.”

            The fat lady patient lumbered into the lounge with a “Hi ya!  ‘Siz a party or what?”

            A young black orderly nodded and ushered her back out the door. Lukey swiped his forehead and threw invisible sweat to the floor in relief.

            Mom held me out at arms length and looked at me like she hadn’t seen me in years. Her smile disappeared. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she said.

            “Like what?”

            “Like that.” She glanced at Dad. He cleared his throat. The pack of patients grew quiet.

            Under his breath, Lukey said, “Uh-oh.”

            “I...I wasn’t—”

            “Weren’t what,” she quizzed, folding her arms. Her cheek pulsed. She was poking the inside of it with her tongue. Bad sign. Nothing I said would matter. Once that tongue got going in there, it meant her nerves were taking over. I felt sorry for her, but at the same time she made me angry.

            “Mom, I love you, too.”

            “Your Dad told you to say that.”

            I shook my head, but I knew she wouldn’t believe me.

            “Rebecca,” Dad said. “The party.”

            Mom suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of Mark and pulled him to her. She hugged him for a long time, his face smothered in her breasts. Then it was Lukey’s turn. He gladly came over, because the fat lady had slipped by the orderly, who was in a deep discussion with a man about Dad’s age wearing a Dodger baseball cap and pajamas, and she was hovering over by the cake. Mom hugged Lukey the same way. Everybody just stood there watching Mom hug her sons, her eyes closed, her lips pressed against their hair.

            The silence was broken by a gravelly voice screeching: “Let’s party!  Let’s eat cake!”

            “Get away from there!” a younger voice ordered.

            Everybody looked. The fat lady was swiping frosting off my cake with her finger, chanting “Party! Party! Party!” She jammed her finger in her mouth, pulled it out, smacked her lips. A tiny young woman with stringy red hair pushed her away. Others surrounded her, blocking her from getting to my cake.

            “Frieda!” another woman snarled. “Where are your manners?”

            Frieda licked her lips and thought about it.

            Mom walked to the table, put her hand on Frieda’s shoulder, whispered something, then led her over to where we were standing. Mark and Lukey backed away. When she got closer and saw us, she squinted, her tongue poking from between her teeth in concentration.

            “The boys!  I love the boys!”

            Lukey jumped behind Dad.

            Dad was composed, but I could tell he didn’t want anything to do with her either. Not after she’d kissed him on the lips and rubbed his crotch the first time she’d met him.

            “Boys,” Dad whispered without moving his lips. “Cover your nuts.”

            And I lost it. I never before heard Dad call them nuts. A blast of laughter shot through my nose and blew snot.  Mark cracked up. But she was on us before we knew it. She grabbed me first by the head, slammed me to her watermelon breasts, and with both hands stirred my hair.

            “I love your boys, Rebecca,” she said.

            Mom smiled. Dad gently took hold of the fat lady’s arms and that was enough to help me get away.

            “Frieda,” the tiny woman said, “leave the boys alone and go find a seat, or I’ll confine you to your room!” Frieda’s face went sour, her lower lip drooped out.

            Someone lit the candles and Mark carried the cake through the patients, who sang “Happy Birthday.” It was weird. Mom was smiling a little, all her patient friends grouped around her. Made me mad. Mad as hell. I felt like some prize to show off. This had nothing to do with my birthday. But I smiled back anyway.

            Lukey’s high voice pierced through the off-key chorus, and when the final phrase was sung, Mark pitched in with his tenor harmony and Dad raised the volume on his beautiful baritone. Took the Bannings to turn it into music. Took my Dad and my brothers to remind me I counted.

            “Make a wish!” someone called.

            “Don’t blow the frosting off!” said a another.

            Deep breath and powee!  Blew them out. Fourteen of those suckers.

            Mark said, “What’d you wish?”

            “For a weird holy man to put Spic ‘N Span in your shorts.”

            Mark rolled his eyes.

            Truthfully, I had wished Mom would get better and just come home.         

            Mom sliced up the cake. There wasn’t enough for everyone, but she made sure Frieda got some. As we sat in the love seats eating, drinking Hawaiian Punch, the strangers at my party listened to Mom tell them about the evening I was born, and they listened like they cared, but I knew that I wouldn’t’ve cared if I were them, so if they didn’t, well, it was okay. Most of them seemed normal. Dad had explained that many of them had had nervous breakdowns, which always sounded to me like...well, I pictured some old clunker rolling down the highway in need of an alignment, and the front wheels are so out of whack that the whole car shimmies when it gets over 25 miles an hour. Finally, it shakes so bad—that’s the nervous part—that bolts come loose and fenders go flying and bumpers fall off and the whole car...breaks down.  When this happens to a person’s mind, Dad said they can’t handle day-to-day troubles. Everything’s a crises. Emotions flop around like—this was Dad’s example—like a big old bass dying in the bottom of the boat. For an example, it wasn’t that good, but at the time, I got the point.

            Everybody congratulated me, even some of the hospital staff. It took me a while to notice, but I hadn’t received a single birthday gift. I knew Mom and Dad weren’t doing so hot with money, but, still, it was their oldest son’s birthday, and if Dad planned on giving me something, I thought he’d do it with Mom there. He wouldn’t leave her out, would he? Unless it was something she wouldn’t approve of. Yeah.  And what would that be? Well, how ‘bout a surfboard? That’d be so bitchin’!

            Mom and Dad were talking, and I could tell by the way Dad kept nodding, glancing at me, it was about me. Maybe he was telling her about the surfboard. Finally, Mom stepped back from him and in a voice that would’ve brought down Jericho said: “The boys are going to sing for me!  And that’s that!”

            Mark and Lukey sighed.  Because this made us nervous. Getting up in front of the church to sing was bad enough, but in front of a bunch of crazy heathens it was petrifying. The thought of getting up in front of these people and singing “Kumbaya” choked my bladder. I had to pee, but Mom was already clearing an area near the door for a stage, directing her audience to gather in a semi-circle for a concert. Everybody thought it was cute. What was so cute about it? Made me mad the way adults took a serious, scary thing like performing in front of adults and made it cute.

            Dad gave me that look. It said, “Sorry, son. Here, she’s the boss. Don’t let her embarrass us with a hissy-fit.”

            And she would, too. If I said I didn’t want to sing, she wouldn’t make me, but she would make me pay. With a barrage of cold silence. Or she’d make comments. Loud enough for her friends to hear. Nothing mean. But she’d say something that would embarrass me. Tell the story about the time I crapped my pants in choir during the Christmas Chorale Extravaganza. Or when I was four and peed in the electric heater in the church nursery and almost electricuted my paddywacker. It would be something involving bodily fluids, because when you’re a kid that’s the last thing you want anybody knowing about. Skid marks in your underwear kind of stuff.

            So I sang.

* * *

            “Son, we’re very proud of you.” I thought she meant she and Dad, but she turned to three of her friends sitting on a couch by the fireplace and added, “Aren’t we?”

            “Rebecca,” the tiny woman with stringy red hair said, “I’m so jealous. Your boys are so handsome, so well-behaved, so talented—”

            “So what,” Lukey piped up. He sat in a nearby chair and, from his big-eyed expression, hadn’t meant to say it so loud.

            Mom’s eyes narrowed. “Young man, what did you say?”

            Head bowed, he said: “Nothin’.”

            “You most certainly did say something, now repeat it.”

            Lukey looked helplessly over at me. I shrugged.

            Mark walked up behind Lukey, put his hand on his shoulder. He wiggled his finger through a hole in the seam of his sleeve.

            “He said ‘sew it.’”

            “Sew it,” Mom repeated, her eyes shifting to her friends to see if they believed it.

            Lukey nodded vigorously. “Got a hole in my shirt, Mom. Can you?  Sew it?”

            Mom’s expression changed. She’d heard what Lukey had really said, but all she wanted to avoid was the embarrassment of her son’s rudeness, and her friends hadn’t seem to notice.

            “Just throw the old thing away, we’ll get you a new shirt. It’s not like you don’t have other clothes, for cryin’ out loud,” she chuckled.

            Lukey cautiously got up and moved away from us. I wanted to do the same. An hour and a half of this place was more than I could take, birthday or not.

            “Where’s your father?”

            “Paying the bill, Mom.”  Still mad at her, I added under my breath, “Like you told him.”

            “‘Paying the bill, Mom’ was sufficient,” she said back, her lips pressed so no one else would hear.

            “What did I do now?”

            “Your smart remarks don’t fool me. Just because I’m in here doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

            “Just crazy,” I said softly, without even moving my lips, forgetting Mom was equipped with sonar.

            She slapped my face. Hard enough to throw me off balance.

            The anger welled up in my eyes. I clinched my teeth to keep from saying anything. And when the tears rolled down my cheeks, and all she could say was, “You’re embarrassing me,” I ran out of the lounge, letting the silent tears turn to hurt, sobbing like a sissy all the way down the hall.

            Darla called after me, “Ah, what’s the matter with the birthday boy?”

            I pushed open the door—it buzzed—and ran smack into Dad’s stomach. I hugged him and cried into his shirt. He put his big hands on my back, squeezed, patted, and told me it was all right.

            But it wasn’t.

* * *

            Once a month, on Communion Sunday, the whole damn church drank grape juice and ate saltine crackers to remember Jesus Christ bled to death. The first Sunday of the month was Communion Sunday, and traditionally during the Sunday night service we three boys sang with Dad as a quartet. We’d sing two or three numbers in four-part harmony. We wore identical  butterscotch-colored suits with black scarves held at the throat by a gold ring. People in church called us The Apostles. We were, after all, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

            The night of my birthday, though, I wasn’t in the mood to sing. I felt cheated. Worst birthday ever. When we got home from visiting Mom, Dad surprised me with three presents: a pair of black Beatle boots, a dictionary and a new skateboard. I’m thinking tree, they’re thinking toothpick. They treated me like a kid. My friends surfed. Why not me? Why was I always a couple years behind what everybody else did? Most guys I knew stayed home alone at twelve. Me? At fourteen, it was still a scary thing for Mom and Dad to consider. Like I didn’t know how to put out a fire in the bathtub as good as the next guy. I could lock a door with the best of them. I just wanted what every guy wanted: a girlfriend, a best friend and a summer of surfing.  

            We finished our second number, titled “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” and the congregation said “Amen!” and “Praise the Lord!” right on cue. It was so predictable after fourteen years.      

            But then Dad surprised me. He told Mark and Lukey to sit down. He wrapped his arm round my shoulder to keep me up on the platform, my head barely higher than the pulpit, and announced:

            “As some of you know, today is my oldest son’s birthday.” He patted my shoulder proudly. “He’s fourteen.”

            Far as I know, he’d never announced any of my previous thirteen birthdays, so why now?

            “He’s growing up on me. Today, I realized what a wonderful time it must be for him. To be one of God’s children, to have people like all of you in his life. As a child we’re all told to be seen and not heard. As a child we’re placed in the background of important discussions and in forums of opinion. But Matt, you’re not a child anymore. You’ve reached that bridge between childhood and adulthood. And as you cross that bridge, you’ll make discoveries, you’ll find broken boards, you’ll find some boards missing, and there will be warped boards in that bridge, and you’ll have to step carefully to keep from falling through the cracks. But I’m not afraid—”

            “Hallelujah!” someone shouted.

            “Praise God,” Dad replied and went on. “But I’m not afraid. And Matthew won’t be afraid of that bridge. Because you want to know something? Jesus has wrapped his Fatherly arm around Matthew—like I am—and he’s going to help him cross it—praise the Lord.”

            Hands flew up, waved in the air, praising God. They really liked this stuff. I got a tingle up my back, too.

            “So, son, now that you’re ready to cross that bridge, I don’t want you just to be seen and not heard. I want you to take your first step.”

            He paused, looked me in the eye. Thought he was going to let me take that first step—right off the platform and into the front pew.

            “Step up to the pulpit and tell us what you’re thankful for.”

            You want me to do what? Blood rushed to my face. Sweat popped across my forehead, under my arms, down my back. The scarf was too tight around my throat. I couldn’t swallow.

            “Go ahead,” Dad coaxed me, and he backed away, leaving me there all alone. Every face beamed up at me, waiting for me to tell them something wonderful. Maybe they figured I’d prepared for this special event, that my Dad’s spiritual genes and oral skills would shine through in an inspiring adolescent sermon they’d never forget.

            I grasped the sides of the pulpit, stood up on my toes so I could see. My eyes locked with the adoring eyes of Martha Sawyer, who was fifteen and a half, the prettiest girl in church and—

            “Son?”

            Somewhere I had a voice. I cleared my throat and found it cowering behind my tongue.

            “I’m thankful for my Dad—and Mom. My brothers—eeeehhhh.”

Big laugh. “I’m thankful I’m an Evangelical Christian. If I were Catholic, I’d have to pray to a virgin and bring my lunch on Fridays, because they always serve hot dogs in the cafeteria that day. I’m thankful I’m an American. Even though the best music comes from England.” Some of the parents frowned. “I’m thankful for being born smart, because if I wasn’t smart I’d have to be stupid. And this world doesn’t need any more stupid teenagers.”

            Big applause, a few chuckles. Martha loved it.

            “I’m thankful for....” I was running out of things to be thankful for. Then I spotted the Kimball brothers with their long blond hair and tan faces. “I’m thankful for the ocean. Without it, there’d be no surfing.”

            The Kimball brothers put up their thumbs and said: “Amen.”

            I looked across the congregation. Old man Pitts looked white-faced, near death, so I said: “I’m thankful for my health. Without it, I’m sick.”

            Martha looked away and snickered something to her sister who sat beside her. I guess that one was dumb.  Bessie’s and Mavis’ faces peeked between some heads from the back of the church. The domed lights shining overhead made their faces look like witches.

            “And I’m thankful that I’m not going to Hell”—I stared right at them—”like some people I know.”

            That was the topper, I guess, because everybody said Amen, and I walked off the platform cool as could be and sat in the front pew between my brothers. Mr. Harris, sitting behind me, patted my back and whispered in my ear:     

            “Sunda ma seekie ay.”

            He was speaking in tongues, but I got the point all right. It was God’s way of saying happy birthday.