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A/N: I don't own anything having to do with the movie Keeping the Faith, except that I really like it. And there's a funky little Spanish reference in there: "Tu espalda," which means "Your back." It'll make sense later. The word "Shabbos" is taken from The Big Lebowski, as mentioned in the story, and I don't own anything from that either. Oh, and Coney Island is probably the best hot dog place in Massachusetts :)
“Shabbos?” I repeat, confused.
Caleb moans, burying his head in his hands. “You’re telling me,” he begins, “you’re telling me, that you’ve never seen The Big Lebowski?”
I shake my head.
He sighs, noticeably disappointed in me and my lack of Lebowski. “Shabbos is what John Goodman’s character, Walter, says to The Dude, aka Jeff Bridges, who wants Walter to come bowling on Saturday. He says he can’t ‘cause it’s the Shabbos Day. Duh.” Caleb is a movie fanatic. He’s seen enough films for the both of us.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I want to know. I flick on my turn signal and pull into St. Joe’s parking lot.
“You’re not Jewish.”
“Of course I’m not, idiot.”
“Then why are you going to church on Saturday? Saturday’s the Sabbath, man. Sunday’s your day. Can’t you wait?”
“It’s not against the law for me to go to church on a Saturday. I don’t want to wake up wicked early tomorrow to spend an hour here and then have nothing to do.”
“So it’s really that bad?”
“In a word, yeah.”
“Damn it.”
I find a place to park and Caleb and I get out. We fit in just fine with all the old couples and parents with kids all under the age of six. My mom should be meeting us here; knowing her, though, she probably went to the eight a.m. service. You’re probably asking, why would I be dragging my best friend to listen to an hour of something he didn’t believe in? Well, the answer is simple. Actually, it isn’t, but I like to pretend that it sounds normal. My mom is an extensive religious person, almost obsessive. I’m a freshman in college, and she’s still calling me up after church to give me a weekly quiz on what the gospel readings or sermons were about. If I’m lucky, she’ll even give me a question about the little anecdote the priest told us. We go to the same church, so she knows I should know the answer.
Halfway down the cement hill towards the church, my cell phone goes off. I jump, slightly panicked, and swear under my breath. I receive a few questionable glances from our seventy-year-old co-worshipers, and Caleb breaks into a fit of manly giggles, as he calls them. I had no idea giggles could be manly, but hey, whatever.
There’s no name on the caller I.D. screen. I hate answering calls when I don’t know who they’re from, but I make a small exception in this case.
“Hello?”
“It’s God,” a booming voice tells me.
My hand goes numb and I nearly drop my phone. “W-what?” I stammer.
“It’s God,” He repeats. “You’re entering My House. Turn off your cell phone.” He hangs up.
Shakily, I shut the phone and slip it back into my pocket.
“Who was that?” Caleb wants to know.
“Nobody.”
“Come on, who was it?”
“No one!”
“Tara!”
“Caleb!”
Caleb stands still, his arms folded across his chest. “Are you gonna make me swear in front of all these nice old people, in God’s neighborhood, even?”
I roll my eyes; I can tell that he’s not going anywhere until I tell him. “Fine,” I mutter, accepting defeat. “God called me.”
I think Caleb may pass out. “Um…what?”
“God just called me.”
“Tara, you’re insane.”
“No I’m not! You asked me who called, and I told you. God called me.”
“How the hell would He get your number?”
“He’s God, idiot. He has everyone’s number.”
“Fine.” Caleb says, holding up his hands. “What did He want?”
“He wanted me to turn off my cell phone.”
More manly giggles. “Even I know you don’t keep your phone on here. You could get smited or something.”
“Smited?”
“Yeah. Like, the past form of ‘smite.’ You know?”
“Smote?”
Caleb rolls his eyes. “Pssh,” he pssh’s as me. “Why would they make the past tense of a word totally different from the present one?”
I shrug. I honestly have no idea. “Ask Webster.”
“What? Webster doesn’t know anything! He’s an idiot!”
“The dictionary. Ask Webster’s Dictionary.”
Caleb’s cheeks redden. “Oh. Well, maybe I will!”
“You do that, then.”
As we enter St. Joe’s, I see Caleb flip open his phone out of the corner of my eye. He smirks a little, punches in a few numbers on the keypad, then flips it shut again.
“Did God just text you?” I whisper.
Caleb nods. “He told you to take me out to lunch after this.”
“Jerk.”
“What? That’s what He really said! I bet He didn’t even tell you to turn off your phone! I’ll bet it was…your mom!” His index finger is draped with drama as he points it at me, a drastic, wild look on his face and in his eyes.
We find a spot in the corner of the church, and we have the pew all to ourselves. Halfway through the gospel reading, Caleb elbows me hard and whispers out of the corner of his mouth, “If you don’t take me out to lunch, God said you’re going to hell.”
“Did he?”
“He did. Look.” He yanks out his phone, goes to his inbox, and shows me a message. Sure enough, it reads: TELL TARA TO TAKE YOU OUT TO LUNCH AFTER YOU’RE DONE AT MY HOUSE.
“He didn’t say I was going to hell if I didn’t,” I inform him. An old woman turns around and gives us a death glare. Caleb grabs a bulletin and holds it in front of us, shielding us from her laser eyes.
“That’s in the next text,” he murmurs, hitting the down arrow button. TELL HER THAT IF SHE DOESN’T, SHE’S GOT A ONE-WAY TICKET TO HELL.
“I thought God was supposed to be nice, and He always forgives you. This doesn’t sound like the God I know.”
Caleb shrugs. “Fine,” he mutters, “go to hell. You could save your soul just by buying me a hot dog at Coney Island. What a shame. What a shame.”
“Fine,” I say, a little louder than I had anticipated. “We’ll go get your Coney Island after this, okay?” I feel like a mother, and Caleb’s my kid.
Caleb grins. “Cool.” He slouches down a little, his arms across his chest again. His eyes flutter closed slightly, and this time it’s my turn to elbow him.
“Tu espalda,” I whisper, quoting one of our favorite teachers from high school. Caleb laughs. We would’ve seemed like total jackasses, and Father Larry probably would’ve kicked us out, but Caleb had the amazing timing skills to laugh right after Father’s joke about something having to do with a guy hanging off a cliff.
Ha. Sounds hysterical.
While the communion’s cracking sound is echoing throughout the silent congregation, Caleb is squirming in his seat next to me. “These things are so uncomfortable,” he hisses. “Why don’t you have cushions on them or anything?”
I shrug, not looking at him. “It’s almost over.”
“I could get a sliver on my ass.”
“Don’t swear in church, jackass.”
The same old woman turns around and shushes us, holding a finger to her lips. “Don’t you two have any respect for God?” she demands.
“He’s Jewish,” I say quickly, pointing to Caleb, who looks up after hearing his name.
“What?” he asks.
“He still believes in God, then, don’t you, boy?”
Her ice blue eyes bore into Caleb’s deep brown ones. “I, uh, yeah,” he falters, automatically disarmed by this lady’s coldness.
“Then I suggest you two shut up and pay your respects before God Himself smites you to hell.”
“She’s already going to hell,” Caleb informs the woman, pointing at me. “She won’t buy me lunch, and God sent me a text telling me to tell her to.”
The lady finally realizes that she’s dealing with kids—excuse me, young adults—who just want to get their communion and leave, so she turns around, giving us one more death glare before doing so.
It’s our pew’s turn to get up and go into the communion line, so I stand up, and so does Caleb. Slightly panicked, I jerk him back down by his shoulders.
“You can’t get communion!” I hiss.
“Why not?”
“You’re not a Catholic!”
“So? I want some. Nobody knows I’m not, except for that lady in front of us, but she’s way up in the line already. She’ll never know. And even if she does, what would she do? Smack me with her purse?”
“You never know.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
“Great.” He claps his hands together eagerly. “Hey, what does it taste like?”
“What does what taste like?”
“The communion.”
I stare at him. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “Bread, I guess.” I glance up and my heart jumps as I realize that we’re feet away from the priest. “Shut up!” I whisper. “We’re almost there.”
“Right.”
I cup my hands in front of me. Father Larry looks at my eyes, not really me, I don’t think, but my eyes, and says, “The Body of Christ.”
“Amen.”
Caleb’s next. I make a quick prayer to God: Please, God, don’t let him screw this up. I skip the wine and walk extra slow, straining my ears to hear Caleb and Father.
“The Body of Christ.”
“Hey, thanks, man.”
Damn it. Father Larry’s got a sense of humor; I hope he used it just then.
Caleb notices me up ahead of him, so he passes the wine bearer as well. I beckon him to follow me with my hand, and he does, like a puppy. We exit the church quickly, skipping out on the ending hymn and post-communion prayer. I don’t mind, and I don’t think Caleb does, either.
I turn around, about to yell at him for not saying “Amen,” when I see him sticking his tongue out, a disgusted look on his face.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“That communion tasted like a health-food wafer,” he tells me. “Like wheat bread. Nasty. Does it usually taste like that?”
“I don’t think it usually has a taste.”
“Well, it definitely did this time.”
“How would you know? Isn’t that your first communion?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then it probably just tastes weird to you, since you’ve never had it before. It’s an acquired taste, like liver and onions.”
Caleb shakes his head. “I don’t understand how you can eat that every week.”
“It’s not that big a deal. Now come on, let’s go before Father Larry beats your ass for not saying ‘Amen’ after getting your communion.”
“You’re supposed to say ‘Amen’?”
“Yeah.”
“What does that mean?”
“I believe.”
“Well, I guess it works out that I didn’t say it, then, huh?”
“You have to say it if you want to pretend you’re a Catholic, Caleb.”
“I’ll remember that next time.”
“Good.”
“You haven’t forgotten about Coney Island, have you?”
I grin. “Nope. Let’s hurry up before we get caught in all the old-people traffic.”
As I say this, the thick oak doors burst open, and a flood of old couples comes cascading out onto the sidewalk.
Caleb lets out a small shriek, pointing at the growing mob. “Run!” he yells, terrified. “Run for your life! Oh, my God!” He grabs my wrist and drags me toward the car. “We’re not gonna make it!” he shrieks. Suddenly, he feigns tripping over a stick and collapses, clutching his ankle. I stare down at him, amused.
“You okay?”
He looks away from me, holding up a hand. “Go on without me,” he answers, melodrama dripping down his words like raindrops off a gutter. “I’ll just slow you down. Tell my mom I love her.”
I laugh. “Come on,” I say, grabbing his wrist. “I’m sure you can make it.” I tug him toward the car; even though he’s faking it, he still makes me bring him all the way there. I unlock the doors, open the passenger one, and shove him inside.
When I enter on the other side, Caleb’s got the seat reclined all the way back, his sneakered feet resting on the dashboard.
“Feeling better?” I ask, starting up the engine. The voices of Toucher and Rich, the DJs from our favorite radio station, 104.1, fill the car automatically.
“I’d feel even better if I had about four hot dogs in front of me right now.”
“How did I know you were gonna say that?”
“Since I’ve been buggin’ you for the past hour about it. Oh, and God’s been buggin’ ya, too. Can’t forget about Him.”
“Right. Gotta stay on good terms with Him.”
“Of course.”
I pull out of the parking lot, and we’re off to Coney Island.
