Gideon - 03 - Religious Conviction by Grif Stockley Page B

having fun. Yet, from experience I know the competition in trying a case acts like adrenaline, producing a high unlike anything else.
    “If I were as good as your father,” I say, finally, “I probably would.”
    “He says he’s going to heaven when he dies,” Trey says, talking about what has to be bothering him.
    “Are you saved, Mr. Page?”
    I look around the table, hoping to be rescued, but see I will get no help from his parents. Judging by their expressions they are as interested in my answer as their son. I guess I don’t believe in a heaven, so the theological implications behind this question hold no meaning.
    I want to claim this is a private matter, but children, like schizophrenics, have little trouble in crossing over boundaries that deter the rest of humanity. The silence is growing awkward, so I fill it by saying, “I’ve been baptized.”
    Like a professor who won’t let a student off the hook with a general answer to a specific question. Trey asks again, “Do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?” His face is as open and friendly as if he had asked about my favorite baseball team. Yet there is a rote sound to the words, as if he has been practicing them.
    Feeling trapped and resentful, I push back from the table, telling myself that it is not this child’s fault. His parents should know better than to let him conduct an inquisition. If I have to endure a religious litmus test given by a child in order to work on a murder case, I’ll pass.
    “When I was about your age. Trey,” I say, trying to sound friendly, “my mother told me it was rude to ask questions about politics or religion.”
    Trey’s face reddens, as if he is stung by my refusal to answer him, and he looks at his father for confirmation.
    “Nobody’s trying to embarrass you. Page,” Bracken says.
    “It’s a sign Trey likes you.”
    This child is worried about my soul and whether his father and I (I must seem about to die to him, too, since I’m older than his father) will be friends in heaven. I have an almost overwhelming desire to lie to please this child, but I am irritated by his parents’ behavior. I look at Wynona’s bland face, hoping for a last-second rescue, but it isn’t coming. Finally, I say, “I don’t know what I accept. Trey.” As brutal as it sounds, even this is a lie.
    I don’t accept anything. And if his father weren’t dying, he wouldn’t be going to church either, I am tempted to tell this kid, but don’t. I feel myself blushing furiously.
    Who am I to question the sincerity of Bracken’s conversion? He obviously is already a changed man. The old Bracken wouldn’t have any more let a rabbit into his garden (planted or not) than he would permit a prosecutor to badger one of his witnesses. Just because I’m in capable of change doesn’t mean the rest of the world has the same problem.
    “It’s okay, Gideon,” Bracken says, calling me by my first name for the first time.
    “That’s what we’re taught to do at Christian Life,” he says, laying a napkin beside his plate.
    “But that question is supposed to come much later. Since my cancer was discovered, Trey understands there isn’t much time.”
    As I sit there trying to sort through my feelings, the phrase “end times” rings in my brain. The world may be ending soon for everybody (it is for his father), and if his kid can’t stop that, at least he can make sure we are ready for it.
    “I know it’s hard to be asked that,” Wynona says, her voice gentle, “but it would be confusing and dishonest to get on to him.”
    I push my knife around on the table.
    “Oh, I’m not upset.” But I am. Nothing is more obnoxious than someone pushing religion on you, especially if it’s an innocent kid. And with Rainey bleating on about it last night, I’ve had enough door-to-door salesmen to last a lifetime. The arrogance of it. Trey is watching me as if an ax murderer had declared himself. Still, I feel a grudging