between us and the absolutes of matter and energy. I continued to Esther, “And he had the nerve, this science type I was telling you about in the library, to more or less ask me to get him a grant so he can prove God’s existence on the computer.”
“Why are you so dead against it? You believe in God, or at least you used to.”
Sensing her mood, I wasn’t sure Richie should hear what would be coming out of her mouth; but we were all in the kitchen, where she, above all, had the right to be. Partake of her food, partake of her mood. “I’m sure I still do,” I stiffly said. “But not because a computer tells me to. It trivializes the whole idea.”
“Maybe this boy thinks God is more than just an idea.”
“You sound remarkably like him.”
“How tall was he?”
A curious question, but I answered. “Six feet, at least. Too tall.”
“You gonna get him the grant?” Little Esther was being slangy, drawling and jauntily lighting a cigarette from the orange-hot coil of a burner on the electric stove. She lowered her face to within an inch of a ghastly maiming: a stumble, a mere nudge, and she would be forever branded.
“I do wish you’d stop your smoking,” I told her.
“Who’s it hurting?”
“You, dear.”
“Everybody in the house, Mom,” Richie pointed out. “They were saying at school how people who live with smokers have lungs almost as bad as smokers themselves.” On “Gilligan’s Island” a small man with a yelping voice was wearing a sarong and trying to avoid a heavyset blond man who, clad in a splashy-patterned bathing suit, was bombarding him with water balloons from a helicopter.
“I can’t possibly get him a grant,” I said. “That’s not my department at all.”
“He sounds like a rather touching young man,” Esther told me, on no evidence.
Richie interrupted again. “Mom, what’s twenty-seven to the base six? Dad won’t tell me.”
“Forty-three,” she said. “Obviously. Six goes into twenty-seven four times with three left over for the units column. Read your book, Richie, for Heaven’s sake. I’m sure it’s all in there, that’s why they give you the book in the first place.”
I was nettled, sensing that she was siding with this unknown youth only in order to annoy me. I debated the wisdom of pouring myself a pre-dinner bourbon. Esther had poured another slug of red wine from the green Gallo jug, and just the way her hair had loosened up, its wings coming untucked, proclaimed her readiness for a fight. Were I to get drunk, it would help me in the fight but incapacitate me for the reading I had hoped to do tonight—the book, for instance, on Athanasius and the Cappadocian Fathers had been written by a former student, who was looking to me anxiously for a blessing and a bit of a boost up the Jacob’s ladder of academic preferment. I compromised on the drink, denying myself the bourbon but pouring some of the Gallo into a glass of my own. It tasted thick, fusty. I prefer white. I really prefer champagne. “Since when,” I asked my wife amicably, “have you become such a theologian?”
“I’m not,” she said. “You know what I think. I don’t think anything; I mean, I don’t think it’s anything. I think it’s nonsense. But I’m amused to see you so vigorously defending your own style of nonsense against somebody else’s style. All these emperors without clothes, you all have your turfs to defend. This boy comes in and offers to prove God’s existence and you curl that upper lip of yours and lower those eyebrows and obviously wish him dead, gone, out of the church. To you he’s a heretic.”
“I would not so dignify him,” I said, all dignity. “He’s very young, and I dare say a month from now he’ll have another brainstorm. He’s using God as a gimmick for a grant. This whole generation has grown up that thinks of nothing but grants. An academic welfare class.” The wine was sour; it hadn’t been just Esther’s breath. Of
“Why are you so dead against it? You believe in God, or at least you used to.”
Sensing her mood, I wasn’t sure Richie should hear what would be coming out of her mouth; but we were all in the kitchen, where she, above all, had the right to be. Partake of her food, partake of her mood. “I’m sure I still do,” I stiffly said. “But not because a computer tells me to. It trivializes the whole idea.”
“Maybe this boy thinks God is more than just an idea.”
“You sound remarkably like him.”
“How tall was he?”
A curious question, but I answered. “Six feet, at least. Too tall.”
“You gonna get him the grant?” Little Esther was being slangy, drawling and jauntily lighting a cigarette from the orange-hot coil of a burner on the electric stove. She lowered her face to within an inch of a ghastly maiming: a stumble, a mere nudge, and she would be forever branded.
“I do wish you’d stop your smoking,” I told her.
“Who’s it hurting?”
“You, dear.”
“Everybody in the house, Mom,” Richie pointed out. “They were saying at school how people who live with smokers have lungs almost as bad as smokers themselves.” On “Gilligan’s Island” a small man with a yelping voice was wearing a sarong and trying to avoid a heavyset blond man who, clad in a splashy-patterned bathing suit, was bombarding him with water balloons from a helicopter.
“I can’t possibly get him a grant,” I said. “That’s not my department at all.”
“He sounds like a rather touching young man,” Esther told me, on no evidence.
Richie interrupted again. “Mom, what’s twenty-seven to the base six? Dad won’t tell me.”
“Forty-three,” she said. “Obviously. Six goes into twenty-seven four times with three left over for the units column. Read your book, Richie, for Heaven’s sake. I’m sure it’s all in there, that’s why they give you the book in the first place.”
I was nettled, sensing that she was siding with this unknown youth only in order to annoy me. I debated the wisdom of pouring myself a pre-dinner bourbon. Esther had poured another slug of red wine from the green Gallo jug, and just the way her hair had loosened up, its wings coming untucked, proclaimed her readiness for a fight. Were I to get drunk, it would help me in the fight but incapacitate me for the reading I had hoped to do tonight—the book, for instance, on Athanasius and the Cappadocian Fathers had been written by a former student, who was looking to me anxiously for a blessing and a bit of a boost up the Jacob’s ladder of academic preferment. I compromised on the drink, denying myself the bourbon but pouring some of the Gallo into a glass of my own. It tasted thick, fusty. I prefer white. I really prefer champagne. “Since when,” I asked my wife amicably, “have you become such a theologian?”
“I’m not,” she said. “You know what I think. I don’t think anything; I mean, I don’t think it’s anything. I think it’s nonsense. But I’m amused to see you so vigorously defending your own style of nonsense against somebody else’s style. All these emperors without clothes, you all have your turfs to defend. This boy comes in and offers to prove God’s existence and you curl that upper lip of yours and lower those eyebrows and obviously wish him dead, gone, out of the church. To you he’s a heretic.”
“I would not so dignify him,” I said, all dignity. “He’s very young, and I dare say a month from now he’ll have another brainstorm. He’s using God as a gimmick for a grant. This whole generation has grown up that thinks of nothing but grants. An academic welfare class.” The wine was sour; it hadn’t been just Esther’s breath. Of
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