Paradise and cursed into having it hurt like hell to have babies, and she was
still
such a nice person that she didn’t go back with a stick and kill that damned snake. Whose fault
was
all this? Peter wanted to know. Who claimed it was “good” in spite of the snake, then tried to cover Their tracks with a lot of cockamamie hoodoo about Forbidden Fruit and Trees of Knowledge and Eve’s wicked curiosity? And what harm could a little Darwinian evolution possibly do to a mess of a story like that?
But Everett told Peter it’d be a snowy day in hell before the Christians wrote themselves a new Bible. Too many bugs in the plan, he said. In the first place, who do you ask to do the writing? An Adventist? A Catholic? A Baptist? If you picked just one, he said, the others would kill you. And if you picked one of each they’d kill each other. In the second place, he said, most Christians would refuse to rewrite the Bible anyway, because they’d want God to do it for them, because most of them think it was God who sat down and wrote the one they’ve got.
“Well, wasn’t it?” Irwin butted in, looking pretty shocked.
“See what I mean?” Everett said to Peter.
“Oh that’s right!” said Irwin, smacking himself in the forehead. “It was Jesus!”
Peter and Everett looked at each other, then slowly shook their heads.
“Okay! I give!” Irwin cried, laughing like a loonbat. “Who
did?
Who
did
write the Bible?”
“King James,” said Peter.
“Oscar Unitas,” said Everett.
Irwin went loonbats again.
“Anyhow,” Everett said to Peter, “you can bet any amount, any odds, the Christians will stick with the Bible they’ve got, sure as the Chicago Cubs’ll stick with Wrigley Field—even though it’s got no lights.”
Peter nodded. “Nightfall is to the Cubs,” he said, “exactly what Charles Darwin is to the Christians.”
“Q uit jumping around!” Papa hollers.
Oops. I guess I was sort of hanging on his chair by one leg and one arm, and maybe kicking and swinging around some. It’s Darwin’s fault, though. He’s who got me thinking about apes. When I drop to the floor I hear Pee Wee Reese start yelling and see Roger Maris running, but thanks to my dud concentration I missed the pitch that whoever it was—Jimmy Piersall, I guess—hit. Maris leaps, grabbing a drive bashed clear to the warning track. But when Papa hollers, “Great catch! Great catch!” my brain changes channels again, coughing up a picture of me in the Wind, catching fish.
Papa says we could get trout today, no trouble, but we’re not going to because we’ll be after summer steelhead, which are like trout, except huge. He caught one two weeks ago that almost broke his pole, and it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen dead, and one of the most beautiful things, period. It took all eight of us two days to eat it, and the smoke from Papa’s cigarettes and the blue-gray ballplayers on the screen are the exact same color as the steelhead’s back, and its sides were as silver as a brand-new—
“KADE!”
“Oops. Sorry, Papa.” I guess I was banging my head on the back of his chair. The thing was that if I squatted down and lined my eye up just right, I could make it look like the blue-gray batter was using Papa’s Lucky for a bat, so I was conking my head on the chair when they were supposed to swing.
“If you can’t sit still and watch,” Papa says, “go get the mail. I think I just heard it come.”
I want to watch, but I want to bang around and jump and roar and wonder about the Wind and Darwin and steelhead and not being in church too, and look! A commercial.
Run! Catch the mail! Great catch!
The screen door slams behind me. I sprint like Roger Maris after Piersail’s long drive. But the day is so bright I can’t see where I’m going, the air’s so hot my lungs burn, and who wants to be Roger Maris anyhow? I slow to a walk.
It’s more interesting, walking. I can see, and try to think if I want,
still
such a nice person that she didn’t go back with a stick and kill that damned snake. Whose fault
was
all this? Peter wanted to know. Who claimed it was “good” in spite of the snake, then tried to cover Their tracks with a lot of cockamamie hoodoo about Forbidden Fruit and Trees of Knowledge and Eve’s wicked curiosity? And what harm could a little Darwinian evolution possibly do to a mess of a story like that?
But Everett told Peter it’d be a snowy day in hell before the Christians wrote themselves a new Bible. Too many bugs in the plan, he said. In the first place, who do you ask to do the writing? An Adventist? A Catholic? A Baptist? If you picked just one, he said, the others would kill you. And if you picked one of each they’d kill each other. In the second place, he said, most Christians would refuse to rewrite the Bible anyway, because they’d want God to do it for them, because most of them think it was God who sat down and wrote the one they’ve got.
“Well, wasn’t it?” Irwin butted in, looking pretty shocked.
“See what I mean?” Everett said to Peter.
“Oh that’s right!” said Irwin, smacking himself in the forehead. “It was Jesus!”
Peter and Everett looked at each other, then slowly shook their heads.
“Okay! I give!” Irwin cried, laughing like a loonbat. “Who
did?
Who
did
write the Bible?”
“King James,” said Peter.
“Oscar Unitas,” said Everett.
Irwin went loonbats again.
“Anyhow,” Everett said to Peter, “you can bet any amount, any odds, the Christians will stick with the Bible they’ve got, sure as the Chicago Cubs’ll stick with Wrigley Field—even though it’s got no lights.”
Peter nodded. “Nightfall is to the Cubs,” he said, “exactly what Charles Darwin is to the Christians.”
“Q uit jumping around!” Papa hollers.
Oops. I guess I was sort of hanging on his chair by one leg and one arm, and maybe kicking and swinging around some. It’s Darwin’s fault, though. He’s who got me thinking about apes. When I drop to the floor I hear Pee Wee Reese start yelling and see Roger Maris running, but thanks to my dud concentration I missed the pitch that whoever it was—Jimmy Piersall, I guess—hit. Maris leaps, grabbing a drive bashed clear to the warning track. But when Papa hollers, “Great catch! Great catch!” my brain changes channels again, coughing up a picture of me in the Wind, catching fish.
Papa says we could get trout today, no trouble, but we’re not going to because we’ll be after summer steelhead, which are like trout, except huge. He caught one two weeks ago that almost broke his pole, and it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen dead, and one of the most beautiful things, period. It took all eight of us two days to eat it, and the smoke from Papa’s cigarettes and the blue-gray ballplayers on the screen are the exact same color as the steelhead’s back, and its sides were as silver as a brand-new—
“KADE!”
“Oops. Sorry, Papa.” I guess I was banging my head on the back of his chair. The thing was that if I squatted down and lined my eye up just right, I could make it look like the blue-gray batter was using Papa’s Lucky for a bat, so I was conking my head on the chair when they were supposed to swing.
“If you can’t sit still and watch,” Papa says, “go get the mail. I think I just heard it come.”
I want to watch, but I want to bang around and jump and roar and wonder about the Wind and Darwin and steelhead and not being in church too, and look! A commercial.
Run! Catch the mail! Great catch!
The screen door slams behind me. I sprint like Roger Maris after Piersail’s long drive. But the day is so bright I can’t see where I’m going, the air’s so hot my lungs burn, and who wants to be Roger Maris anyhow? I slow to a walk.
It’s more interesting, walking. I can see, and try to think if I want,
Similar Books
