The Book of Joby by Mark J. Ferrari

all that crap about—”
    “Is that what you’re worried about?” she snapped. “Afraid they’ll
unman
your little
stud
? He’s nine, Frank!
Nine!
Not nineteen. And he’s the most rambunctious,
manly
little
war chief
in the neighborhood, in case you haven’t noticed. Besides,” she said more quietly, “the church isn’t always like it was for you. My father’s faith was at the heart of everything I loved about him; and . . . yes . . . sometimes I miss it too.”
    “Why’d you stop going, then?” he asked flatly, torn between growing resentment and a sudden twinge of guilt.
    “I guess . . . I guess it just didn’t matter to me as much as you did.”
    “And now?” he asked, struggling with a host of confusing emotions.
    “Is it still a choice?” she asked, looking up at him. “Was it ever, really?” She smiled fondly, then shook her head and laughed. “Frank, if we’re smart enough not to turn religion into Joby’s forbidden fruit, you know what will happen as well as I do. He’ll go once or twice, find out it’s boring, and forget all about it.”
    Knowing she was right, Frank reached out to embrace his wife, wondering, not for the first time, if she weren’t the more sensible one after all.
    When they had hugged and kissed their differences away, Frank called Joby’s name, and he came so quickly that Frank suspected he’d been listening at the door.
    “Joby,” he said dryly, “your old man’s a reactionary iconoclast.”
    Joby stared up at him, clearly unsure whether it was all right to ask what that was. So Frank reached down, lifted his son into the air, and whirled him around before pulling the now giggling boy into a fidgety embrace.
    “That means sometimes I’m a
weirdo,
” Frank explained playfully. “But I get better after your mother works on me, so we’ve decided you should go to church with Benjamin tomorrow, and the week after that if you want to. And when you get home, I hope you’ll tell us all about it, ’cause we don’t know much about church either. Okay?”
    “Okay, Dad. I’ll do a oral report.”
    “My son the genius!” Frank replied, setting Joby down with a groan. “Your brain’s getting too heavy for me to lift like that anymore. You know that?”
    “Not just my brain!” Joby bragged, pulling his sleeve back with a fierce expression, and bending his arm up to make a muscle.
    “
Oh
my gosh!” Frank laughed. “Did I just hoist all
that
up in the air? No wonder my back hurts!”
    “No
wonder
!” Joby proudly agreed.
    “Tell you what, sport,” Frank informed him. “From now on, you lift me. Okay?”
    “Okay,
sport
!” Joby replied.

     
    “I don’t know,” Joby whispered, “but they sure didn’t
act
happy.” The boys had lost Benjamin’s parents in the milling throng headed out of Mass, and were taking advantage of their first chance all morning to talk privately.
    “That’s so
weird,
” Benjamin whispered back. “I never heard of
anybody’s
parents not wantin’ ’em to go to church before . . . At least they let you come.” He shrugged.
    Joby could hardly wait to talk with Father Crombie. He had liked the old priest the minute he’d seen him at Mass. His kindly expression and cheerful smile had reminded Joby of Santa Claus, and he made funny jokes in the middle of his speeches. Joby hadn’t always understood them, but people had laughed so hard that he hadn’t been able to keep himself from laughing too. When Father Crombie had talked about people being lights in the dark, Joby had imagined himself surrounded by glowing candles—as if standing in a giant Christmas tree. It was such a neat idea that it had made him fidgety.
    Of course, he’d been a little disappointed to see the polished benches filled with normal people instead of lords and ladies, but the Mass had still been wonderfully strange. There’d been a great deal of kneeling and standing, and sitting, and standing, and kneeling again, just when you started to