Baseball Mom & Religion

It was Saturday, which meant that Scooter had a baseball game. The misconception is spring has nothing but lazy weekends as the school year winds down. Nothing is further from the truth. My weekends were spend at the ball field, and then in the office. My research on casinos would have to wait, although I was sure part ownership of one would help me devote most of my time to family stuff.

Scooter was pretty quiet this morning. His bronco team was playing the Cubs, a collection of preteen mediocrities of the lowest level save one: their star pitcher was a kid named Arnold. Arnold was six feet even in sixth grade and threw heat like Satan aiming at his former homies left in heaven. This kid could throw. As a result, no one on Scooter’s team could hit him. So they usually lost. Sadly, Arnold was not only a good pitcher, but a decent kid and a good sport. He seemed genuine when, at the post game lineup, he slapped hands with everyone on Scooter’s team and said, “Good game!”

Scooter had been catching since tee ball, and had a good bat, but hitting Arnold was just something he could not manage. No shame in it. The rest of his team couldn’t manage it, either. Made for a pretty sad afternoon, though.

“Look,” I overheard Scoompi say, “Let’s pray on this. All of this religion has got to be good for something. Let’s give it a try.”

Most parents would welcome their little ones taking the initiative when it came to religion.

I know my kids.

“Dear God,” Scoompi started.

“You mean Jesus?” Big brothers know all.

“I mean God. I don’t do middlemen. I go straight to the top. God SENT Jesus. That mean’s God is in charge. This is a God prayer. When we need for Little Timmy Rawlins to get a hit against a team you usually beat, we’ll call on Jesus. If you wanna beat Arnold, you need God…

“Dear God, Scooter and his team should really win this game today. You’ve already blessed Arnold with a for sure major league career, while my brother and his friends are stuck with limited talent that will assure them futures as accountants, eye doctors, or worse, teachers. Let them have this one win, because life for them in baseball is going to end soon and disappointingly enough. Amen.”

“I’m not saying Amen to that!”

I could almost hear her shrug. “Fine. Then lose.”

“Fine. Amen. Next time we pray to Jesus. And tone it down some. You don’t know none of us are going pro…”

“I know none of you can hit Arnold, and he’s gonna stay in the minors a while…”

“What was that crack about teachers? Daddy’s a teacher.”

“First, Daddy is a professor, and second, Daddy thinks he’s a doggone Indian. Teaching must do bad things to you.”

We walked to the park, the three of us. The missus was going to meet us there. I set up the camp chairs and bought Scoompi a snack. She took up her usual spot, in front of the fence, next to Scooter’s dugout. The boys all greeted her, loudest of all K.O, Scooter’s best friend.

“What’s UP, Scoomp!”

“Sup K.O.”

“We gonna lose.”

“Not today. I prayed for ya’ll.”

“Didn’t Sister Mary Tamika kick you out of religion class? Man, don’t pray for me.”

Scoompi ignored K.O. She had a little girl’s crush on him but had long ago mastered the grown woman’s art of ignoring what men think is logic.

The game started. Arnold came out and whipped three up, three down. Scooter’s team held their own, though. We were scoreless in the sixth when K.O struck out, again. Little Timmy Rawlins stepped to the plate. Timmy was Lilliputian, and I guess it clicked in his head that if he didn’t swing, Arnold’s heat would miss his strike zone. Four pitches later, Timmy was on first, grinning.

“C’mon, God,” I heard Scoompi mutter, “I really never ask for much.”

Little Timmy took off like a bullet for second and made it with time to spare before the Cubs’ lousy pitcher got the ball there. “Bout time,” Scoompi muttered, before looking heavenward and saying, “OK, thanks. But let’s not let them down.” She turned to the dugout and screamed, “Cheer him on you bums! None of ya have even SEEN base this game.”

One of the team mothers leaned over and said, “It’s so precious how passionate she is…”

It was something, but I wasn’t sure just what. My wife came over and sat down.

“Cubs? How bad we losing?”

“We’re tied, actually,” I said.

“Oh, goody! How’s my boy doing?”

“Actually, Timmy Rawlins is on…wow!”

Timmy took third. The Cubs’ third baseman was watching the ball fly over his head when the littlest guy on our team stole home, putting us up by one.

The boys in the dugout were cheering like Timmy was David taking down Goliath. Even Arnold waved and smiled from the mound.

Our next batter struck out, but we held them, and when it was over, our guys were grinning like they’d invented fire on a cold November night. Arnold stopped and gave Timmy a hug. Both sets of coaches were speechless.

Over the din, I heard a high pitched, “Yaaaaaaay! God!”

“What on earth could she mean? You have got to speak to her,” my wife said, but she too was happy with the win.

On the way to the car, the missus said, “Since we are so close, maybe we should do Saturday mass.”

Scoompi spoke up first. “Wuffo?”

“Well, aren’t we thankful the boys won?”

“Very. I gave God his props. Back there, where everyone could hear me, Mama.”

Scooter wanted to go to church like Frosty wanted a Bermuda vacation. I wasn’t dying to go either, but I realized Saturday afternoon mass meant sleeping in Sunday morning. Maybe even a nice cholesterol laden breakfast that I was usually forbidden.

“C’mon, Kids, Mommy has spoken,” I laughed. Scooter didn’t care. He was fresh off the win. Scoompi looked betrayed.

Saturday mass is more lighthearted, and goes by quickly. Scoompi refused to sing and flopped when she knelt and sat, but a couple of evil eyes from her mother stopped that. After mass, Scoompi walked right up to the visiting priest who officiated and pulled his stole.

“Hello, Cutie!”

“Do you talk to God Father?”

“We ALL talk to God, Honey. What’s wrong?”

“Well, because he lets you say mass for him, you probably have a quicker line to him than I do. Tell him Saturday mass was a dirty trick. I would have come tomorrow. I cheered him in public.”

“Public acknowledgement of God’s goodness to us is honorable, Dear. He is proud of you.”

That mollified her a bit, but not her anger stricken mother. I thanked the padre for his homily and walked forward, bumping into someone.

“Well, isn’t this delightful?” a deep female voice said.

Sr. Mary Tamika looked like, to many Caucasians, any other chocolate nun in a habit, one who maybe took her vows and orders a few years prior. To me, she looked like Ebony Ayes. I’d seen her once in street clothes, out of her habit but still in her coif and wimple, at the library. Different things make different people turn to religion. I had to beg for forgiveness after speaking and then asking, “Is your real name Phyllis?” She thought me a riot. My wife thought her a bit too friendly to be a woman of God. My logic? You give up so much to be a nun, why not have some laughs and a great attitude? I’d known nuns who were rumored to be drunks when I was in elementary school. A flirt, in my opinion, was a fair exchange.

Especially when you looked like Ebony Ayes.

“H’lo, sister,” I said, smiling. I caught my wife’s daggers in my back.

"Peace be unto you ALL," Sr. Mary Tamika hummed.

"As salaam alaikum," Scoompi spat.

The nun ignored her. “Doctor, Scooter, young lady,” her voice had a rhythm to it, like she was raised in the islands. “Or,” she said playfully, “shall I call you ‘Scoompi’, my dear?”

My baby drew herself up, squinted like Popeye as she looked upwards, and said, “Naw. Just call me by my government.”

I heard Scooter take in a breath. I saw my daughter’s hands fly to her behind as she shifted her glare from Sr. Mary Tamika to her mother, who was poised to strike again.

“What I do?”

My kids and I had an unwritten agreement. Should discipline be required, verbal or physical, I would wait until we were at home, in private. The exchange there was they then had to deal with whatever levels my wrath had swollen to, but it saved them embarrassment. As I got mad at them about once a year (less with the baby), this was a swell agreement.

One their mother did not honor.

“You were disrespectful, and I’ve had enough of it!”

“I just asked the sister to address me by the name YOU make them call me here, Alexandra Whosis…” she rubbed her bottom. Sr. Mary Tamika bit her lip.

“Apologize,” my wife growled.

“Sorry, Sister,” Scoompi said, still glaring at her mother.

“That’s OK, Scoompi,” Sr. Mary Tamika said.

Now, I caught that, but no one else did but my baby girl. She went from glare to glower.

We chatted briefly, the sister said she’d make an appointment for us regarding the Bad Friday nonsense, and she waved before moving on.

As we headed back to the car, my wife grumbled, “You know she didn’t speak to me.”

Innocently, I asked, “Really?”

“No. And she kept making eyes at you.”

“Thought she was looking at the baby.”

“You know what?”

“Honey,” I whispered. “Don’t get mad at me. You wanted to come to Saturday mass. I backed you up. Let’s go home and celebrate Scooter’s win. And next time, could you try to NOT break my child’s behind?”

“Hush. And drive.”

Scoompi glared at her mother’s back all the way home. Scooter was a happy camper. I tried to remember Ebony Ayes films from my college days. Religion is a good thing.

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN KIDS DON’T LISTEN PART II

I was listening to Wynton’s “Live at Blues Alley” when the kids came home from school. One trudged in, one bounced. My daughter trudged. I looked at her little unhappy face and scooped her in my arms.

“What’s doin’, Pumpkin?””

She twisted in my arms and tried to get down.

“OK, Ok,” I said, “you can get down once I get some sugar. What’s wrong?”

“Today, at school,” she huffed, “my teacher read the story of Gepper, the Friendly Goose. Daddy, why did you kill Gepper’s family?”

Wow.

“Then,” she continued, not giving me a chance to answer, “she went on to explain how it was wrong for people to own powerful weapons that only the army should have, and how all animals are now victims because some people just won’t let them be.”

I did a slow burn.

“Well,” my oldest grinned, “I had some sixth graders…lookit, Daddy…SIXTH graders, offer to buy my lunch. You know why? I was out of respect.”

My son had been present when I was awarded my PhD. There was no such look of pride on his face then. Now, however, I was Bruno the Fowl Slayer and I was a dad worthy of some accolades.

“Your teacher, Baby,” I said to my little girl, “is a godless communist liar and spy. She has no right to tell people what they can or cannot have, and furthermore, I take issue with her provoking you like that.”

I figured such a show of loyalty would send her smile into the stratosphere. The long wail I got in return only got louder as she ran from my lap and headed upstairs to her room.

“So, uh, Daddy?”

“Yeah Man?”

“Why didn’t you tell us you were a gangster? I mean, that is way cooler than being a stupid college teacher. Man. Do you know Al Capone?”

“He’s dead.”

“Tony Montana?”

“He is a figment of someone’s imagination, and you shouldn’t know who he is, either.”

“Can you have people bumped off? My history teacher has gotten a bit lippy lately…”

“Go to your room until supper time,” I said wearily.

He smiled and winked. “I get it. Plausible deniability. Yeah, I won’t be around while you make the call. Remember, Daddy…Paulie HATED conferences. Say what you gotta say in person, man to man. I’ll let my people know Mr. Schrieb will learn to change his tune in the near future.” He bounded upstairs.

I went to the kitchen and examined my choices. I had part of a roast left that I had cooked in the crock pot the day before. I also had some chicken that was thawed out. Chicken was a bird. Too close to goose. That was out. I began slicing the cold beef in then planks, layered them in a skillet, and drenched them in barbecue sauce, and turned the heat on low. My daughter liked asparagus, so I put some on to steam and whipped up some instant cornbread. I flipped on our local news access station to see what was new in the community.

“Reputed mobster…” I looked up and saw another photo of me, this one in a suit prior to last year’s commencement. “…yet to be seriously questioned by authorities, perhaps an indication of just how deep his ties run to local government. As you know, the alleged don was recently accused of massacring an entire flock of geese while demonstrating the capability of his surface to surface missile launcher, possibly for other mob chieftains…”

I reeled and had to sit down. What the hell?

I had neighbors that I knew were members f organized crime. They owned small businesses, coached local sports teams for kids, and generally were nice people, but you knew their houses weren’t paid for by the profits from struggling fencing companies or auto garages. My neighbor Rollo changed my oil for ten bucks a pop but lived in a house twice as big as mine and had all five of his kids in expensive schools. Another neighbor coached my son’s baseball team. He was a hell of a coach, and he played poker with me and Joe, the police chief, on a regular. Jose Gonzales two blocks over hosted a back to school picnic for kids, but he didn’t earn that fleet of Cadillacs in his circular driveway cutting grass.

Do you know how I knew my neighbors were mobsters? Because there was next to no petty crime in our area, and drug dealing was nonexistent. Kids, and adults for that matter, acted like they had some sense in our neighborhood, because real criminals want to live in peace. They will make their money doing dirt but they wanted to live like the other half. We had a good community, in part because we had our share of racketeers living in it. Every good community needs some mob chieftains just to keep things civil.

I was an underpaid college professor and wannabe writer, and somehow Michael Corleone was meeting with me to discuss weaponry.

I clicked off the television before calling the kids down to dinner. I made the boy set the table, and my babygirl poured the drinks.

“Soda?”

“Juice.”

“Why not milk?”

“We’re having beef. It’s bad to mix the two.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Are you a bad man?”

“No, Baby. What do you think?”

She hugged my leg.

“No, but I think it was bad for you to kill Gepper.”

This was my chance to get back at her no good pinko teacher.

“I didn’t kill Gepper, baby. I killed his evil cousins, Goon and Goomper. Remember they were chasing you?”

She thought about that, then said, “Yeah…they were gonna bite us!”

“Daddy saved your life, baby,” I said gravely. “Geese are the cobras of the bird world…”

Dinner went better than planned.

I was sitting on the deck later on when Rollo walked up, two cold beers in hand. I waved him inside the deck and took a cold one.

Rollo covered his mouth.

“I heard you got them thangs.”

“Huh?”

He took a long pull on his brew.

“I heard…just heard…you got them thangs…I might know someone innerested if you wanna connect.”

“Rollo?”

“Yeah?”

“This about what was in the paper?”

He shrugged.

“Rollo?”

“Yeah?”

“Anybody ever print false stuff about you?”

He shook his head and sneered. “Fools said I run an ice cream shop. Ice cream? Like I’m some kinda fluff piece. Ice cream, Doc. What the hell? I’ma damned mechanic. I can change oil and e’rythang…So they lied on you, too?”

“Remember my Daddy’s .45?”

“Yeah.”

“Geese were chasing the kids. I stopped them.”

Rollo shook his head.

“Hey guys,” we saw John amble up.

Short, wide, in an ever present baseball cap and clutching three beers, my son’s baseball coach climbed onto the deck and grabbed a chaise, giving each of us a beer.

“Doc, you gotta tell these assholes to lay off. You talked to Joe?”

“He said let it blow over.”

John nodded his head sagely. “That’s wise. All of this shit over some damn birds? I mean, they’re letting them teach our kids about sex in schools, talking about gay marriage and whatnot, and they bother a damn decent guy, a teacher no less, over this? Hey, what’d you do with the flock?”

“Hmm?”

“After you waxed ‘em. If you still got the carcasses, I gotta guy that can dress ‘em out for us. Be some damn good barbecue.”

“Wasn’t a flock. It was two.”

“Your pop’s old service piece?”

“Yep.”

“Din’t leave much bird.”

I took a long swallow.

“OK, Doc, you can’t let this shit get to ya. We know you. We been neighbors for years. We’ll vouch for you.”

There were two things on my mind that I dared not to say: One, these guys vouching for me would be like using gasoline to put out a fire. And two, me getting all of this heat let them fly under the radar.

“Hola, Amigos,” we heard from the bushes. Jose Gonzales stepped into the dim light, six pack in hand.

“Hey man,” we chorused.

“You gotta get this straight,” Jose advised, handing out the beers. “This is bad for the neighborhood. I mean, it looks like we got a hooligan living in our midst…”

The other three nodded their heads sadly.

“…and we can’t have that. This is an upstanding community, and we don’t want no criminal element living here. Think of the example this sets for our kids. I don’t want my kids thinking we live in a neighborhood full of hooligans.”

I almost choked on my beer. Rumor was Jose fed his competitors through his wood chipper, and people only whispered about John, and even then, not too loudly.

We finished our beer and discussed the baseball team’s chances of making the playoffs that season. John’s fencing company always sponsored us for uniforms, etc., and John had a farm about a mile from his house where he had a diamond all carved out for the boys to practice. At one point, we heard geese honking, and Rollo sat up sharply.

“You shoulda whacked all a dem out,” John said.

They got up to leave.

“Say,” said John, “what caused alla this anyway?”

“Kids wouldn’t listen,” I said, clearing away the bottles. “Told ‘em to leave the geese alone. Geese chased them.”

“Geez,” said Jose. “They never lissen. Lookit all the trouble they cause.”

“It’s OK, Doc,” said John, extending his hand. “If nobody else believes it, we know you ain’t no mob boss.”

How comforting.

What Happens When Kids Don't Listen Pt. 1

As a rule, children do not listen.

Generally, more butt warmings have occurred when children have not listened than when they have tortured small animals, stolen cars or attempted to immolate themselves. Adults, you see, are not devoid of emotion. The aft mentioned misdemeanors imply something is wrong with a child, and that wrong requires more help than a parent alone can offer.

Unless one is born deaf, however, every child with two ears affixed to its head can hear and comprehend. The fact that they do so selectively drives parents, even the best of us, to temporarily lose control and bear no responsibility for our actions.

Usually, children listen to men more than women. As a rule, men are more violent, and as they have never carried another living being in their bodies (save parasites), men are fuzzy when it comes to the idea that striking that which annoys you is a bad idea if it is your own. Just the opposite. Striking that which annoys you, for me, is the safest release possible, provided it is your own. No self respecting man kicks a dog. No self respecting man owns a dog that would shy from retaliation if kicked. Children, on the other hand, are fair game. If they do not listen.

Most adult headaches are derived from children who do not listen.

“Do not go near those geese,” I answered my children when they requested to go outside and play. I live in a suburban area that is really a lot of undeveloped farmland left over by bankrupt developers. Suburbs have hubs of retail and business activity. I have grass, lots of it, and the kind of animals that keep vermin in check through natural, predatory selection. I live not in a suburb but in moderately civilized woods, dotted by libraries, restaurants, and fields like the one across the street from my house.

“So, we can go?” my son asked.

“Leave those geese alone,” I repeated, then went back to my drink and tattered copy of Pudd’nhead Wilson.

They said “Okay” and left, to join their friends. I went back to reading.

In America, a man, or a woman, can do what they please in their own home, and have little explaining or justifying to do. When you leave your home, however, everyone else takes your affair to be their affair.

So a man like me can sit back, have a cocktail, smoke a cigar and relax in an old pair of suit pants and a t-shirt. Reading Twain and every now and then remembering he has to clean the old M1911 left he inherited. Nobody cares. Outside of the home? Alcohol, firearms and tobacco combined make for a federal law enforcement agency. Regardless of what you are reading.

I was almost done with Puddn’head when I heard kids screaming. You have kids, you hear screams. They are all loud, but they differ. Some screams are screams of excitement. Some are “Please let the neighbors hear how loud you’re whooping me so you stop.”

Some are screams of terror.

Fathers really have one job: protection. That whole providing thing falls under protection. You go out and get a job so your wife doesn’t have to enter the sex industry and your kids aren’t hired out to assemble sneakers just to eat. Society usually looks the other way if a father has to do something incredible stupid if it can legitimately be filed under “protecting my family.” Usually.

I heard the screams again. I looked through my sliding door and saw my daughter running pell mell towards the house, followed by her older brother and friends, who were stopping and throwing things.

I groaned, hauled myself out of my chair and started out the door. Usually a big man in a t-shirt is enough to scare neighborhood teens.

I grabbed the Colt just because it was there.

“What the hell?” I bellowed as I strode outside, barefoot, crunching over asphalt and onto the grass. The kids kept running. I was glowering.

“What’s with all of this noise? Can’t you see I’m trying to…”

What? Drink? Can’t say that one, I thought.

My daughter ran into me, bounced off and pointed.

Then I heard the honking.

About seven birds were racing across the field, basically in pursuit of the kids.

Great. Geese are mean. They are also protective. These kids probably just got too close to their babies…natural instinct.

Logic, however, does not prevail when my children are being threatened. If the goose daddy’s way of protecting his young is to attack mine, well, life isn’t fair.

“Get down!” I hollered.

A shot in the air? That’s good sense. Geese are mean but they have a bad history with armed humans. Geese are edible, and they know it.

The kids didn’t listen. They ran for me, and the geese changed tracks, honking, flapping and defecating all the while.

Something I heard in a sermon once came back to me. Geese are really supportive of each other, but the guy in the front? He’s the lead.

The kids ran past me. So much for loyalty. I reached in my pocket, unlatched the safety, pulled back the slide and took aim.

The leader became a puff of feathers. I took aim again, hollering for the kids to get in the house, and watched the big shell turn another goose into so much protoplasm.

Geese are tough. Geese have loyalty. Geese, like everything else, fear disintegration.

“Daddy! Stop it! You’re killing them!” She was beating her little hands across my thigh.

I made sure the other geese had scattered, ejected the magazine, grabbed her by her waist and ran into the house.

The other kids were seated in my living room, looking out the window. The little girls looked at me in horror. My son’s friends looked on in envy.

I went upstairs and locked the big, flat pistol back in its case. Maybe it didn’t need much cleaning after all.

When I got downstairs, two of my daughter’s friends were crying. The boys were trying to get back outside to see what, if anything, remained of their would be attackers.

“Didn’t I tell you all not to bother those geese?”

“You did?”

“I did. Right before you went outside.”

There was a knock at the door. There were flashing lights outside.

I knew the cop at the door. He was one of my night students.

“Hey, Doc, we got word of some shots in the area? Could be kids setting off fireworks…”

“No, it was me,” I said.

“Um…”

“Kids were in the field. Got chased by geese. Birds wouldn’t let up and came close to getting them. I fired to keep the kids from being attacked.”

He nodded. “They’re meaner than ever this time of year. Them and the raccoons. Nasty bites. Um, can I come in?”

I gestured inside. He left his cruiser idling in my driveway.

“Hold up a minute,” I said. I went upstairs, grabbed the gun case and my registration permit.

“Weapon in question,” I said, handing him the case. He opened it and whistled softly.

“Not gonna leave much goose, izzit?”

“Don’t know. Trying to get the kids in the house. I told them to leave the geese alone. Figure they stumbled on a nest and poked at the babies.”

He closed the case, made some notes from my permit, and gave them both back to me.

“There’s no crime here,” he said. “I’d clean that piece, though.”

“I will. Thanks for stopping by.”

“Animal control will get the body, but you know what? Local animals will get to it first. I’d leave the kids in for a day or two, or at least out of the field, or they may run across something not as slow as a goose and twice as hungry.”

“Thanks again.”

He left. I walked outside and waved as he got in his car.

The kids drifted home, one by one, and I made supper. We ate, watched TV, and otherwise had an uneventful night.

When I stepped out to get my paper in the morning, all was quiet. I made coffee and scanned the headlines.

“Local Thug Murders Innocent Wildlife”.

There was a picture of me waving. Looking like a Black Tony Soprano in my t-shirt and old dress pants. Who took that damn picture?

“A local man bent on changing our ecology murdered two geese in cold blood yesterday, police reports show. This man,” well, they spelled my name right, I grimaced, “fired on innocent geese yesterday afternoon. The birds were nesting in the field across from his home when he went on a rampage, killing two of the animals with an assault rifle. Animal activists have complained to the county, which owns the field where the geese both lived and were assassinated, to press charges. Gun control advocates are pushing for a ban on the Teflon coated “Chainsaw” ammunition experts claimed the man used on the innocent, unsuspecting fowl. The shells reportedly decapitated the birds and incinerated them whole in a matter of seconds. Area police have investigated and made it clear the use of assault rifles on unarmed birds is unsporting...”

This is what happens when kids do not listen.

I called the police station and asked for the chief, a neighbor. Where had he been last night? Probably sitting in his favorite chair enjoying a drink and reading. His kids probably listened.

“Hey Doc, you’re famous!”

“Joe? What the hell? Very little in that article is factual.”

“Oh, Doc, it’s a newspaper. They never get it right, first go round.”

“Joe? I don’t own a freaking assault rifle.”

“Shoot, I read the report Matthews took. Old .45 automatic. Two shells spent. Hell that “chainsaw” ammunition don’t even exist, in real life. Trust me, if it did, we’d have some here. Bet your shell didn’t leave much bird, though.”

“Am I going to be arrested?”

“For what? Some animals attacked your kids. You put a stop to it. Your weapon is registered and licensed. You were doing your job. Take it in stride.”

“This paints me to be some type of…organized crime figure with a yen for killing animals.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Doc. This’ll all blow over in a day or so. The papers do this whenever there is a slow news day. They’ll print a retraction somewhere over the next month, in back by the classifieds for Oriental massages. We’ll all have a good laugh. ‘Local Professor is Not a Thug’. Priceless!”

I sighed.

“A word of advice, Doc? Whatever you do? Don’t push it. This is like a bug bite. Ignore it, it goes away. Push it, it gets ugly.”

Little Fire Eating TroubleMaker

III

“When you get home, you need to talk to your child.”

I never asked which child. Scooter seldom got in trouble, and the only time I was encouraged to talk to my children was when they had problems. Apparently, my regular conversations with them prompted one to have a bleak outlook on life and the other to get her little mouth washed out with soap.

“What’s Scoompi done?”

“I’ll let you talk to her. It’s about school. I think perhaps your outlook on things has gone a bit far.”

Uh oh.

I took my time getting home, because when Scoompi got in trouble, usually, I was in trouble too.

I walked in, spoke to everyone, and pulled Scoompi to the side. My wife joined us. This was not going to be good. Scooter pretended to rummage around for a Gatorade in the fridge.

“What happened, Baby?”

“No,” my wife started. “That’s part of the problem. You’re already on her side. You don’t start a punitive conversation with ‘Baby’!”

“Oh,” I said, calmly, having already picked Scoompi up like a puppy. She giggled. “No ‘Baby’ mental note. I’ll remember that. Gotta put you down, Scoomp.”

“It’s OK,” she said.

My wife shook her head. Scooter was rummaging much slower.

“Read this to him,” my wife handed a carbon to her. Scoompi’s eyes set hard.

“Student’s name: Alexandra McCarthy. Grade: Three. Date,” she read the date. “Infra…infrared…interact…”

“Infraction,” my wife snapped.

“Yeah, that,” her little voice had an edge to it.

“Be easy, Baby,” I said sternly. “That’s your momma.”

“But I’m trying to read, she interrupting me!”

“Just read it, Scoomp…I mean Alexandra…”

“My name is Scoompi,” she said defiantly. “SHE named me Alexandra.” Little girls and their mothers. “Infraction,” she glared at her mother. “Blasphemy and defiantly pursuing an argument with religious authority.”

“You read all that but missed ‘infraction’?” I was impressed.

“Sister Mary Tamika repeated it several times,” Scoompi explained.

“Oh.”

“This is serious,” my better half started. “Tell him what you said.”

Her little face went hard. “We were supposed to point out a holiday that interested us.”

“OK.”

“I chose Good Friday. Christmas is about gifts. Easter is boring. The other religious holidays are just excuses to make us go to mass.”

Scooter had stopped rummaging.

“We send you to a Catholic school,” the missus said, “so you can learn about religion as well as learn your lessons.”

“I know it’s just…” her eyes watered.

“What is it Scoompi?” Ever understanding Daddy.

“This is all so…fake.”

“No religion is fake, young lady!”

“No,” I countered, “some are just more self serving than others. Did you tell Sister Mary Tamika something was fake?”

Her little head bobbed. “Yes. Good Friday is a fake.”

“The concept of Christianity is the idea that Jesus died on the cross for your sins young lady. Then he rose from the dead.”

“Your parents don’t believe that,” Scoompi said, “they believe he was a prophet.”

“But we, Alexandra, believe he is the son of God.”

“Whoa, ladies,” I interrupted. “Baby, let the baby finish.”

“She’s not a baby, part of the problem…”

“Scoompi?”

“Good Friday is a joke. It is a fake.”

“OK, Baby, you denying he dies on the cross that day?”

“No,” she said, face all scrunched up. “He died. But the Church is lying to us. It was NOT Good Friday. It was BAD Friday. They assassinated him! His own people sold him out and the government KILLED him! That’s as bad as what happened to the Indians! He was nice and tried to help people and they killed him. Then they try to sell it to us that it was a GOOD Friday? ‘Hey, you’re gonna die later today.’ ‘In my sleep?” “Naw, fool. We’re gonna nail you to a tree and let you hang there, and then poke you with a spear. Oh, by the way, it’s Good Friday.’ ‘Maybe for you. You probably getting paid today. Me? I gotta die on a tree. That’s pretty bad on the list of things that I’ve done. Water to wine? Good. Walk on water? Good. Help blind people see? Good. Oh. Nailed to a tree on a hot day and left to die? BAD.’”

Scoompi was animated as all get out. My wife was glaring at me. Scooter had closed the refrigerator door and was making huffing sounds.

I was trying really hard not to laugh.

“She’s got a point,” I said weakly.

“All I said,” Scoompi had calmed down now, “was that people have been oppressed forever…”

“You said ‘oppressed’?”

“Yes, Daddy, please don’t interrupt…”

“It was a BAD day for Jesus. And I got wrote up for that. Lookit, I could’ve been like little Ade Olafatoke and just said I like Christmas for gifts. I did my best on the assignment, and I got in trouble.” She shook her head. “Always trying to keep a Black girl down.”

“Baby, Sister Mary Tamika is Black…”

“She’s outta touch. Confused nun.”

Wow. I was in so much trouble.

“Honey? How much of this has to do with the casino thing?”

“I dunno,” she studied her fingertips. “I told Sister Mary Tamika yesterday that if we had to study American history, why come we can’t really talk about how the Pilgrims did the Indians dirt? I keep you from starving, you steal my house?”

Uh oh.

“We’ll go talk to Sister Mary Tamika,” I said. “I’ll sign your form here but leave her a note saying that I want to meet on this. Go wash up for dinner.”

“Kah. But Daddy?”

“Yeah, Baby?”

“Bring Mommy. Because Sister Mary Tamika likes you, which she shouldn’t her being a nun and all? She always makes goo goo eyes at you when you talk to my class, and won’t shut up about you when you leave. Plus, she got a weave under that head thing.”

“Wash Scoomp.”

“Kah.”

She ran upstairs. I pretended to study the mail.

“C’mon out, Scooter,” I said.

He emerged from the kitchen, Gatorade in his hand. Gotta hand it to him. Kid dotted his “I”s and crossed his “t”s.

“What do you think?”

“She shouldn’t have been written up,” he said slowly. “That was her opinion. She did the assignment. Teachers have too much power.”

“Go wash up honey,” my wife said to him.

“This is going too far.”

“What? Honey, the child gave her opinion. When I was a child, we were asked our opinions, not to tow the party line.”

“You didn’t find what she said disrespectful?”

“No I was pretty impressed. That’s solid insight for a seven year old.”

“She disrespected her teacher?”

“By disagreeing with her? I agree with Scooter. What are teachers? Bullying losers with degrees who get off picking on kids.”

“Um, and how do you earn your living?”

“My line of education requires discourse, analysis, and tolerance. Way more give and take.”

“Of all but conservative points of view…”

“This is not about me. A seven year old was asked an opinion, and she offered one backed up by evidence and logic. Seven year old logic, but logic nonetheless. Nothing she did was wrong. What? The pope is gonna excommunicate a seven year old? He may wanna be careful. She looks like she could turn the Holy See on its ear.”

“You know she got more heated with her teacher than she did with us.”

“Passion is lacking in today’s classrooms.”

“This all started because of that casino thing.”

“I’ll fix it. But be honest: if I was so off base, then why is Scooter in agreement?”

She was quiet on that one.

“I’ll go with you to the meeting.”

“Bet you will. Wonder if that really is a weave she wears?”

“Shut up.”