The End

I awoke with a start.

“Haaaaaallllleeeeluiaaaaaaaaaaa…hallellulia…haa-laaaaay—looo-yaaaaaaa!”

The high pitched voice echoed throughout the house.

“Really?” I groaned.

“All children go through phases,” said the missus, snuggling under the covers.

“Lamb of Gaaaaaaawd! You take away the sins of the woooooooorld…have merrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrcy ooooooon us…”

There was a knock at our bedroom door.

“She’s interrupting my morning prayer,” muttered my son after I answered, “Come in!” He looked suspiciously sleepy for one who supposedly had been prostrate upon a rug, praying.

“The Loooooooooooooooooooord…be wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiith you!”

“It is…a bit…loud,” I admitted.

“I believe in religious freedom,” my son said, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “This, however, is a bit much. We’re going on two weeks now. You two have to DO something.”

Mothers are civilized. Fathers are usually rather determined, wealthier versions of children. Not that much wealthier. Face it, though. Being a Dad is like being a big kid who has a bunch of responsibilities. Your logic, however, is still sometimes that of a kid.

Which is why I was thinking of a modern day crusades between my two offspring and giggling evilly.

“What,” my son said with a hint of malice, “is SO funny?”

“Haaaaaallllleeeeluiaaaaaaaaaaa…hallellulia…haa-laaaaay—looo-yaaaaaaa!” Scoompi shrieked, before I heard the bathroom door open. There was another knock at my door.

“Come in,” I said wearily.

My eight year old walked in, her head covered and a peaceful, beatific smile on her face.

“Is my wimple straight?” she asked innocently, doing a 360 so we could all get a view of the kerchief covering her head.

“I’m in favor of girls covering their head,” Scooter began, “but Allie, this early morning singing has GOTTA stop.”

Scoompi turned her face up towards her brother. “Jesus doesn’t like it when you say things like that. I was going through my early devotions.”

“Jesus,” Scooter exhaled, “was JUST a prophet. A GREAT prophet…but a prophet…he is dead. The government executed him after political pressure from his own people…he cannot hear you sing nor is he hating ANYONE…the Mosaic faiths…”

“Wait,” I said, putting up a hand and sitting up in my bed. How the missus could lie through all of this, snoring is beyond me. “Get ready for school. Both of you. I don’t want to hear any of this right now. Get out of here, Scooter, you get dressed, and Scoompi, you…go do…I dunno. Little nun things or something. Just get out of my room.”

Scooter left, shaking his head. Scoompi smiled and said gently, “And with your spirit,” and backed out.

“There are convents you can send her to NOW, y’know!” my son threw over his shoulder.

“Jesus loves you, Heathen,” Babygirl said sweetly.

Only in my house.

Three weeks prior, Scoompi had come home with yet another parent note, which meant yet another detention. She was accumulating quite a file in the office, but what worked in her favor was that every teacher in the building found her adorable.

Except one.

Tired of waging an uphill battle, of being referred to as “Big Booty” and having her credentials as a nun and an educator questioned, Sr. Mary Tamika went on the offensive. Straight up and down, black and white. If it was a broken rule, no matter how arcane, no matter how innate, Scoompi was written up for it. It was awful, because apparently, even other teachers were viewing all of this discipline as an unfair singling out of a little girl that, in their classrooms, was as sweet as pie. Sympathy didn’t help, however. Scoompi was running on a week straight of recess detention when she came home one day, that familiar glint in her eye, and told me, “Daddy, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. They better be careful, though. They may not want me as a member in their club.”

I was drafting a letter to the secretary of Indian affairs, so I grunted in assent, “Go get ‘em, Babygirl.”

Since then, Scoompi had been Super Catholic. It was amusing at first. Then it was a bit off putting.

It was now crazy.

My house constantly reverberated with prayers, off key hymns and Jesus talk. I understand that at school, my daughter had become a model student in religion class, praying louder than anyone, always raising her hand, and making it known that her goal in life was to become a nun. She had taken to holding prayer circles with friends and quizzing Sr. Mary Tamika regularly on vows, holy orders, and the like. It was like living with a zealot.

The Missus served catfish one night, only to be told, "JESUS kept KOSHER!"

My son’s interest in the faith of his grandparents grown exponentially since his sister’s conversion to Fanaticism. Something would have to quit. I felt like I was in the middle of some religious experience that may or may not have been rooted in something sincere.

After school that day, Ham came over wearing a hooded brown cloak over his play clothes. He had a rope tied around his waist in place of a belt.

“Hey, Ham!”

“H’lo, Sir.” He adjusted his glasses.

“Hmmm…what’s with the rope?”

“Scoompi says I have to wear it. I’m studying to be a father in a religious order.” He looked more like a Jedi knight in training.

Babygirl walked downstairs. “Not a father…a brother. Priests are in charge of nuns. We’re not ready for that yet. One of the things I have to work on. You will be Brother Hamilton. More equality that way.”

I shook my head. Ham shrugged and they went off to play outside.

When Ham’s mother picked him up, I stuck my head in her car window and patted her Afro.

“You are like a large three year old,” she laughed. “You and Ham always do that. Leave my hair alone!”

I patted again. Faith laughed and said, “Hey, you know I’m on the committee for the fun fair. I need volunteers Doc. Can I count on your help?”

I cringed. I didn’t mind writing tuition checks, and helping out around the church was fine too. The fun fair, however, was always a zoo. All of the school kids outside, on the last day, pretty much exempt from punishment, hopped up on sugar, live music, a dunk tank, baked goods, ice cream and the like.

Then again, with child number one finding himself in another faith, and child number two being the poster child for “Convents R Us”, this might be a good year to help out. I could then use that as leverage in the years to come when I need to beg my way out of helping.

“C’mon, Man,” Faith said, picking out her natural. She shot me a sly look.

“Your girlfriend agreed to be in the dunk tank this year. You know that means she’s gonna be in a swimsuit…”

Even if Sr. Mary Tamika wore one of those long sleeved, two piece numbers from the turn of the LAST century, the combination of her and water was too good to pass up. Plus, with Babygirl on her best behavior, what was the worry?

Faith went on. “Yeah, she just agreed to do it. Like, yesterday. I guess she had some misgivings but said she’d been recently blessed with having a situation right itself. So she said it would be great fun.”

A light went off in the back of my head, but I ignored it.

“Faith?”

“Yeah man?”

“What do you think about, um, this whole, nun thing?”

“I was JUST telling Hamilton the other day that there are people in his class he will be friends with for life, and that I’d LOVE to see where they were in thirty years. Alexandra is one. Your daughter is SO…”

I let Faith ramble. We were good friends, and she loved my kids like I did hers. There was, however, a conspiracy afoot regarding this whole religious conversion, and it surprised me that she didn’t see it.

When they left, I sat Babygirl down for a heart to heart.

“Hey, Pumpkin. Good to see you,” I started.

“And with your spirit,” she said sweetly.

“You know, I’ll never get used to those changes…anyway, Babe…tell me…how’s the nun thing going?”

She smiled sweetly.

“I mean, you’re walking around with your head covered. You have poor Ham facing a life of celibacy and wearing a rope for a belt for a LONG time…is it worth it?”

I thought I saw a crack.

“Jesus loves you,” she said.

“Scoompi, I’m a bit worried…I mean, it’s a good thing to have faith, Baby, but do you think you are going a bit far?”

She smiled sweetly and said, “I will pray for you.”

“Something’s wrong,” I told the missus.

“Why?”

“The baby…”

“She’s NOT a baby…her homework is getting done, she helps around the house, she is obedient…I haven’t had to pop her in weeks now. I LOVE it.”

“Our child thinks she’s a nun…”

“It’s a phase…she will grow out of it. For now, I am enjoying the peace…”

I went to my son.

“Scooter?”

“Hey, Daddy.”

“Your sister?”

He stretched. “It’s a bit overboard, but you know what? Spirituality is a good thing. She will grow out of it. She’s been a lot mellower. After school, instead of running into me screaming ‘I LOVE YOU!’ she just walked up and smiled and says she hopes the Lord granted me a good day. Freaks K.O out, but I like this kinder, gentler Allie…”

“She is NOT ALLIE, NOR Sister Mary Alexandra…Scooter, listen…that is STILL Scoompi…remember the talent show? Soccer? How about ‘Bad Friday’? The geese thing when she was four?”

“Dad, Dad,” he stood, almost my height. He put a hand on my shoulder. “She’s growing up. You worry too much. Some people DO change…I’m praying in a while. Wanna join me?”

I took a rain check.

When she left for school the next day, I searched her room before heading to the office. Some parents think that’s an invasion of privacy. They don’t live with my Babygirl. Truth be told, my kids could be protected by the type of privacy that requires a search warrant to breach…as soon as their address differed from mine.

I found nothing. Some religious tracts (“Discovering Your Inner Nun”, “God Still Wants You, Even If the World Don’t”) but nothing to reassure me some conspiracy was afoot.

On fun fair day, I did a perimeter check. The block long lot surrounded by the school, rectory and church was more or less in order. The statue at the far end of Jesus talking to children was still on its pedestal. The teenage band was singing its heart out, loud but appropriate. Kids were milling around, enjoying cotton candy and other way too sugary treats. I worked the concession stand for about an hour and saw my son walking around with a young lady who was almost his height. She had straight, long black hair and his mother’s coloring. He sauntered over towards us.

“Hey, Dad…two lemonades…”

I looked from him to her. Him. Her. Her. Him.

“Who’s paying for this, Scooter?”

He laughed this patronizing laugh while shooting me the eye of sudden death.

“Of course, I am. Did you think I’d make a lady pay?”

“No,” I sighed, “I thought you’d make ME pay. Here you go,” I handed over the lemonade and his change. I gave him a “Who’s this?” look.

“Oh, Dad, this is my friend Rachel. Rachel, this is my Dad, Dr….”

Before I could say, “Nice to meet you,” I spied Ham, in a brown hooded robe, sunglasses on, walking towards a group of other 8 year olds similarly attired.

How did I miss this?

“Oh, hi Rachel. That’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks,” she said, smiling. “Scooter always talks about you. He says you are doing research on Native Americans?”

“Uh, yeah, as a hobby.”

“We should talk sometime. I’d love to see what you’ve learned. I hear you’re a really well respected scholar…”

Well, the young lady had taste.

“Sure. Have Scoot bring you by anytime…Love to meet your parents…oops, kids, I got a line. I’ll see ya’ll around.” I reached in my pocket and found a bill. When I gave it to Scooter, I was disappointed to see it was a ten. I THOUGHT I had some singles…

“Have a good time kids!”

As they walked off, I heard her say, “I think that’s SO cute he still calls you ‘Scooter’…”

“Don’t humor him…”

The robed kids had disappeared. Father Mike drifted by and ordered lemonade.

“Hey, Doc,” he said. “Nice day.”

Just the man I needed to see.

“Padre,” I said, “look…this nun thing…Scoompi…”

He held up his hand. “I was going to talk to you about that. I know it may seem a bit much, but God speaks and works in strange ways. While her calling is early, I think, if it is a phase, she will grow out of it. I will say, this, though…I had a talk with Alexandra earlier today, and told her to really spend this summer thinking about whether she really wanted to devote her life to this duty so early, or if she wanted to work on being an 8 year old kid. I mean,” he spread his hands, “she has her WHOLE life ahead of her. I told her today to just be herself. God loves her just the way she is.”

I felt something sink inside of me. “Really? Do you know what you’ve done?”

“Been a priest for a while,” he said. “Seen a lot. Believe me, Doc, Scoompi? She’s a Godsend. But as the little girl who falls asleep in mass when my homilies or too long, or someone who questions why celebrate Jesus’ death, as opposed to his life, teachings and our salvation. Or who keeps certain clergy on their feet. Nope,” he drained his lemonade, “God made us all differently and uses us in different ways. I told her she’s a way better Scoompi than a clone of Sr. Mary Tamika ANY day…”

I wondered if he’d be saying that if he’d had the dream I did some months back, where she bombed the school.

“She’s gonna pull something,” I muttered.

“Shoot,” the tall priest grinned. “Me and Smith got a bet on just what it will be. Be seeing you around, Doc. Thanks for helping out!”

I completed my stint at the stand and walked around the lot. Temptation finally won out, and I sidled over to the dunk tank, where a smiling Sr. Mary Tamika sat in a black one piece swimsuit. Dry as a bone. Apparently, no one had dunked her.

She waved me over.

“Hey, Sister,” I said, trying not to stare. “Nice suit…”

“Haven’t worn anything like this in years,” she laughed her throaty laugh. “Doesn’t look bad, does it?”

My throat was tight. “Nope.”

She twisted on the little platform the suspended her above the water. “I don’t look fat, do I? I mean, shoot…I DO have a lot of, ah, junk in my…”

“You look great, Sister,” I squeaked. “You’re kinda…dry…” I hated the way that came out.

“I know,” she laughed. “Most of the kids have lousy aims. The mothers, too, though they try harder. The fathers who come by don’t even try. One just stopped by, looked and put his money in the box, saying he got what he paid for.”

We both laughed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bunch of robes converge on the band. Then I heard an electrified version of “Halleluiah” and I was torn between leaving Sr. Mary Tamika vulnerable and rushing the stage.

“She’s baaaaaack!” the nun hummed happily.

“Hey ya’ll,” piped up a familiar voice.

There was a roar from the crowd.

“It’s OK,” Sr. Mary Tamika said softly. I’ll never know whether it was planned or just a child’s changing of her mind. It was quiet for a while, though…”

“…I guess that I just gotta be meeee!” she sang.

“Yeah,” I said.

The bass began pounding out a familiar tune. The guitars were wailing.

“Aaaaah…shot the sister…but ah didn’t shoot the priest you see…oh, no no!”

I saw Mr. Smith hand Fr. Mike some money.

“All around, in my school town…they trying, to track me down…they say dey wanna bring me in guiltee…for da soaking of Sistah Mary Teee…for da soaking, of Sistah Mary Tee…and ah say…” she was singing and doing her dance on the platform with the statue. Somewhere Bob Marley was laughing in revolutionary camaraderie.

While Sr. Mary Tamika and I shared a laugh, we failed to notice the group of young people in brown robes were setting up a tripod a few feet from the dunk tank. As the guitarist went into a solo on “I Shot the Sheriff”, Babygirl ran through the crowd, slapping hands and doing her dance as kids chanted, “Scoompi…Scoompi…”

She stopped in front of the tank and I saw Alex and another boy hoist a large tube onto the tripod.

“Shit,” I said.

‘What?” the nun said.

“She’s sighting!” I dove for the ground just as the bean bag shot from the gun and hit the paddle. Sr. Mary Tamika, a smile and a look of surprise on her face, was above the water one minute and in it the next. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Smith hold out his hand happily as father Mike returned the bills he’d just been handed. As the paddle reset itself, and the nun, dripping wet, tried to haul herself on it, another bean bag fired and she sank into the water again. Mothers in the crowd cheered.

Scoompi sprinted back to the microphone, “I want to close this year out, by thanking all of ya’ll that helped make this a good year. Fr. Mike, Mr. Smith, my big brother Scooter, his best friend K.O, ALL the football and baseball team, and put some folk on notice: that tramp my brother now likes and most of all, Big Booty herself, Sr. Mary Tamika! I got ya’ll! I WILL be back!”

Ham ran up to the tank.

“Sir,” he said, “do you think we can convince Mr. Smith to give us just one more chance? Next year is a NEW year, after all!” He adjusted his glasses and ran off as one of the mothers, sighting down the tube, let another bean bag fly. Sr. Mary Tamika hit the water again. Other mothers lined up, twenties in hand.