Good Story

When I come home from Sunday School I go

up to my attic bedroom and undress

and put on my old clothes and go back down

-stairs for lunch. It's bacon and eggs again,

like every Sunday, with my parents,

who are smoking Lucky Strikes and gulping

Sanka and sitting at the table with

the big Sunday newspaper between them

and the comics separated for me,

Dick Tracy and Prince Valiant and Henry,

who looks like a cross between Charlie Brown

and Popeye but never says a word and

neither do I, not until I'm spoken

to, which is fine by me, and anyway

I've got Jesus on my mind, or rather

Miss Hooker, my teacher, who told a good

story about Him today. She's got red

hair and green eyes and one of them's lazy

and turns blue when it wanders away. I

wonder if she sees double that way and

if so if that bothers her or if God

protects her. If He doesn't then He should.

And white skin, like John Lennon's piano

and suit, and a million freckles on top

and I'll bet under her clothes, too—God bless

God. Sometimes when she's telling us about

one of those old men or women of God

I forget where I am in the story

and dream up a good one of my own, say

that Miss Hooker and I are married and

having Sunday lunch together. We sit

so close we're practically Siamese twins.

We're closer than brothers is what we are.

Our sides are touching and it's a good thing

she's left-handed and I'm right-, and we sit

with the hands we use most to the outside.

And it's not lousy bacon and eggs but

maybe eggs and potatoes and muffins,

and no Tang but real orange juice and not canned

or frozen, either, but fresh-squeezed and we

shared the squeezing, enough for three glasses

full because I always want more, and we

don't fool with the paper until after

we've eaten. We go back into the bedroom

and read it there. We're not wearing our robes

—we don't even have robes—just underwear

and not much of that and all her freckles

are like the stars come down from last night's sky

to shine from her and for me alone and

make me blind but not so blind I can't see

to share the Sunday crossword with her. We're

smart together and finish it all, word

by word, and I mean all the acrosses

in a row and then all the downs. That's pretty

smart. And then we fall asleep and when we

wake it's late afternoon and time to dress

and go for a walk down by the duckpond

or we drive into the city and buy

whatever we want whether we need it

or not. Then we come home and make supper

and do the dishes together and watch

TV and yawn a lot and go to bed

and dream of each other, how happy we

are that we're married and hoping one day

for a baby, however they happen,

I don't know yet and she hasn't told me

but one day when the time is right, or night,

she will, she's a good teacher, and I'm not

10 to her 25, we're the same age.

And so I usually miss the point

of whatever Bible story she tells.

Today it was young Jesus worrying

His folks by sneaking off to the temple

and showing the old men how sharp He was.

Finally, Mary and Joseph track Him

down and ask Him what He's doing there and

He says something like, Mom and Dad, don't you

know I've got to be in my Father's house?

Or something like that. So there's a moral

to the story—I'm not sure what it is,

I missed that part, but maybe Don't worry

your parents—always leave them a note. And

maybe you've got to follow God first, no

disrespect intended to them. If I

did that to mine they'd kill me, whether I

went to the church or the pinball parlor.

I'd go to Miss Hooker's but I don't know

where she lives. I'd ask her but she might tell

me. Then I'd be in one Hell of a fix.