“Man, that lady sure knows how to jack your day,” laughed Harvey as he sucked his teeth. Harvey called the elevator for me and returned to his desk, chuckling and muttering to himself. I was sure dinner with my parents was not that funny, but I supposed if you spent your whole day whistling for cabs, opening and closing doors, and calling elevators, then he probably pounced upon and milked any slight deviation to the day’s normal events for all it was worth. As I was probably the only resident that likely passed any sort of time of day with Harvey, I supposed my life was the highlight of his day.
Walter greeted me when I entered the apartment with a faint meow as he looked up from the chair where he snoozed. I guessed he had probably been on the same chair all day and may not have moved since I had left that morning. I threw my keys onto the coffee table and nodded at Walter, who looked away in apparent disgust, as he always did.
I took an extended and luxurious shower. One of the many benefits of living alone was that I did not have to worry about anyone else wishing to use my bathroom. I shaved, dried, and inspected my wardrobe, as I had already decided it would be a T-shirt and jeans type of evening, it didn’t take long to dress. I had time to watch a bit of cable TV, so I grabbed a Bud Lite from the refrigerator and lay out on the couch in front of some syndicated sitcom. At five to six, before locking up, I attended to Walter’s litter tray and ensured he had food and water. Not that he cared; the whole time I had been in the apartment he had hardly moved.
Harvey hailed me a cab after pointing out I had shaving foam behind my ear. He was indeed an excellent unofficial personal assistant, and I reminded myself that I would increase last year’s Christmas tip. One thing about Harvey that continually impressed me was his ability to hail down a cab. In all my years of knowing Harvey, he had never failed to hail a cab for me in less than twenty seconds. It was unbelievable; even at night, it was as if he had a sixth sense. The guy was truly a cab-hailing wizard.
The cab ride to my parents was the expected hour duration. The main bottleneck of traffic materialized on the Queen’s Expressway, where I had joined the throng of commuters filing out of the city and back to their Brooklyn homes. My parents’ home in Borough Park was the same house I had grown up in. It was, of course, now far too big for the both of them, but they would never move, and I, for one, was not going to suggest it. One of my biggest fears was that Mother would move to the city. God forbid she ever moved into my building. So it was good in a way that they had never moved and had no intention of doing so. I suddenly had a horrific thought. Maybe that was why they had summoned me? Maybe they were selling up and moving to the city. I pushed the thought from my mind as the cab entered their neighborhood.
The neighborhood, though not exclusive, was affluent, which was apparent by the manicured lawns, the tree-lined streets, and the top-end cars parked in driveways and on the sidewalk. Borough Park was a traditionally Jewish area, and as the cab approached my parents’ house, it seemed every second person I saw wore either a skullcap or a felt-brimmed hat. My father tended his lawn religiously, mainly because it was the only place he could smoke his pipe. I had to agree with Mother when she claimed they had the best lawn in the neighborhood. I instructed my driver to stop when Dad’s impressive lawn came into view. I saw no “for sale” or any “sold” signs, and I breathed a sigh of temporary relief. I paid the cab, took a deep breath, and walked to the front door. With a hint of trepidation and not a little dread, I rang the doorbell.
Father opened the door, dressed in his cardigan, his unlit pipe hanging from his mouth. He greeted me with a smile, and then he did something very odd: he shook my hand. I could only recall my father shaking my hand on special occasions; one time being my bar mitzvah, another when I graduated from Yale, and the other time that sprang immediately to mind was when I secured my first job. Dad never usually shook my hand. There was something afoot. I could sense it.
Dad led me into the living room where Mother waited. She was resplendently dressed in her temple-best clothes, adorned with her jewelry, and her hair and makeup immaculate. I could see her nails had been freshly manicured and polished. I guessed she had spent the whole afternoon preparing for my visit. This confirmed my suspicions that there was definitely something not quite right. In public and out of the house I could accept her fully made up and bejeweled appearance, but just Dad and me? Come on.
Mother grabbed my hand with both hers and kissed my cheek. I could smell wine on her breath; I had noticed my Dad had also smelled as if he had been on the sauce too. While they were by no means teetotalers, my parents rarely drank at home, and if they did, it was never during the week. I noticed Mother was definitely acting out of character. She appeared unnervingly normal. There were none of the usual repetitive questions that usually accompanied my visits and the first half of the evening went well.
We all advanced into the dining room and sat down to dinner, making general chit chat. The food was excellent. Despite her other flaws, Mother was an excellent cook. I decided against bringing up the “delicate and personal issue” my parents needed to discuss with me. I thought it best to leave it up to them. I suspected that maybe there was no issue to discuss anyway. It was possible it had been a ruse, a smokescreen to get me over for dinner. After homemade apple pie for dessert and more casual conversation, Dad cleared the table, and we retreated back into the living room. I took the big easy chair in the corner, and Mother and Father sat facing me on the sectional sofa. I glanced at my watch. It was eight thirty. I estimated that at this time of night, it would take me no more than twenty minutes to get back into the city. I smiled at my parents. They smiled back. It was odd, both of them staring at me, smiling, holding hands. It felt like a job interview, and it became apparent they had something to say. It was an uneasy feeling, and I felt uncomfortable with them staring and smiling. Granted, I was staring and smiling back, but they started it. In front of my parents, on the coffee table, that acted as a type of barrier between us in the center of the room, sat two mugs. I suspected those mugs contained alcohol. As none was offered at dinner, I guessed they were secretly drinking, unwittingly unaware that I had already rumbled their veiled attempts to disguise their clandestine wine. I decided I would play along.
“Good coffee?” I asked, gesturing toward the two mugs. They both nodded, still smiling, still staring. Once again, I looked at my watch and sighed. It was my attempt to show them it was late. Unfortunately, even though I would had loved to stay and have them stare at me some more, I really had to be going. I was about to rise and explain all that when at last, Dad spoke.
“That was a lovely dinner, Irma,” he said to Mother. “Wasn’t that a nice dinner, Seth?” he repeated, smiling at me. Before either Mother or I could respond, he spoke again. “It was one of the best I’ve ever had.”
I doubted it was one of the best he ever had, and it was obvious my Dad was trying to make small talk. Mother and I could play the staring, smiling game all night, but Dad, it seemed, was cracking. Mother ignored my father’s compliment and continued to smile at me pleasantly. For a fleeting second, it looked like she was about to break her silence. Though her mouth began to open, she did not speak; it was as if she was thinking of the right words to use, a first for her. I felt I needed to take control of the situation, not just to ease the tension. Though I was slightly perturbed, I was not overly concerned with their behavior; it was more that I wanted to get back to my apartment so I could watch TV.
“Well, I need to be going if I want my beauty sleep. I have a busy day tomorrow, and Walter needs to be fed.” That was a lie. Walter was extremely self-sufficient, but it was the only excuse I could muster, considering the unnerving sight of my parents’ manic staring and smiling, which was very off-putting. I felt it was good enough. “So if there’s something you want to tell me, now would be a good time.” I hoped that this prompt would help Mother regain her vocal powers. In retrospect, I wished I had kept my mouth shut.
“I am a virgin,” said Mother. It
was more an announcement than an actual statement. It was the last thing I expected to come from her mouth. She continued to smile as I shuffled uneasily in my chair. I noticed this announcement had not changed my father’s expression either. Now it was my turn to smile.
“I beg your pardon?” I said, hoping Mother would say it again. I had never seen her joke like this before.
CHAPTER
4
“I AM A VIRGIN,” MOTHER repeated. This time her smile was not as strong as before. “I am a virgin, and so is your father.” My dad nodded as if showing he concurred with the rather bold and bizarre statement his wife had made. I grinned. They were playing a silly joke on me. They were testing me. Why they were testing me, I did not know, but I thought I would play along. I decided not to respond. Mother continued to speak as she fiddled with the mug of wine clasped in her hand. She spoke quickly but deliberately.
“Oh, Seth, we should have told you years ago, but the time never seemed right. I hope you understand, but, well, what with school, and the business, and then the golf club, and then Yale, and all the other things, we simply kept putting it off and putting it off.” She paused for breath before continuing. “It’s not as if we were trying to hide anything from you, and well, you know how sometimes things get forgotten, and as time passed, I thought it could have been a mistake.” I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, and my perplexed expression obviously relayed that, but I did not interrupt.
“Anyway, the thing is, but, well, you see, your dad really isn’t your real father.” I stopped smiling and looked at my dad. What was this? I had no chance to ask as Mother was still speaking, and no one interrupted her when she was in full flow. “I am a virgin. In fact, we both are virgins. It’s why we were chosen. I have always been a virgin, and I’m proud to be a virgin; so is your father.” My dad nodded his agreement.
I still had no idea what she was talking about, and I put the bizarre announcement she had just made down to drink or hormones or possibly a combination of both. Why my father was playing along with this, I had no idea. Of course, it was a preposterous thing to say.
“So you’re telling me I’m adopted?” I said. Not that I believed I was. I was merely going along with their little joke, for now. They looked at each other, and for a second, I thought they were going to laugh aloud, but all they did was smile knowingly at each other and then look at me.
“No, dear, you’re not adopted. I thought you’d think that,” said Mother knowingly.
“So what is this, what’s the punch line?” I asked.
“Honey, this isn’t a joke,” replied Mother. I cringed at “honey” and a sudden feeling of despair washed over me. I could tell by her tone that this was not a joke. They actually believed what they were saying. I came to the immediate conclusion that my parents were mentally ill. The connotations of this were awful. I would have to have them institutionalized. I would have to care for them. I would have to visit them on weekends. This could be a disaster for my social life. My father interrupted my thoughts of weekend visits, drooling straight jacketed parents, padded cells, teeth removal, and other images and visions of caring for mad parents.
“What your mother is trying to say is that, well, it’s hard to grasp, and probably hard to understand, but it is no joke, and despite what you probably think, we are neither mad nor drunk.” He looked down at his mug. “Well, maybe we are a little tipsy, but we needed some Dutch courage. This is a big thing, Seth.” He sounded sincere. I was intrigued. Mother patted my dad’s hand as reassurance, and that act of affection alone was enough to convince me that she too, in her mind at least, was being sincere.
Once again Mother spoke, again deliberately, but a little slower than before. “What we are trying to say, and really, we should have done this years ago, but like I said, it completely slipped our minds, and I don’t think too much harm has been done. Well, not that you’d notice; it could have been a lot worse, but, well, oh dear, how can I say this…. Seth, you are the Son of God.”
It was official. My parents were crazy. They had gone mad. The images of loony-filled wards and a social life revolving around hospital visiting hours returned. Or maybe it was even worse. Somehow, this old Jewish couple was suddenly evangelistic or Mormon, or maybe they had been brainwashed by Jehovah’s witnesses or a cult. I wondered who had kidnaped my parents and replaced them with these two crazy look-alikes.
“Well, that’s nice to know,” I said, half-smiling. Once again, I glanced at my watch as if indicating the lateness of the hour. “I really need to be getting home now. When you return my parents, please have them call me. By the way, it was a lovely dinner. The chicken was perfect, not as good as my real mother would make, but I suppose being an imposter you couldn’t get it all quite right, but it really was a good attempt.” I began to rise, but mother spoke before I could completely free myself from the easy chair.
“Maybe we are not being clear enough, dear. Listen, what we are trying to tell you is that I am really a virgin, a holy virgin, like the Mary woman from the Bible. I always have been and always will be. Your Father, not this Father,” she indicated to Dad, who raised his hand as if to remind me he was the “father” being discussed, “is actually God. Your real father,” once again Dad raised his hand, “is not your real father. You are, well, sort of the Messiah, the second coming, Jesus’s brother, the Christ child, the chosen one, the savior, or whatever those people call you.”
By “those people” I presumed she meant Christians.
That’s when I laughed. I laughed so loud that I thought I was going have to use the bathroom. I don’t think I had ever laughed that hard before. I let rip. I felt bad, laughing at my parents, but it was hilarious. I had not expected this; it was highly original, and I was very amused. As I laughed, they stared at me, but they were no longer smiling. Their faces were deadpan which only made me laugh harder and louder. I had to grab my side; I laughed so hard it hurt. They continued to stare, their faces sterner than deadpan. It was a joke, their best joke ever—in fact their only joke ever—I had never known my parents joke. They never joked. Oh, shit. My parents do not joke. My laughter curtailed slightly, long enough for me to speak.
“Come on,” I pleaded, my arms outstretched. “What is this?” They sat stony-faced. I felt slightly guilty for laughing so hard. I could tell they were not pleased by my outburst of laughter. I felt I needed to speak and ease the tension that had suddenly emerged.
“For a start, we are Jewish. We don’t go for all that Christ stuff. Come on, be real. If you are going to play a joke on me, you cannot expect me not to laugh. What is this? You guys started this. How was I meant to react? Have you two been drinking too much? Is there a hidden camera somewhere? Come on. Mother? Dad? What’s this all about?” Their expressions had not changed, and if I were eight years old, I would have thought I was in trouble.
“It’s the truth, son,” said Dad, more somber and serious than I had ever seen him before in my life.
And that’s when I realized they were not kidding around. That’s when I realized that they believed every word they said was the truth.
CHAPTER
5
NOW OBVIOUSLY, THE EVENING DID not end there. It did not end with me casually calling a cab, kissing my mother on the cheek, shaking Dad’s hand, and returning to my contended and uncomplicated life. It is important that I fill you in on my parents a little more. They did not joke around. I had never known them joke around. For them to joke around was unheard of. Oh no, to say my parents were jokers would not be true. They did not joke, I hope that is clear. Jokes were not on the Miller list of things to do.
“You are not joking, are you?” I said. I no longer smiled. I sank back into the easy chair.
“No, dear, we are not,” replied my mother, no longer stony-faced, which was a relief because when she got that face on let’s just say you didn’t want to be around for that face, or the words that came from the mouth of that face.
“You actua
lly believe what you are saying, don’t you?” I said, as more of a statement than a question; I already knew the answer.
“It’s not that we believe or do not believe what we are saying, quite simply it’s the truth; it’s the truth, dear, it’s the truth.” I had never heard my Mother speak so sincerely. “I am a virgin; you were a miracle child. Your father,” Dad raised his hand again, “and I were chosen by God to carry his second son—that’s you, Seth—and to bring you up as our son like Mary and Joseph did.” She seemed as if she actually believed that. It was not a joke. It must have been something else; maybe they had been hypnotized, or terrorists had put something in the Borough Park water supply, or maybe my earlier brainwashing theory was correct. Or much worse, they could actually be mad. My parents could really be crazy. I wasn’t sure whether to reason with them or try and bring them to their senses.
I decided I would highlight the total absurdity of it all. I spoke softly and quietly “Mother, we are Jewish. Why would God choose a Jewish couple to raise his son? Surely he would want a Christian family?” I felt that was a good start.
“Well, it was all a bit of a mistake that bit anyway. He did originally think we were Christians. I think our surname must have confused him. I did point this out at the time, but it was too late, and anyway, he said it wasn’t important.” Mother sounded convincing. It was ridiculous, but I knew she believed what she said. I felt, though, that God would realize Miller was the third most common surname for Jews in the United States. I thought everybody knew that.
“Anyway,” said Dad. “He chose Jews last time. Mary and Joseph were both from Israel.” I looked at him and shook my head.
The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy Page 3
