Sunday Lunch
Every Sunday, after church lets out—usually a quarter past noon—I’d head over to my father’s house to meet up with him, and sometimes his girlfriend, to go out to lunch. I’m not pious, nor have I ever been in a church in my life. Neither was he, before a couple of years ago. His girlfriend—feels wrong to call her that, they’re both in their seventies—is a devout Christian, and goes the extra mile to organize events, fundraisers, and other things of that nature. A very sweet, traditional woman. Good for him. It does leave her preoccupied at times, though, so she can’t join up with us every week. So, it’ll just be me and my dad.
He’ll always let me pick where to go, not that it really matters. I always pick the same three or four places. He insists on paying, so I always choose somewhere on the cheaper side—a local barbecue place, a small country diner, the common establishments you’d find in the South. “Sounds good”, he’ll respond lightheartedly.
He’s got that blue-collar old guy look, but not to the point of being portly. His attire is a checkered button-up shirt, some jean shorts, a well-worn baseball cap, and a cheap pair of Nike’s he got from Goodwill a couple of years ago. His skin is tanned and cracked from years of labor under the Florida sun. His silver mustache has some handles on it now. A greenhorn at his job a couple years ago told him his old style looked like Hitler’s—it didn’t at all—so he grew it out.
I don’t like getting on my phone around him, even in the long empty car rides to and fro. I like chatting with him, though we don’t say very much. Mainly him recounting his anecdotes for the week, or what he plans on doing, or what new store is opening nearby. I smile, acknowledging what he says. I don’t really have anything to share that I feel would be interesting to him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He just likes talking to people. He’ll never engage in anything serious or personal, though. That’s just the way men like him are. I know too much about my mother and too little about my father.
One day, we got on the topic of religion. It was just me and him in the front seat, cruising along the state highway en route to some local buffet chain that’s since shut down. We get on the topic of Christianity. He was probably teasing me about going to church with him. Ehh, I don’t know, I respond quietly. I’m not against it, I’ve just never done it before, and the idea somewhat scares me. “That’s all right”, he replies, then pauses for a moment, “I don’t really know much about this stuff either”. I stare quietly at the floorboard. “I know it’s something I’m meant to support, but I don’t really get it. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.” There’s a slight, almost microscopic pang in his voice. I glance over at him. He’s staring forward at the empty four-lane road. Well, do you think you’ve become better off by believing in it anyway? He stays silent for a second. “Yeah.”