And If I Die

by John Aubrey Anderson

  Epstein looked at his sister.

  She looked at Patterson while she absorbed the logic of what he said. After a moment she looked at her notes, then said, “I got these questions from a book that makes a good case against the Resurrection. The writer is a scholar who has obviously done his homework.”

  “I understand.” Patterson nodded. He’d read the book she was holding. “But I think it’s fair to ask why—if he has done his homework—he allowed himself to reason to a wrong conclusion?”

  She looked up and wrinkled her nose. “He missed the point about the women, didn’t he?”

  “He did.”

  “How about this, then . . .” She looked back at the papers and stated her second argument. “He says it’s likely that Jesus’ disciples came and stole the body.”

  “What about the guards?”

  “It’s obvious.” She rested her fingers on the book and papers—her evidence. “Either the disciples bribed them, or the guards were asleep.”

  Patterson shook his head. “Roman soldiers were some of the most disciplined fighting men in the history of warfare. A willingness on their part to accept a bribe— or going to sleep at their post—would’ve put them in danger of being executed.”

  “But it is possible.”

  “Granted, but consider the counterpoint.” He slid forward. “Ten of the twelve disciples, those whom your scholar says stole Jesus’ body, were later executed. Those men died cruel and painful deaths professing with their last breaths that they saw and conversed with the risen, wounded Christ. Any one of them, or all of them, could’ve saved themselves had they recanted their faith. Would you allow yourself to be skinned alive, crucified, or burned at the stake to perpetrate a hoax?” He shook his head slowly. “I submit that a man will readily abandon a lie that can profit him nothing, if by doing so, he might evade a hideous death.”

  She looked at her pages again. “You’ve read this book.”

  “Yes, and many like it.” He pointed at the book. “And that author uses the shotgun approach to put forth a diverse collection of weak arguments against the Resurrection because he doesn’t have one strong one—nor does anyone else.” Patterson continued, speaking softly, “Jesus didn’t faint. He wasn’t drugged. The witnesses did not accidentally go to the wrong tomb, and it wasn’t an episode of mass hallucination. When those women arrived at the tomb, the stone—a very heavy stone—was rolled back, and the tomb was empty. Jesus had been raised from the dead.”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  The lingering light rain transformed the campus sidewalks into active flower beds of brightly colored umbrellas. Griffin turned away from the window and sat down to hear Patterson’s reply.

  “That’s true, but if we weigh the evidence on an unbiased scale, we have to conclude that the Biblical account is more plausible.” He pointed at the book. “That gentleman offers a dozen weak ropes that will help you climb a tree in order to believe a lie, while the Bible provides you with an opportunity to stand on the ground and embrace the truth.”

  Her brow darkened. “You’re besmirching a man’s reputation because he doesn’t agree with you.”

  “Only indirectly,” Patterson reasoned. “That man and I understand that the Resurrection is the linchpin of the Christian faith. He wrote those words knowing that any seeds of effective doubt he sows in the minds of his readers will grow into trees obscuring their view of the truth. When a man brings his argument to the public forum, he opens himself up to rebuttal.”

  The solid reasoning behind Patterson’s statements attracted the young Jewish woman, but a heritage of misunderstanding held her back. She was glancing down at her notes when her brother said, “I wouldn’t.”

  She turned to look at him. “What?”

  Epstein had moved from his chair to stand at one of the windows; his sandwich lay half eaten on the plate by his feet. Tiny specks of drizzle joined forces on the other side of the glass and continued their pilgrimage as fat raindrops. His eyes traced one drop’s path as it answered gravity’s siren call. “I wouldn’t die for a lie.”

  Something cold invaded Dee Epstein’s body. “Michael.”

  Her younger brother turned from the window, and they became the only people in the room.

  Michael said, “He’s right.”

  The import of his words—and her feeling of foreboding—propelled her from the chair. She extended her hands toward him, her fingers splayed, as if commanding him not to take the issue any further. Had she been able to make a sound, she would’ve screamed a warning.

  When she could speak, she said, “Michael! You have to stop this!”

  He shook his head. “You’re yelling.”

  “I don’t care!” she whispered a scream. “This is crazy!”

  “No. It’s not.” Her book had fallen to the floor at her feet. He pointed at it and said, “That is crazy.”

  In January 1963, Delores Epstein was a college sophomore living with her family in a nice section of University Park. She was on Christmas break from SMU when a drunk driver ran the stop sign in front of their house and crashed into her parents’ car. Her father died instantly; her mother lived long enough to tell her to take care of her brother. In that single, awful instant, the twenty-year-old college girl became the mother of a fifteen-year-old boy.

  She stared at her brother, and a million thoughts assailed her. She had neglected him . . . she should’ve sent him to a college where he would’ve been protected . . . she should’ve arranged for him to meet with a rabbi until he fully understood their faith . . . she should’ve taken him and moved to Israel when their parents died; he would’ve been safe there. But she didn’t do any of those things, and he was turning his back on their beliefs . . . and her.

  “Michael, just slow down. This isn’t something you can—”

  Epstein was shaking his head again. “Dee, I come in here a couple of times a week because I want to hear reason . . . you can’t hear because your mind’s already made up.”

  “Of course my mind’s made up.” The tears in Dee Epstein’s eyes were put there by anger. “We’re Jewish.”

  “So was Jesus, Sis.” He walked over and took her hand. “Walk out in the hall with me.”

  “Y’all take the office.” Pat stood up. “C’mon, Griff. I’ll buy us a cup of coffee.”

  Epstein emerged thirty minutes later, and Pat met him in the main hall; Griffin had wandered off. When they walked back into Patterson’s office, Dee Epstein was taking her turn at the window, drying her eyes.

  She sniffed and told Patterson, “He said I couldn’t accuse you of proselytism because all you did was show him where to find the answers to his questions.”

  Patterson could only imagine what the woman was thinking. “Are you okay?”

  Had she been a snake, she’d have struck. Her eyes became slits and she leaned toward him. “Have you ever lost a younger brother, Professor Patterson?”

  He didn’t want to retaliate, but he wanted to let her know he’d had his share of extreme pain. “Yes—nine years ago this past spring. He was murdered.”

  Her brother watched her digest the words. Her anger faded to empathy, and a lone teardrop started down her cheek. “It hurts.”

  He nodded.

  She folded her notes and placed them in the book. “I’m going to . . .” She stopped to breathe. “Excuse me . . . may I sit in on your lunchtime get-togethers?”

  Patterson thanked God for what she was asking and said, “You’d be more than welcome. In fact, if you’re here, my wife will have an excuse to come, too.”

  “So you can sic her on the Jew girl?” She spat the words.

  “Sis!” warned Epstein. “You promised.”

  “Gently, Supe,” cautioned Patterson. To Dee he said, “You’re going to like my wife, and she you. That’s a promise.”

  Dee Epstein was not going to like Dr. Patterson’s wife or any other Christian—not ever again. She gathered her purse and poncho from the floor. “I h
ave to get back to work.”

  Epstein moved to follow her out, and she said, “I’ll see you at home later.”

  Patterson waited until she was gone before saying, “It sounds like you’ve made up your mind about accepting Christ as your Savior.”

  Epstein nodded. “Already done it. I asked her to stay with me while I prayed.”

  Patterson was surprised. “And she did?”

  “Yeah. I prayed and she cried.” He grimaced. “She doesn’t know what’s going on, but she loves me.”

  “You can say that again, brother.” Patterson sat down behind the desk. “What now?”

  Epstein spread his hands as if to say, Isn’t it obvious? and said, “We start answering her questions.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Weeks passed.

  Patterson, Epstein, and Dee met at lunchtime every Tuesday and Thursday; Missy was there more often than not. When Dee was there, the three Christians tried to answer her objections to Christianity without offending her; the conversations encompassed points of reason, philosophy, and Old Testament theology. On those rare days when she was absent, Patterson and the other two visited about doctrine and theology. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Epstein took his Bible outside at noon and sat under an oak tree to feed the squirrels and study.

  Griffin met enough people to help him occupy his free time and slowly pulled away from the little noontime study group. It was not unusual for him to sit at his window during lunch; it interested him that the skinny Jewish kid’s willingness to read his Bible in public seemed to attract an inordinate number of girls. The girls treated the goofy-looking little guy as if they took him seriously. Amazing.

  Mann’s knee eventually healed itself, and he picked up bull riding where he’d left off.

  In late August, Mann came in from working with Collin Turner and found Epstein’s ancient Fiat parked in the driveway . . . again.

  Super Jew was sitting on the porch with Mose. The dog was at his post in the driveway.

  Mann shut the car door and knelt to confer with the four-legged welcome committee. “Hey, big dog. You having another one of those action-filled days of yours?”

  The dog snuffled and whined while he tried to lick Mann’s face.

  Epstein was spending more and more time at the Manns’ house, and he held on to the arms of his chair and cringed every time he watched Mann’s car slide around the long curve in the gravel road. Mann was reserved and somewhat distant for the most part; however, when bringing his car around the bend in their road, he was a maniac. He called to Mann, “Hey, bro, how fast were you going when you came around that turn?”

  Mann stood up and started for the porch. “Ask Poppa. I got a quarter says he can tell you within a mile an hour.”

  “A mile an hour?” Epstein looked from Mann to Mose and back to Mann. “Nobody can do that.”

  Mann took his ballpoint and wrote something on his palm, then took a quarter out of his pocket and held it up. “Put up or shut up.”

  Epstein looked at Mose. “Can you tell how fast he was going?”

  “I been watchin’ him come ’round that bend for a long time,” said the old man. “If’n I was you, I wouldn’t bet.”

  “Humph,” Epstein grunted. He turned to Mann. “I got a buck that says it can’t be done.”

  Epstein had no business losing a dollar and Mann knew it. He said, “I can’t risk a buck. Two bits or less.”

  “Okay.” Epstein pulled out a handful of change and scraped together three nickels and a dime. “How fast?”

  “I’d say ’tween fifty-six an’ fifty-seven,” said Mose.

  “That’s two different numbers,” said the gambler-turned-lawyer. “You’re supposed to pick just one.”

  The old man thought for a second then said, “Fifty-six an’ a half.”

  Mose’s exactness distracted Epstein for a second. When he looked at Mann, the race driver was grinning, holding out his right hand for his money while displaying his left—three characters and a decimal point written in blue ink on the pink palm . . . 56.5.

  Mose gave the Jewish boy an I-told-you-so look and said, “Yo’ granddaddy would tan yo’ britches if’n he saw you throw yo’ money away like that.”

  “Yes, sir, he would at that.” He turned to Mann. “Fifty-six-point-five? Who keeps up with their speed in tenths?”

  “Rich folks,” Mann laughed and put his winnings in his pocket. “Is it cake time yet?”

  Mose nodded. Epstein said, “I didn’t drive out here to starve.” The dog wagged his tail and sneezed.

  When the cake, coffee, milk, and hard-boiled eggs were on the porch, Mann said, “Will’s headed back to A&M in the morning. He said he’d stop off before he left.”

  “It’ll be good to see him,” said Mose. “You gonna keep on doin’ yo’ practicin’ by yo’self?”

  “Mostly. I can do my weight workouts at North Texas. We’re planning on meeting at a few small rodeos here and there between now and October. Entry fees aren’t too bad, and we can use the rides to keep sharp.”

  Epstein was cutting up the eggs and feeding the pieces to the dog. “What happens in October?”

  “Clear Creek County Stock Show. This year they’re moving into the big time . . . new arena, first-class roughstock, the best of the best. It’s gonna be the real thing.”

  Epstein had watched Will and Mann ride a few bulls. He said, “I hate to sound like a sissy, but I wouldn’t get on one of those bulls for a million dollars a minute.”

  “There’s nothing to it,” said Mann.

  Mose looked at his grandson and raised his eyebrows.

  The city boy cleared his throat and admitted something he’d never told anyone else. “There is if you’re scared of bulls.”

  “Smart folks is,” said Mose.

  Mann put a bite of cake in his mouth and took his time chewing. After he swallowed, he said, “Poppa’s right. Bulls are big, they aren’t very forgiving, and they make their own rules.” He put another bite in his mouth and talked around it. “But sometimes riding ’em just kinda feels easy.”

  The three made small talk until Mose stood up and said, “If you boys will excuse me, it’s ’bout time for my nap.”

  Mose was inside the door when Mann said, “This is the third time in the last two weeks you’ve been out here. What’s the deal?”

  Epstein pointed at his saucer. “Free cake.”

  “Right. And what else?”

  “I plan on doing my postgrad in philosophy”—Epstein jerked his thumb at the front door—“but I can learn more from that man in one afternoon than I’ll pick up in four years of any doctoral program in the nation.”

  Mann nodded. “He’s got it all figured out, that’s for sure.”

  “You mind having me hang around?”

  “Nope,” he said, grinning, “I can use the money.”

  “Uncle said you aren’t interested in God things.”

  “Uncle?”

  Epstein pointed his fork at the door. “He said call him Uncle.”

  “Mmm.” Mann took a few seconds to push at some crumbs with a fork tine, then said, “Let’s lay some ground rules. You’re a little weird, but I get along with you as well as anybody I know; Uncle obviously likes you, and Dawg thinks you’re kin to us . . . so as far as the family’s concerned you can move in and live here, but you’re gonna have to pull in your horns when it comes to me and God.”

  “Wow . . . it’s a good thing you aren’t touchy about it.”

  “Touchy or not, I was here first.”

  When Epstein didn’t say anything, Mann said, “Too harsh?”

  “Nah.” Epstein was unscathed. “You’re right . . . it’s your call. God didn’t commission me to force-feed you.”

  “You catch on quick.”

  “I got good teachers all around me.” He put his saucer down, and the dog went to work on it. Epstein prayed a short prayer, then said, “Can I ask one question?”

  “Is this something about God?�
��

  “Yep.”

  “Why is it nobody else gets saddled with friends who constantly pester them with these kinds of questions?”

  “’Cause most rich folks know Jews are tenacious, so they don’t befriend Jewish orphans.”

  Mann had to smile. “Will you let it go after one question?”

  “Yep.” Epstein held his fork where the dog could get to it. “Can you give me thirty seconds on why a kid with a grandfather like that is so angry at God?”

  “I’m not angry at God; I’m neutral.”

  “Why?”

  “Sorry, Supe.” Mann shook his head. “That’s two questions.”

  “No, it’s not. I asked you why in the first question and you didn’t give a complete answer.”

  “You sound like you’ve been hanging around Missy.”

  Epstein held his thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart. “Bisel.”

  Mann wasn’t smiling when he said, “Then ask her.”

  The interview was over.

  “What’re you doing tomorrow?” asked Epstein.

  “I’m supposed to help Pat with his yard work, but I could stand to spend that time at Collin Turner’s. You?”

  “I’m loose.”

  “Tell you what,” said Mann. “How about I call Pat and tell him you’ll show up at their place and do the yard work while I get in some time on that electric bull. You get some extra cash . . . I get some practice.”

  Epstein was thinking. “She’ll have chocolate cake there, won’t she?”

  “You know, for a guy who weighs less than a hundred and fifteen, you sure do eat a lot.”

  “I think my brain’s so powerful it burns the calories off before my body can turn them into muscle.” He flexed a bicep barely larger than Mann’s wrist. “That’s why I decided to become a scholar.”

  “That’s what I figured,” said Mann, and went to the phone.

  Summer began its annual retreat in early September, and the need for yard work would decline along with the temperature.