chapter six

Chapter Six

            On their way home, Maxwell and his mother didn't say much.  His blinking had subsided quite a bit after his conversation with Father Wimbly.  He still had a lot on his mind, but it was refreshing to know that he wasn't being judged by his own priest for his “outlandish belief,” or rather in this case, for what he didn't believe. 

            Now his mother on the other hand, the less she knew the better.  Compulsion or not, he wasn't going to tell her what he thought about religion or the Bible for she'd definitely blow a gasket.  He'd staple his mouth shut if he had to, and super-glue simply for extra reinforcement.  Her faith meant everything to her.  She had always told him of all the hard times that her faith in God had gotten her through.  She would be absolutely devastated if she knew her son didn't believe, and the last thing he needed was to put more stress on his poor mother.

            The number one reason he couldn't tell her was the fact that his mother believed that if you weren't saved by Jesus Christ, then you couldn't go to heaven.  The only other two options were purgatory or hell.  He didn't want his mother to judge him in this light, but he mostly didn't want to put the added strain of knowing that her only son was probably going to end up in hell someday.  Maxwell, of course, didn't actually believe for one second that hell existed, unless he was already there, in which case the jury was still out.   If there really is a God in heaven, he thought, then why'd He give such a wonderful lady of tremendous faith a son who has no faith at all.  Where's the reasoning in that?

            The more his mind raced over the nature of God and life in general, the more he was convinced that he wasn't wrong at all to disbelieve any myth about an infallible, infinite, and completely good God.  

            Rather, more questions flooded his brain. Why is there no evidence?  Why do we worship some man who's been dead for over two thousand years?  None of us were around then, so how do we even know he was what the Bible claims him to be?  Why do all the Gospels seem to be different accounts of the same story, and why didn't the people who actually knew Jesus and lived in the same period he did, write the Gospels to begin with?  How can he be 'part man' and 'part God' at the same time, I mean, you're either one or the other, aren't you?  You're either perfect, like God, complete in every way, or you're simply incomplete, a sinner, and a human.

            Inevitably, Maxwell's mind began traveling in a completely different direction, Perhaps Jesus was really an alien?  He chuckled at the thought of this, but he was almost half serious.  Maxwell did believe in extra terrestrials, after all.  He believed in science and thought it wholly possible that there were intelligent life forms on other planets capable of traveling to Earth.  They'd be able to do incredible things like make themselves look human and perform acts that looked very much like miracles.  This was far more believable to Maxwell than a flesh and blood human getting nailed to a cross and then later rising from the dead like a zombie.  Even if he was just an ordinary human, crazy feats have been performed by magicians for a very long time.  Perhaps Jesus was just an extraordinary showman? 

            Maxwell was, by now, very deep in thought.  He didn't even realize his mother was talking to him, asking him what he'd talked to Father Wimbly about.  She knew her son was always with his head in the clouds, so it didn't bother her when she realized he hadn't been paying attention to her.

            If the known universe has been around for fifteen billion years, Maxwell continued, and planet Earth has only been around for about four or five billion years, well, wouldn't that mean that quite possibly, planets could have existed at least five billion years or so before the Earth, thereby allowing life to evolve for about five billion years or so longer than that of life on Earth?  These alien civilizations could have developed techonology comparable to that of modern man literally billions of years ago, thereby meaning that they have technology around five billion years more advanced than ours!  Maybe Jesus really was some kind of shapeshifting alien or something?  Ha!'

            Of course there's always the possibility that there's no life outside this fragile little blue planet known as Earth, but as Maxwell thought about what he knew about life and evolution itself for that matter, he realized that it was actually a rather remarkable thing to begin with-this thing called life, so it might very well be an isolated incident after all.  That'd mean there'd really be a lot of wasted space in the universe.  The more he thought about how statistically improbable life was, he wasn’t sure if he believed in aliens, either. 

            Maxwell didn't want to be alone in the universe, and so his mind started rationalizing; he started making arguments for a “brimming with life” cosmos.  If we can't even agree on how many planets are circling around our sun, not to mention all of the moons surrounding the planets that we are sure about, how could we possibly be sure that there isn't another life sustaining planet somewhere else in our universe?  Our sun is literally one star amongst a hundred billion stars within our galaxy.  Crazy as it is, that's only the beginning.  We now know that there are, in fact, trillions of galaxies in our universe.  Beyond even that, we have evidence suggesting that our universe might just be one of an unimaginably large number of universes inside an even greater multiverse on a larger scale!

            Maxwell had read the books and watched the television programming.  He knew science far better than most kids his age, which was not lost on him, but for the first time in his young life he really felt the enormity of the vastness of outer space and its seemingly limitless boundaries.  His eyelids suddenly stopped twitching for the moment and he quietly felt, if for only for the fleeting moment, that he must assuredly be a part of something much, much larger than himself.

            The car pulled up a long gravel driveway to their house.  It was old.  It had been built during the great depression and was still in pretty good shape for its age.  It wasn't even remotely fancy.  There were no walk-in closets, game rooms, swimming pools, or anything else expensive, but it still served its purpose.   

            Once inside, his mother made both of them something to eat.  

            "What are you getting into tonight, kiddo?" she asked while blowing on some scalding hot soup.

            "Oh, I don't know, maybe watch some television?"  Immediately after saying this he realized that he'd torched the television only the day before.  His mother began to laugh, and he soon joined in.  It was innocent moments like these that Maxwell really lived for.  He loved seeing his mother laugh.   Maxwell loved his mother very much.  She wasn't anything like him, so superstitious and so old fashioned.  He wanted nothing more than to protect the relationship he had with her.  It was because of this that he vowed to never let her know about his little secret.

           

            "Wasn't that such a good service today?"

            Maxwell nodded as he took a bite of his ham and cheese sandwich.  This was only partly true, though.  Of course he was pretty bored for most of the service, but he did rather enjoy the conversation he'd had with old Father Wimbly.  "Very enlightening," he said.

            His mother nodded, staring at her son intently, "You have an awfully large vocabulary for someone your age, do you know that?"

            "Hadn't really occurred to me," Maxwell said.  At this point he suddenly realized that most twelve year olds don't say things like, 'hadn't really occurred to me'.  Most of the twelve year olds he knew of would've answered a question like that with a standard 'yes' or 'no' response, or probably just have given a look of complete confusion or an ambiguous grunt, if they even bothered to respond in the first place.

            "You've got a lot going on up there young man, I can tell.  You get so lost in your thoughts that you block everything out sometimes.  What's really going on up in that head of yours?" she asked as she pointed with her hand.

            "Just stuff," Maxwell responded.  This was a far more appropriate response for a twelve year old to say; an answer that provided absolutely no useful insight whatsoever.  Replying in this fashion was not his intention, but rather the result of simply not knowing how to tactfully explain the blasphemies he entertained on a daily basis.

            His mother, however, pushed the matter further by saying, "Oh come on, you can talk to me, Christopher Maxwell.  What were you thinking about back there in the car?  I saw how you looked like you were a million miles away."

            He looked at his mother and slowly realized she was going to continue pushing the issue until he really said something.  His twitch slowly gathered steam.

            "Do you ever wonder what it's all about?"

            "I suppose so," his mother replied, excited.

            "Well, back in the car that's sort of what I was thinking about.  What is it really all about?  How big is outer space, really?  Are there other worlds out there that are really that different than ours?  Why are we even here in the first place?  What exactly is it that we're supposed to do while we're here?"

            "Maxwell, I know you think I'm just a simple country girl but your mother isn't as listless as you might think.  Sometimes I'll look out at the stars at night and imagine how big they really are, and how very far away they are.  What a wonderful creator we must have!"

            Perhaps Maxwell hadn't given his mom enough credit.  They conversed late into the evening.  It was the most Maxwell had said to her in years, and he was able to do so without revealing anything about his disbelief in religion. 

           

            The next day at school, Maxwell again found himself arriving late to Ms. Butternut's class.  He could feel all the eyes in the classroom follow him to his desk.  Of course Ms. Butterball wasn't there.  She was probably outside smoking her beloved cigarettes.  That old bag probably smokes three packs a day. 

             The classroom was somewhat chaotic and conversations were taking place all around the room.

            To his left was Sid Burton.  He was one of the cool kids.  He was bragging about how he'd gotten a tattoo on his arm.  It was barbed wire going around his bicep. 

            "You like that, don't you, Maxwell?," he said.

            "Yeah, that's pretty neat Sid, I have to admit."

            Phil Dick, seeing a perfect opportunity to put Maxwell down, chimed in,"I bet you wish you had enough money to get one too, don't you?” as he showed off a tattoo on his own arm.  

            There was some laughter at this statement, and Maxwell felt his blood start to boil.  Everyone knew he hadn't come from “money.”  It's easy to tell whose family came from money and whose family didn't.  It was all in the presentation.  Every single person in the classroom judged everyone else by the clothes on their backs, the shoes on their feet, and apparently, the tattoos on their arms.  Maxwell felt ashamed.  He was definitely wounded, but there was a space around that hurt, almost like some sort of protective bubble wrap, and for only a second, he didn't hurt at all.  For a moment he was able to believe that none of this petty elementary stuff even mattered. 

            Then, out of nowhere, he calmly replied,  “And I bet you wish that you had enough money to buy a new nose after I ruined your old one!"

            The class immediately roared with laughter, and even Jenna Myers was giggling.  Maxwell made brief eye contact with her, Holy crap, she has green eyes!  She thinks I’m funny and she has green eyes! 

            At just that moment, Ms. Butternut waddled into the classroom and quickly said, "Okay class, settle down now, it's time to take attendance."

            Maxwell put his book bag behind his desk and pulled out his pencil and paper.

            "Maxwell House," Ms. Butternut said, "I'm going to have to ask you to come up here."

            The classroom went silent.  He looked over at Phil and saw that there was a smirk on his face.  Something was very fishy.  Phil was up to no good.

            "Yes, ma'am?  What is it?," Maxwell inquired.

            "Maxwell, I'm afraid to tell you that you're going to have to go to the principal’s office again."  

            And just like that, the proverbial air went out of his sails.  All the anxiety came rushing back.  He got out of his seat and he walked out of the classroom.