Free American Savior by Roland Merullo

hands were shaking as I buttoned the collar of my shirt. There was a war going on inside me. By that point I had made my commitment to Jesus, really I had, and to Zelda and Wales and Ezzie, and even, in a certain way, to Dukey McIntyre, too. I felt part of a community of impossible hope. It was like being a Red Sox fan prior to 2004. But, even though I was officially out of the TV business, I was still living the story as it swelled and rolled, still doubting it, checking it, wondering what the twist might be. Because the journalist in me said there had to be a twist. If this Jesus was really perfect, that part of me reasoned, he would have stayed up in heaven and left us to our swagger and sleaze.
    Dressed and ready, wrestling with my doubts, thinking about the dayahead, I went down to my convertible with all that in my mind, and waited for the other shoe to drop, as it were.
    The shoe dropped as I drove up to Zelda’s apartment building. She was standing on the sidewalk in her best dress, and Jesus was standing close beside her. It was 7:45 in the morning, and so, naturally, my first thought was that they had spent the night together. I understand that this might seem like a weird first thought to have. We were, after all, dealing with Jesus and not some local Romeo; with my engaged and faithful girlfriend, not some cheap, to use my father’s word, slattern. But the unfortunate truth is that Esther Gilbanda, my ex, had engaged in some extracurricular activity after we’d been married for three or four months. Not surprisingly, that activity had led to our divorce. And not surprisingly either, it had left a deep bruise on my psyche. I had been so sure of Esther’s faithfulness, so sure she was happy in the marriage, so stunned when I found out she was cheating, that I wondered sometimes if I would ever really get over it. I mean, how did you trust your judgment after that? How did you know it wouldn’t happen again? You had to go on faith, and do the best you could. In that way, I guess, getting married was like believing in God, or in some Great Spirit, or even just believing the world ultimately revolved around goodness. Unless you came upon your spouse in flagrante delicto, as they say, it was hard to be a hundred percent sure one way or the other. And unless God gave you absolutely undeniable proof of His existence, well, you were always left with a nagging doubt.
    Anyway, I’m making excuses for being jealous, but I think they’re good excuses. So when I came driving up West Broadway toward Zel’s condo and saw her standing out on the curb with a handsome miracle worker right next to her, at quarter to eight in the morning, when he hadn’t been part of our day’s plan … it wasn’t a stretch for me to wonder if maybe something not that beautiful was going on.
    But I didn’t say anything, naturally. Accusing Jesus of sleeping with your fiancée is not the suavest thing you can do, especially not in front of said fiancée. So I kissed Zelda when she got into the car, and I reachedback between the seats to shake Jesus’s hand as if I’d been expecting all along that he would introduce himself to Zelda early in the morning and then join us for our trip to North Salem.
    “Are you sure you don’t want to sit in front, Lord?” Zelda asked, turning around to look at him and moving a lock of hair off her face in a way that I—and I think many other men—found particularly sexy. “Your legs are so much longer than mine.”
    I felt a twinge of something bad.
    “Enough with the ‘Lord’ stuff,” Jesus said. “And I am fine right here.”
    “What should we call you then?” I asked. “You have a nickname or anything? How about Jeez? Or Jeepers Cripes?”
    Unfortunately, that is what happens to me when I get upset about something—jealous, nervous, anxious about seeing my family. I get “wise,” as we used to say where I grew up, though unwise would probably be a better word. I get fresh-mouthed, as