Free Silent Weapons for Quiet Wars by Cody Goodfellow Page A

weary aplomb of late middle age. He knew which houses had kids from school, and hid until the door slammed in Father’s face. He knew which houses had lonely weirdoes who would suffer an afternoon of Father’s sermons just for the company, but never convert. He knew when he could catch a decent nap just out of earshot, until the loud call to prayer jolted him out of dreams of watching TV and talking to girls.
    Father did this not because the church expected it of him, but as penance. He knew his naked faith scared or offended most decent suburban folk, and banged his head against their repulsion as a way of demonstrating his total commitment to his God. Sometimes he volunteered to help with yardwork or chores in return for a shared prayer vigil. They drank beer and laughed at him as he raked their lawns, and never warmed to his faith. Jubal didn’t seem to care, or else he buried it so deep that it only came out as a more intense, angry silence.
    Why he brought Caleb, when it was clear his son had other things on his mind, had taken longer to unravel, but with nothing but church pamphlets and his pocket Bible to read, he’d had a lifetime of Saturdays to mull it over. God did not speak to Caleb as He had to Jubal, who heard the Lord with such stunning intensity that he’d been committed twice. Surely Caleb, with his mumbled, cracking prayers and sweaty, fidgeting hands, could only spook the heathens and queer the pitch.
    Father had no hope of kindling a torch of faith in his son, who’d been ruined by public school, but dragged him through the godforsaken backwaters of their neighborhood to peek into the homes of strangers and show him how they lived without God in their lives—the hangovers, the neglected children, the smut coming out of the TV. Never did the endless, episodic lecture turn to why the godless houses were larger and nicer than theirs, or why the sinners who lived in them had better jobs and were still married, and home on Saturday with squeaky-clean consciences.
    On rainy days, they rode in the old Pacer with the leaky moon roof, but on sunny summer days like this, Father brought an extra sheaf of pamphlets. They started in their own neighborhood, and walked until every pamphlet had been delivered.
    As he limped the last mile of their route on this blistering late August day, with his feet swollen halfway out of his cheap brown shoes and the grubby canvas pamphlet bag chafing the calluses around his wrist, Caleb daydreamed about the Pacer with its AC that blew only smoky engine heat, windows that only rolled halfway down, broken bumper festooned with embarrassing bumper stickers—MY GOD IS AN AWESOME GOD; FOLLOW ME TO SALVATION; HAVE YOU HEARD THE WORD MADE FLESH?
    He dreamed of Father actually making just one sincere convert, and ascending bodily up to Heaven like the Prophets of old, or maybe just chucking the pamphlets in the gutter and leaving Caleb in front of a bar. Either would be fine.
    Caleb despised the Mormons who breezed past them on their ten-speeds, wind ballooning their short-sleeve white shirts out behind them.
    Father came to the door of a house they had visited every month for the last eight years, though the man who lived there never answered. The door opened as Father raised his fist to knock. A magazine girl staggered out, her laminated conversation card in hand and her shirt half-unbuttoned. Her face was flushed, and the man inside the door wore a bathrobe and a bestial grin.
    Jubal railed at the house until the sinner threatened to call the police. Caleb had to drag his father away. He was disgusted with his own excitement over the episode, but couldn’t condemn her. At least she got inside. At least she was selling something somebody wanted.
    If Caleb hoped Father would be moved to give up for the day, he should have known better. As they split their dry tuna sandwich and a mushy Bartlett pear on the concrete bench in a neighborhood park, Jubal studied the street map on his