Sheep Go To Heaven

Pilgrim's Point, Pennsylvania is a small college town with small victorian houses. A quarter mile any direction from downtown Pilgrim's Point leads the travelers through rough rural landscape: some farms, some wooden groves, some high cliff banks where the highway was carved between. Most of the locals have jobs either at the college or the glass foundry, where beautiful lead crystal vases are churned out and stamped "PILGRIMS POINT GLASS" and shipped to far away places.
For Alban Cohen and his son Sandy, living in Pilgrim's Point had its ups and downs. Alban taught Law at Pilgrim's Point College and was an occasional criminal lawyer, usually representing his students or children of other esteemed faculty members.
To Jews, the name "Cohen" is a name of ringing distinction. It implies a heritage of royalty and service to the synogogue. To Pilgirm's Point, it just meant Jew.
Not to say there was scorn or malice on most people's parts, but most iddn't understand the Cohens, living in a small village full of Lutherans and Presbyterians. Why didn't he live in New York, where he grew up? New York had lots of Jews. Pilgrim's Point had two.
Sandy never really questioned his Jewishness. He considered himself an "undercover Christian," fitting in semi-awkwardly with his Christian friends, while his father spent Friday nights and Saturday mornings at home, reading Torah. Sandy never questioned it; it just was the way with his father. Sandy figured he would "find G-d in the word" some other time; right now, he was watching his friends have holidays that didn't require matzah or dredels or fasting. At his friend's houses, they ate grand dinners and opened tens of presents.
Sandy stood in the doorway outside his father's study and watched him. "Dad, why do you read Torah when there is no one to read it for?"
"There is always someone to read it for."
"Then why don't you make me read Torah?"
"Sandy, it's your choice. Your mother was Christian, so we raised you Christian."
"Why aren't you Christian?"
"My grandfather was a Jew. My father was a Jew. I am a Jew."
"But why? Isn't it hard to be a Jew?"
"For me, it would be harder not being a Jew. It's all I know. Being a Jew isn't just about Torah."
"What is it about, then?"
"It's about blessings and family and friends and memories. Law is a very little part of it. I am a Jew because I want to be, not because I have to be."
The doorbell rang, but Sandy stood there and watched his father for a moment.
"Aren't you going to get it?" asked his father.
Sandy already knew who was at the front door. It was his best friend P.K. and the rest of the gang. They were probably going out to the movies or the mall tonight (just like every other Friday night).
"This conversation can wait."
Alban turned back to his Torah and cracked it open. It looked as if he opened a random page and began reading where the book decided he should read.
Sandy watched his dad for awhile, expectng him to turn around, but his father was already in another world. Sandy headed out the front door and went bowling with P.K and their friends and stayed out until curfew.
Just before midnight, the waitress came around and took the last orders for the snack shop before it closed. "Just get us a Pepperoni Pizza with mushrooms, please."
As the pizza came out, Sandy took one of the big slices and bit into it. The grease from a juicy pepperoni filled his mouth. He raised a napkin to his mouth and spit the portion discreetly into his napkin.
"What are you doing?" asked P.K.
"I am feeling a little sick to my stomach," answered Sandy.
He sat there as his friends ate the pizza with Christian toppings. After they finished the pizza, it was time to pay the bill and go home. They drove around the quiet streets, dropping passengers off until there were four, three, and then just the pair: P.K. and Sandy. P.K. pulled his car into the driveway and let Sandy out.
"We're going out to play basketball," said P.K.
"Yeah? What time?" asked Sandy.
"I dunno. I'll give you a call."
"I think I'll pass," said Sandy.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I have some things I want to do around the house."
"That's cool. I'll see you in class on Monday."
"Yeah, I'll see you Monday."
P.K. pulled out of the drive and sped away. As Sandy went up towards the house, it was dark. He slid the key into the door and turned the knob, the gave out a single pop as it opened, announcing his arrival. Down the hall, a single light came from the den. His father was still awake.
Alban turned about in his chair to face his son, resting his Torah on his belly.
"How was your night?"
"Pretty good. We went bowling."
"How did you do?"
"Aw, dad, we don't keep track. People just get up and bowl when they want to bowl. They bowl between their legs, they bowl with their weak hand. We're just hanging out, having fun."
Alban chuckled at his son,
"What did you do?"
Alban combed a hand over his head, then pulled his glasses off and set them on the desk behind him. He rubbed his nose where the glasses left resting marks.
"I fell asleep right in this chair about ten minutes after you left, and just woke up as the car pulled up."
"Well then, we got our work cut out for us," answered Sandy.
Sandy smiled, then went around the desk and grabbed a Torah from the shelf. He returned to the other side of the desk, fetched the only other chair in the room and brought it around beside his father. He sat down and began reading Torah. Alban watched him for a moment, then pulled his Torah off his belly and began reading, too.