I called Judith almost nightly. We always began talking about the course, and ended with talk of our future: me for medical school, and she for being an interpreter at the United Nations. Judith was a language major.
I was dying to make a date with her. One Friday, Professor LeDeux announced that we all had to attend, and critique, a church’s classical period architecture. Judith selected the Boston Holy Cross Cathedral and I immediately chose the same.
“We could go together, yes?” She touched my hand, and I melted.
“I’ll pick you up at ten o’clock Sunday morning for the noon service, and we can eat someplace later.”
“Yes. It will be wonderful.”
I was smitten. I asked dad for his car for the field trip. My old Chevy clunker wasn’t that reliable.
“Church? You want my new Oldsmobile to go to a Boston Catholic church.” My dad’s face turned red. It got worse.
“What? You’re going to a church with a girl from Israel, whose father is a Law Professor at Brandeis.” My father lost it. He looked at my mother. “Do you believe this story? Your son thinks we’re idiots buying this bullshit.”
They both relented after I got Judith on the phone to verify I was not a purveyor of bovine feces.
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