Tulsa

"No, I swear to you it's honest and true. I passed through this little town in Illinois, and there on the side of the gym it said it."
"But Orphans? Who would choose that?"
"The Centralia Orphans: Winningest team in America. I have a picture on my phone, look."
"It's real!"
"I promise it's real."
Hannah rocks back in her chair with a laugh. The tabletop in front of her is littered with illustrations of Ames from above. Looking at them, I can pick out buildings I know: there's the barber's shop where mom dropped Philip and I once for an emergency pre-picture pre-Christmas haircut. There's the corner gas station we used to walk to with a dollar each, only to come away with as much candy as a dollar would buy, most of it terrible sugar chalk and sweet wax. There's the old gymnasium, now a car museum I've never been to, but whose windows I peered through once, at Grandma's funeral. I haven't seen Hannah since my wedding, but I haven't seen Oklahoma since Grandma died.
Just yesterday, I was rolling down an older highway that parallels the tollroad, and just as I topped a rise, the smell of Oklahoma hit me hard. There's some part of sunburnt grass and red clay dust in it, a dry flavor that punches through the haze of memory and brings with it a heatwave feeling even in October.
Hannah reaches for her own phone, lying on the table but not interrupting her work until she needs it. She's stronger than I am. She explains. "So, we'll call the Indian place and order that stuff you mentioned. Justin's going to pick it up on his way home, and he leaves work in ten minutes. So we've planned it out perfectly!" Justin is a strait-laced lawyer with a very dry humor, and he's my newest cousin: Hannah's husband. Hannah's younger sister, Darcy, doesn't like Indian, but she's been outvoted. Besides, it's not her house. She's rooming for a month or two more until her own wedding.
While Hannah's tied up on the phone, I step away from the table for a minute. We've already started the laundry load of my road-grimed clothing. My shoes are lonely in the impeccable entryway, and my bike is stashed in the garage where the only sign of mortality exists: a few things stacked on the counter, waiting to be put away. The few hangings on the wall are Tuohy paintings both Hannah and Aunt Vicki, or mirrors in dark wooden frames. The forty-inch television even looks like it belongs, somehow, hung as it is so flush with the wall above the curio. All the colors are muted or rich, depending on the light or who you ask, but nothing is extravagant. I laugh a little. It's perfectly Hannah and Justin: the luxury of a lawyer with the flair of an artist, and nothing out of place. That's grandma's handiwork sneaking through.
I slop myself onto the couch and wait for Justin and Darcy. When they finally arrive, we eat, and I eat more than my share. I throw some worried eyebrows around before I ask.
"Is it . . . I don't want to steal anybody's plans for leftover lunch."
"Oh my gosh! Go for it. You look really thin, anyway. Make sure you're not hungry." This, from Hannah, whose husband weighs perhaps twenty pounds less than I do and needs to look down at me to lock eyes. Alright.
"Do you like that Navratan Korma? It was the gateway drug for me."
Justin pauses to consider. "It's really good, actually. I don't know if I've ever had it, but I don't think so."
I'm already scooping rice out of the second box as I explain. "Back in the day, Mom and Dad used to take us to this place called the Rasoi. I hated the smell in that place. Oh, it was so strong and strange. So did Philip, and I tell you we refused outright to eat anything they made other than naan." This story is developing around my fully-laden plate of Indian. "We had to stop at Taco Bell before we went inside. This, for years! And then, mom took some Navratan Korma and rolled it up in naan instead of gooping it on rice like so much fancy cat food. That got me hooked, man."
Darcy looks askance at me over her turkey sandwich. "I tried it. I don't like it."
"More for me. All I'm saying is that sometimes your parents aren't as stupid as they look." Everybody sort of laughed the halfway chuckle of is-this-a-joke. "That didn't come out right. I'm just saying maybe brussel sprouts are alright."

By the time I've finished eating, Darcy is already working on her Halloween project in the living room. She's cutting out letters from felt strips without tracing them first, and they're uniform. I'm watching her witchcraft, but I can't figure it out.
"Mom found this bag of felt at Goodwill for like, four dollars," she offers, as if that will explain it. She's making a display for her church's trunk-or-treat over the weekend. It's Charley Brown-themed, and it's very good. The last thing I made with my hands was a fake piano for a funny video. Her handiwork would not be out of place on Etsy. Mine would feel natural on a bonfire. I'm not in the business of comparing myself to people, and this is just one reminder why. So I ask about her church, instead.
"Is Christian doing this, too?"
"Yeah, he and I go to the church near his place. It's only a few blocks down the street." They're getting married on New Year's Eve.
"What about you guys?" I turn to Hannah, who's just come into the room. "Any trunks for you?"
"Oh, no. We've been going to a different church."
My eyebrow slides up.
"Justin and I didn't feel at home at the Church of Christ in this community, so we started looking at other churches in the area. We've sort of fallen into this other church, and the people there were so welcoming that we kind of stuck."
I have to concentrate really hard, now. I'm in territory completely foreign to me and I don't want to trod on anyone.
"It's a good church?" Innocuous.
"Yeah, we really like them. They're very similar to Church of Christ, so it was kind of a natural fit." Hannah is acting really casual. Darcy isn't saying anything yet. I feel like I've unwrapped something I should very much like to put back in a box for now. She continues. "They adopt a less hard-line approach to some things, like drinking or dancing, but the theology is pretty much the same. It's just right for Justin and I, you know?"
I do know. I'm aware of more than just what's been said. Grandma and Grandpa were Church of Christ their entire lives, as far as I'm aware. Every Christmas, we went to the little church in Ames for Sunday service, regardless of the Sabbath our family spent in Enid. Aunt Christy had a little Sunday School lesson ready for the three of us kids, partly because we were her family and partly because her husband John was the pastor of the congregation. There were no other kids there, because every other cousin spent their morning at their own Church of Christ service before they drove the hour or less to the big family dinner in the finished barn. I couldn't name for you a single relation on this whole branch of my family tree that wasn't Church of Christ. I know much more than is being said. I know that there's more to it than a name and a leniency towards "salacious" behavior. I know because there's only ever been five Laubhan relations who don't hold the conviction that Church of Christ is the one true faith, and all five of them lived in our house and shared my last name. So I step lightly.
"I think it's possible . . . " and I pause, either for dramatic effect or just to collect myself, "that God cares less about what you call yourself and more about what's in your heart. I hope so, anyway."
"I think so, too." Hannah doesn't expound on why or how, and I don't ask. Darcy doesn't say anything either way. Justin just listens. We've navigated it like Laubhans, like Germans. The hard truth exists, but it doesn't have to hurt us. It won't even tear us apart if we leave it be and just care for each other.
It strikes me, then, the irony of what has happened just now. I told a story about coming over to my parent's point of view, and Hannah has told a story about walking away from her's. It's stupid, sometimes, how quickly life can build a dichotomy.

Anyway, I don't want to talk religion anymore. Delight was no good at this distinctly Germanic way of dealing with hard truths; she was always French Canadian. When she left, she told me that she felt no religion at all, and that I was far too Godly for her to feel comfortable around. Preposterous. It's like she didn't know me at all.

My cousin, Hannah, is a professional illustrator of children's books (mostly). Many of her works are collaborations with a company to which my Aunt Christy is tied, called Great Expectations, based in Oklahoma City (I think.) But many of her works are available on Amazon, found by following this very conspicuous link.