The Next Queen of Heaven: A Novel

by Gregory Maguire

  They didn’t sing. They crouched there as if for the applause that didn’t come, but accepted the light in its stead, until the light fell.

  19

  TABITHA’S MOTHER PRESENTED herself on Thanksgiving morning ready for church. She had draped a lacy bureau scarf over her head and attached it with plastic clothespins, and she carried her Bible in a plastic Price Chopper bag. Around her neck hung a homemade lei: strung popcorn interspersed with the occasional pitted black olive. Tabitha guessed this must be an imitation rosary, since a cross cut out of a Visa card dangled down the front.

  “Can you do this run?” asked Tabitha of Hogan.

  “No. Why don’t we give Kirk the keys and tell him to teach himself to drive? With luck he’ll have a fatal crash and solve two problems at once.”

  “Exceedingly funny,” called Kirk from the bathroom where he appeared to be flossing his eyelashes. “I’m not going to church either.”

  “Hell in a haltertop,” said Tabitha, which had been her mother’s worst expression up until this month. It sounded corrupt coming out of her own mouth. “Okay, Mom, I’ll take you, but I’m waiting in the car. You’re on your own.”

  The parking lot between the churches was full to overflowing this morning. Radical Radiant Pentecostals and Roman Catholics alike needed to get the worship business over with early so they could go home to shove turkeys into the oven. Who knows what anyone had to be grateful for in November 1999, with Y2K and the end of days on its way?

  Mrs. Scales needed help getting to the church door. But which one? Tabitha couldn’t advise, though she hadn’t given up on some sort of a holy miracle to knock some sense back into her mother. The Radical Radiants? Tabitha didn’t think much of Pastor Jakob Huyck; he seemed hard to read. Then again, she’d never been much of a reader. The Catholics? At least the vestments of the Catholic priests were outward signs of their inner weirdness. They were like grown-up Goths.

  Mrs. Scales twisted her elbow and led Tabitha toward the Catholic door. Tabitha pulled away until she remembered that Caleb’s fiancée was Catholic, and what if she was dragging Caleb here and trying to convert him? If they were going to get married, Caleb must be spending time at the brainwashing sessions. He was probably in there right now, gargling some archaic oath to dead popes or dead Kennedys, or both.

  Mrs. Scales apparently didn’t want to attend mass. She went back downstairs and found her favorite spot at the foot of the old Kelvinator. It was the one place that she seemed at peace. Whatever depths of hatred and disgust Tabitha was finding within herself, she was glad to see her mother calm for a few minutes. Mrs. Scales closed her eyes and folded her hands on her bosom as if she expected someone to place a lily there. She looked like she was practicing to be a corpse. “Violent night, holy night,” sang Mrs. Scales, rather tunelessly but at least softly. “Falling bombs, all is bright. Disney version, other and child.”

  “You’ve been practicing in your head,” said Tabitha. “Nice.”

  “Holy infant so mental and wild.”

  “Don’t leave until I come back to get you.”

  “Leap in heavenly peace.” Mrs. Scales seemed happy enough.

  The service was starting; Tabitha could hear the music. She closed the door to the Catholic kitchen but left the light on, as she didn’t want anyone trampling on her mother. Then she made her way upstairs and found herself in a vestibule in the back of the church. She had a good view of the altar and of a small singing group. They could see her if they turned to look, but they had their eyes trained forward. Maybe a half dozen worshippers were singing along with the hymn, while the rest—forty or so—hunted through the hymnals as if unable to locate the song, or made a show of blowing their noses or suffering headaches.

  The priest was singing, swinging his shoulders back and forth in time to the music, his head lifted but his eyes trained on the hymnal. The music leader played a guitar and looked like some escapee from a Grits and Granola checkout counter. A couple of women chirruped along behind him, and one shook a tambourine in a desultory fashion whenever she remembered she had it. And in a pew, third row back, eyes closed as if in pain or deep prayer, was Caleb, her own Caleb.

  She hadn’t seen him since the night before Halloween. They’d had a fight and made love, though whether the making love was making up or continuing the fight had been interestingly confusing. He had accused her of sleeping around, to which there was no sensible answer. It didn’t mean she didn’t love him. And so look what happens next? He immediately sleeps around. And gets caught. Though any girl who could get Caleb into a church and pretend to convert, well that was someone to notice. Tabitha had to admit it, even if she did hate the bitch. What was her name again? Polly something.

  Caleb should look up and see her.

  He should, but he didn’t. He just stared down at his knees. When the congregation stood to pray, he knelt on the little padded shelf they provided and he looked down. She would put dollars to doughnuts he was drooling over the behind of the pretty girl standing in the pew in front of him. Somehow, Tabitha felt consoled. He hadn’t changed all that much. She could get him back. It was just a matter of planning. Pastor Huyck had said she should confront him, and maybe that was sound spiritual advice. But where? And when? She doubted that now was the appropriate moment.

  The prayers concluded. As people settled back to listen to a reading, Tabitha Scales slipped up the aisle and found a seat a couple of rows behind Caleb. When he stood to drone out some cluster of semi-musical Alleluias with the rest of them, she had a good view of his ass. She’d had better views, of course, and given the churchy environment she took pleasure in remembering the particulars. But her pleasure waned the moment the song was done, and the choir disbanded from its position at the side altar. The shabby leader found a folding chair and the blond woolly mammoth of a soprano perched next to him. The other singer, a first-grade Brownie type, tippy-tippy-toed down the aisle and made her way into the pew where Caleb Briggs was waiting. She nudged up against him and Tabitha could tell by the pull of her sweater that they were gripping hands in some sort of lovelock.

  She couldn’t stand it. That Polly, that thing, that Bambi, standing up in front of a church and singing hymns, when she was an out-and-out thief! There is a name for this kind of thing, thought Tabitha. A sacrilege, that’s it. A sacrilege. Or a fucking outrage. Furthermore, that hair. Tabitha could diagnose split ends from three pews back. What kind of a cushy job could this gal possibly have, to drag Caleb to the altar like this?

  Somehow, though, Tabitha couldn’t get up to leave; maybe she was afraid that they would see her. Everyone else was staring at the priest, who was standing in the aisle with a microphone. Caleb was laughing, and so was that Polly; the priest must be doing a stand-up routine. Partly to avoid everything else in her life, Tabitha began to listen.

  He wasn’t bad. It was some story about a kid and a cat that had gotten run over. The cat was in heaven, said the mom. With God. But Mommy, said the grieving child, What does God want with a dead cat?

  Ha ha ha. Everyone laughed. Tabitha waited to hear how the mom would answer that, but the priest went on to talk about something else.

  God’s plans. God’s plans. God was sure some sort of busybody in this church. There was that Old Lady Scarcese, nodding righteously as if she was sure God had personally approved of her outfit, a nylon Windbreaker that said Costco on the sleeve.

  Did God plan for Caleb Briggs to sniff up the skirts of some overeducated Catholic girl? Did God hit her mother on the head with a statue just so that Tabitha could sit here and be insulted by the sight of Caleb snaking his arm around Polly as if they were at the Cineplex? Was God out to get Tabitha Scales? He’d better not try. Who said God had a plan for Tabitha? Maybe Tabitha had a plan for God. Ever think of that? Huh? Mister?

  She liked the thought. Perhaps this was the consolation of prayer.

  When she got back to listening to the priest, she was lost. Pilgrims, religious freedom, bountiful harv
ests, God’s grace from sea to shining sea. Everything in the hands of God. What this had to do with Caleb was beyond Tabitha. The guitar guy was now at a piano, picking out the melody of “America the Beautiful.” “As Jesus said: Where two or three are gathered in My name …” said the priest, in a dire tone as if a threat was to follow. Everyone looked peaceful. What did he mean? Did this apply to all of America? Or only the Catholics in Thebes? The Radical Radiant Pentecostals were gathered in Jesus’s holy name right now; you could hear them shrieking even though the windows were closed. But none of the Catholics looked alarmed. They must be used to it.

  She tried to focus. God—well, God’s mother, the statue—had hit her mother on the head. Who was going to hit God on the head to pay him back? To divert his attention from Leontina Scales? She needed to get back to her ordinary inept motherliness. Let her go, God. Time for the hostage crisis to be over.

  Later, Tabitha wondered if she had had a little religious experience, or if maybe she just fell asleep for a moment. But all she could recall was the sudden thought, delivered as if a Thanksgiving present from the Mind of God to Tabitha’s mind, that maybe, just maybe, her mom could be kind of nudged back to reality by a little clonk on the head. A little tap, a little bonk, a careful little swat with something heavy enough to register but padded enough not to hurt. Like, say, a wrench wrapped in a couple of tea towels. Why not?

  Music. Prayers. Some bullshit Catholic calisthenics, up and down, up and down, kneel and stand and sit. Tabitha did it without thinking. She just kept marveling: Did the Mind of God plan to have me come in here and get enlightenment from, who knew, a Roman Catholic father? I don’t even believe in God. But maybe He believes in me, she thought, blushing at the novelty of it. She felt even faintly undressed, as if God could see all through her, and had known what she needed. Just a little divine inspiration. Maybe a wrench would be too heavy. An ice cream scoop? A steam iron? Secateurs?

  Then the whole crowd began twisting about and shaking hands and saying “Piece of cake” or something—no, “Peace of Christ.” She was caught off guard, and Caleb was staring at her, turning peach colored and probably getting hard. “Tabitha,” he said, stretching his hand out, heaving himself over two full pews, almost levitating toward her, “what the—” He caught himself. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Hi.” She took his hand limply and let it go. The Polly girl looked astonished at Caleb’s gymnastics.

  “I’ve got so much news,” he said.

  “Piece of ass,” she said. “Peace of Christ, I mean.”

  “Well, yeah,” he said, as if that was pretty obvious.

  “Caleb,” said Polly, tugging at the waistband of his jeans.

  “Later, girl,” said Caleb.

  “Later, my eye,” muttered Tabitha. She wanted to leave right then but she didn’t want to make a scene. At communion, folks shuffled forward and then made a dash for the side door, probably to avoid the traffic tie-up with the Radical Radiants. Like people darting out before the credits. Caleb seemed to be staying put, though, for his perky little Polly had gone forward and was whining some sort of show-tune chorus about shepherds and grapes and the cup of love. When she thought she could leave with her dignity intact, Tabitha slipped out and went downstairs to wake her mom out of the occasional coma that continued to pester her.

  It took a few minutes. “Mom. Mom.” Tabitha was afraid that the service would end and all the Catholics would flee and lock the church, so she hung around the base of the cellar steps until she was sure Polly and Caleb must have left, and then she went upstairs again. Except for Old Lady Scarcese, who was whipping herself into a devotional froth at the side altar, the church was empty. The boss people—the priest, a nun, and the music guy—were chortling away in a side room that had long flat drawers and a lot of golden tchotchkes. She stood in the doorway.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “I’m the one whose Mom is having this love affair with your refrigerator downstairs. She’s still there, and I just don’t want you to lock up—”

  “Tabitha, isn’t it,” said the nun. “I’m Sister Alice Coyne. May I come down and talk to her?”

  “She isn’t herself,” said Tabitha.

  “Who is,” said Sister Alice. “May I?”

  To TABITHA’S MORTIFICATION, the Catholics decided to come back to the house. They’d learned that Tabitha hadn’t remembered about a turkey or anything, and that her brothers were next to useless. Rising to a challenge, the Catholics bustled about ready to do works of mercy like there was no tomorrow. Tabitha had to run her mother home at a clip far exceeding the speed limit, but when Jack Reeves pulled her over on Morse Hill Road to admonish her, she explained the situation and he didn’t ticket her.

  She shoved Hogan into his room and made him promise not to come out, and she got Kirk to run the vacuum up and down the most public parts of the room, but somehow the vacuum caught up a Kleenex and shredded it into little disgusting balls of paper that spewed all over the sofa, and she was on her hands and knees trying to pick them off when the doorbell rang and the Catholics arrived.

  “Nothing like a little holiday togetherness,” said the priest, who called himself Father Mike. “From the food pantry,” explained Sister Alice, lugging a turkey the size of a woodchuck in a blackened baking pan. The music guy, Jeremy Carr, juggled some paper bags filled with Tupperware, salad dressing, cartons of eggnog, and rolls of paper towels, as if they expected to be coming to some trailer where paper towels were in short supply. Which, alas, was true, about the paper towels.

  Mrs. Scales, settled in her own chair, frowned at the newcomers and nibbled at her rosary. Sister Alice and Jeremy bustled into the kitchen, and Tabitha followed. “I never heard of such a thing,” said Sister Alice. “You with your poor mother still recovering, and your brothers, and no one to help you out! The idea!” She flung open cabinets like she lived there and piled up spoons and spices. That the turkey was too large for the oven didn’t perturb her; she hacked it in half with a cleaver and arranged the sides in the pan to splay efficiently about each other. It looked as if it had exploded.

  Jeremy was setting the table with Kirk. Kirk looked all bright and fizzy, like the time she’d surprised him standing up naked in the bathtub, shaping a kind of loincloth made out of bath bubbles around his groin. At least that’s what it looked like. Maybe since Jeremy seemed soft-spoken for a guy, Kirk was lathering up with instant devotion. That kind of sucks, Tabitha thought, but I can’t manage Kirk’s and Hog’s disasters while I’m trying to oversee the old bitch. So she only went through the dining room and said, “Don’t fuss so, Kirk, you’re like that little old lady who owns Tweetie Pie,” and she hit him on the wrist with the gravy ladle. He made a dismissive little pout at her and kept yammering at Jeremy about some goop on Masterpiece Theatre, trying to impress the guy. She escaped into the living room.

  Father Mike was reading the Bible out loud. Her mother had her eyes closed and her head back. Tabitha dropped onto the sofa for a minute, letting her eyes slide around the room, checking to make sure that she had already jettisoned into the bedrooms anything horrible.

  When Father Mike paused for breath, Tabitha began to speak, but Father Mike held up one finger, silencing her. He kept reading. So Tabitha went back to the kitchen, where Sister Alice was boiling up the neck and innards of the turkey and slicing an onion and melting some butter in a pan and running some water over some yams, all at once.

  “He’s got a very good bedside manner,” said Sister Alice confidentially. “He brings comfort to the afflicted. What I want to know is, what do they say the affliction is?”

  “The clinic says she’s fine,” said Tabitha. “But she’s gone downhill since she got home.”

  “Someone should bring that clinic to task. I look in on a dozen and a half old sisters every week. I’ve spent my time doing infirmary work. Trust me. What’s the therapy?”

  “No therapy. Are you kidding? She won’t let us bring her back.”

 
“She should go back.”

  “You try it. Your funeral. I wouldn’t touch it.”

  Sister Alice clucked as she rooted through the grocery bags. “Clearly your mother’s suffering the aftereffects of some trauma. It’s a kind of aphasia, isn’t it? That biting off of words? And she can’t seem to focus on where she is?”

  “She doesn’t say much except in holy language or swearing. There’s not a whole lot of middle ground.”

  “Unusual case. Look, you fry these onions in this butter till they’re transparent, but don’t let them brown. No, stir them, don’t you know how to sauté onions? Dear Lord. I thought some things were innate. Let me just spice up this … with a little of this … ooh, this is old, no flavor at all …” She dumped the dill weed into the trash can without asking if she could. “One suspects a stroke, of course.”

  “They tested for a stroke. No stroke.”

  “Well, they can’t always tell so definitely—”

  “No stroke. That’s what they said.”

  “A blow to the head. I hardly think that statue could have picked up enough speed or momentum to do this much damage. Was there a prior cause?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Had she had some sort of shock that morning? Was she in distress? In anxiety?”

  “Oh. Oh.”

  “Good child,” said Sister Alice in a soft voice, “whatever is it? What happened?”

  “The onions. They’re browning.”

  “Something happened and you blame yourself.”

  “Not till you started talking.”

  “It’s sheer biology, it’s mechanics in the brain, it’s blood vessels and tension, nothing more. Whatever it is, you’re not to blame. What happened? Did you hit her?”