The Heaven Trilogy (15 page)

“Every time you come by, it seems. The thing keeps winking off on me. I need to inadvertently push it off the desk and requisition a new one. Maybe a twenty-one incher.”

“Yeah, that'll definitely push the loans right along. The bigger the better.”

Will conducted a few more of his nods and smiled. “So I heard that you had a run-in with Bentley yesterday,” he said.

Kent sat calmly in the guest chair facing Will, ignoring the heat suddenly washing over his shoulders. “And how did you know that?”

“This is a small city we work in, Kent. Complete with built-in, free-flowing lines of communication. Things get around.”

Good night! Who else knew? If big-mouth here knew, the whole world would soon hear. Probably already had. Kent glanced around the room and caught a pair of eyes resting on him from the far side. He shifted his eyes back to Will.

“So what did you hear?”

“I heard that you walked in there and demanded to be named employee of the month for your part in the AFPS development. They said you were screaming about it.”

The heat spread right down Kent's spine.
“Employee of the month?
That lousy imbecile! I could . . .” He bit off the rest and closed his eyes. They weren't messing around, then. He had become their fool. The poor fellow in administration who wanted a bigger pat on the back.

“You didn't actually scream at—”

“You're darned right I screamed at that jerk!” Kent said. “But not about some lousy employee-of-the-month parking space.” He breathed heavily and tried to calm his pulse. “People are actually buying that?”

“I don't buy it.” Will sat back and glanced around. “Keep your voice down, man.”

“What's everybody else saying?”

“I don't know. They're saying that anyone who screams at Bentley about employee-of-the-month status has got a screw loose, to be sure.” A slight grin crossed the loan officer's face. “They're saying that if anybody should get employee of the month it should be the whole department because AFPS came from the department.”

Something popped in Kent's mind, as if someone had tossed a depth charge in there and run for cover.
Kaboom!
He stood to his feet. At least he
wanted
to stand to his feet. His efforts resulted in more of a lurch. The room swam dizzily.

He had to get to Dennis! This was not good!

“I've got to go,” he mumbled. “I'm late.”

Will leaned forward. “Kent, sit down for heaven's sake! It's not a big deal. Everybody knows you were the real brains behind AFPS, man. Lighten up.”

Kent bent for his case and strode deliberately from the desk. He only wanted one thing now. Out. Just out, out, out.

If there had been a fire escape in the hall, he might have taken it in favor of chancing a face-to-face encounter with another employee. But there was no fire escape. And there
was
another person in the elevator. She might have been Miss America, for all he knew, because he refused to make eye contact. He pressed into the corner, praying for the moments to pass quickly.

The backdoor released him to the alley, and tears blurred his vision before the latch slammed home. He bellowed angrily, instinctively. The roar echoed, and he spun his head, wondering if anyone had heard or seen this grown man carrying on. The alley lay dark and empty both ways. A large diesel engine growled nearby— an earthmover, perhaps, breaking ground on someone's dream.

Kent felt very small. Very, very, very small. Small enough to die.

WHILE KENT was dying at work, Helen was doing her best to forget the images that had visited her the previous night. But she was not doing so good.

She stirred the pitcher of ice tea slowly, listening to Spencer hum “The Martyr's Song” in the other room. All of their lives seemed to hinge on that song, she thought, remembering how Spencer's grandfather had loved to sing it in his mellow, baritone voice. From grandfather to grandson. Ice clinked in the tea, and she began to sing softly with him. “Sing oh Son of Zion . . .”

If the boy only knew.

Well, today he would know a little more. Enough for things to brighten.

She hobbled past Spencer, who sat, as usual, cross-legged on the floor, then she eased into her worn green rocker. A small glass bottle sat in the hutch, ancient and red, glaring at her with its history. It held its secrets, that glass vile, secrets that brought a chill to her spine still. She swallowed and shifted her eyes. Now the picture of the cross with Jesus spread out, dying on its beams, stared directly at her, and she kept up with the boy in a wobbly soprano. “. . . I've been waiting for the day, when at last I get to say, my child, you are finally home.”

She would have to hold it together now—in front of the boy at least. She would have to trust as she had never trusted. As long as she could keep her eyes off the scales of justice that had found their way into her mind, she would do fine. As long as she could trust that God's scales were working, even though her own tipped, lopsided, in her mind, she would make it.

Funny how so many saw that cross as a bridge over the gulf between God and man—between heaven and earth—and yet how few took the time to cross it. No pun there, just a small nugget of truth. How many were busy looking for another way across? How many Christians avoided the death of God? Take up your cross daily, he'd said. Now, there was a paradox.

“Spencer.”

“Yes, Grandma?” He looked up from the Legos that had held his attention for the last half-hour. He'd built a spaceship, she saw. Fitting.

She looked around the room, thinking of how best to tell him. “Did your father talk to you last night?”

Spencer nodded. “Sure.”

“About his job?”

Spencer looked up at her curiously. “How did you know that?”

“I didn't know. That's why I asked. But I did know he was having . . . complications at work.”

“Yeah, that's what he said. Did he tell you about it?”

“No. But I wanted to help you understand some things today about your father.” Spencer let the Lego pieces lie on the floor and sat up, interested. “He's having a hard time.”

“Yes he is, isn't he?” She let silence settle for a few seconds. “Spencer, how long do you think we've been praying for your father to see the light?”

“A long time.”

“Five years. Five years of beating on the brass heavens. Then they cracked. You remember that? Almost three weeks ago?”

The boy nodded, wide eyed now. “With Mom.” Spencer scrambled to his feet and climbed into “his” chair opposite Grandma. The air suddenly felt charged.

“It seems that our prayers have caused quite a stir in the heavens. You should know, Spencer, that everything happening with your father is by design.”

The boy tilted his head slightly, thinking that through. “Mom's death?”

The boy was not missing a beat here. “It has its purpose.”

“What purpose could God have in letting Mom die?”

“Let me ask you, which is greater in regard to your mother's death?
Her
pleasure or your father's sorrow?” She suddenly wanted to throw her own grief on the scales and withdraw the question. But that was not her part here—she at least knew that.

He looked at her for a moment, thinking. The corner of his mouth twitched and then lifted to a small sheepish grin. “Mom's pleasure?” he said.

“By a long shot, Honey. You remember that. And no matter what else happens to your father, you remember that a hundred thousand eyes are peering down on him from the heavens, watching what he will do. Anything can happen at any time, and everything happens for a purpose. Can you understand that?”

Spencer nodded, his eyes round with eagerness.

“You ever hear of a man named C. S. Lewis? He once wrote, ‘There is no neutral ground in the universe: every square inch, every split second, is claimed by God and counter claimed by Satan.' It's like that with your father, Spencer. Do you believe that?”

Spencer closed his mouth and swallowed. “Yes. Sometimes it's hard to know . . .”

“But you do believe it, don't you?”

“Yes. I believe it.”

“And why do you believe it, Spencer?”

He looked at her, and his eyes shone like jewels. “Because I've seen heaven,” he said. “And I know that things are not what people think they are.”

Her feelings for the boy boiled to the surface, and she felt a lump rise in her throat. Such a tender face under those blue eyes. He had Gloria's face.
Oh, my God, my God. What could you possibly be thinking?
Her chest felt like it might explode with grief, looking at the boy.

She felt a tear slip from her eye. “Come here, Honey,” she said.

The boy came and sat on the arm of her chair. She took his hand and kissed it gently then pulled him onto her lap. “I love you, my child. I love you so dearly.”

He blushed and turned to kiss her forehead. “I love you too, Grandma.”

She looked into his eyes. “You are blessed, Spencer. We have just begun, I think. And you have such a precious part to play. Savor it for me, will you?”

“I will, Grandma.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

For a long time, Helen held her grandson, rocking in the chair in silence. Remarkably, he let her—seemed to relish the embrace. Tears were soon flowing freely down her face and wetting her blouse. She did not want the boy to see her cry, but she could not stop herself. Her life was being shredded, for God's sake.

Quite literally.

CHAPTER TWELVE

KENT SLUMPED into a dead sleep sometime past midnight Wednesday, with visions of vultures circling lazily through his dreams. He woke late and scrambled to dress for work. The thought of returning to the den of thieves made him sick just now, but he had not seen his way past Dennis Warren's suggestion that he at least maintain his status of employment with the bank. And he had not succeeded in making contact with the attorney the previous afternoon, despite a dozen attempts. His lawyer's bimbo was developing a dislike for him, he thought.

And now it was morning. Which meant it was time to go back to the bank. Back to hell. Maybe today he would wash Borst's feet. Give him a good rubdown, perhaps. Congratulate him for making employee of the month.
Jolly good, sir.
Good grief !

“Dad.”

Kent looked up from the edge of the bed, where he'd just pulled on his last sock. Spencer stood in the bedroom doorway, fully dressed. His hair lay in a tangled web, but then the boy was going nowhere today.

“Hey, Spencer.”

His son walked in and sat next to him. “You're up late,” the boy observed.

“Yeah. I slept in.”

Spencer suddenly put an arm over his shoulder and squeezed him gently. “I love you, Dad.”

The show of affection brought a heaviness to Kent's chest. “I love you too, son.”

They sat together, still and quiet for a moment.

“You know that Mom is okay, don't you?” Spencer looked up. “She's in heaven, Dad. With God. She's laughing up there.”

Kent blinked at that. “Sure, son. But we're down here. There's no heaven down here.”

“Sometimes there is,” Spencer said.

Kent ruffled the boy's hair and smiled. “Heaven on earth. You're right. Sometimes there is.” He stood and fed his tie around his collar. “Like when your mother and I got married. Now
there
was some heaven. Or like when I first bought the Lexus. You remember when I came home with the Lexus, Spencer?”

“I'm not talking about that kind of heaven.”

Kent walked to the mirror on the wall, not wanting this conversation now. Now he wanted to tear Borst's throat out. He saw his eyebrows furrow in the mirror. Beyond, Spencer's reflection stared back at him. This was his boy on the bed, eyes round, legs hanging limp almost to the ground.

“C'mon, Spencer. You know I don't see things the way you do. I know you want what's best for Mom, but she's just gone. Now it's you and me, buddy. And we will find our own way.”

“Yeah, I know.”

That's right, son. Let it go.

“But maybe we should follow Mom's way.”

Kent closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Mom's way? And what was Mom's way? Mom's way was death.
Yeah, well, why don't we all just die and go to heaven?

He pulled his tie tight and turned back to Spencer. “We don't live in a fantasy world; we live in a real world where people actually die, and when they die it's the end. Six feet under. Game's over. And there's no use pretending otherwise.”

“What about God?”

The doorbell chimed in the foyer. That would be Linda, the sitter Helen had arranged for, coming to watch Spencer for the day. Kent turned for the door.

“Why don't you just believe in God?”

Kent stopped and turned back toward Spencer. “I do believe in God. I just have a broader concept, that's all.”

“But God loves you, Dad. I think he's trying to get your attention.”

Kent swung around, his gut suddenly churning. He wanted to say,
Don't be so simplistic, Spencer. Don't be so stupid!
Wanted to shout that. If what was happening in his life had anything at all to do with some white-bearded scribe in the sky, then God was getting senile in his old age. It was time for someone with a little more compassion to take over.

Kent turned back to the door without responding.

“He won't let you go, Dad. He loves you too much,” Spencer said softly.

Kent whirled, suddenly furious. His words came before he could stop them. “I don't care about your God, Spencer! Just shut up!”

He spun around and steamed for the front door, knowing he had crossed a line. He pulled open the door and glared at the brunette baby-sitter who stood on the front steps.

She shoved out her hand. “Mr. Anthony?”