The Heaven Trilogy (18 page)

It took her an hour to return the kitchen to the spotless condition in which Gloria had kept it. She replaced the dishrags responsible for the mildew odor with fresh ones, wondering how long they would remain clean. A day at most.

Helen returned to the living room, thinking she should say what she had come to say and leave. He was obviously not in the mood to receive any comfort. Certainly not from her.

She glanced at the ceiling and imagined the cosmic bleachers, crowded with eager onlookers, unrestrained by time. She stood behind the couch and studied the man like one of those heavenly creatures might study him. He sat dejected. No, not dejected. Dejected would be characterized by a pouting frown, perhaps. Not this vision of death sagging on the chair before her. He looked suicidal, devastated, unraveled like a hemp rope chewed by a dog.

“I cleaned the kitchen,” she said. “You can at least move around in there without knocking things over now.”

He looked at her, and his Adam's apple bobbed. Maybe her voice reminded him of Gloria—she hadn't considered that.

“Anyway. Is there anything else I can do for you while I'm here?”

Kent shook his head, barely.

She started then. “You know, Kent, you remind me of someone I know who lost his son. Much like you did, actually.”

He ignored her.

She considered leaving without finishing.
Are you sure, Father? Perhaps it is too soon. The poor soul looks like a worm near death.

God did not respond. She hadn't really expected him to.

“He was crazy about that boy, you know. They were inseparable, did everything together. But the boy was not so—what shall I say—becoming. Not the best looking. Of course, it meant nothing at all to his father.” She dismissed the thought with a wave. “Nothing at all. But others began to ridicule him. Then not just ridicule, but flatly reject. They grew to hate him. And the more they hated him, the more his father loved him, if that was possible.”

Helen smiled sweetly. Kent looked at her with mild interest now. She continued.

“The boy was murdered by some of his own peers. It about killed the father. Reminds me of you. Anyway, they caught the one who killed his son. Caught him red-handed with the weapon in his hand. He was homeless and uncaring—headed for a life behind bars. But the father did not press charges. Said one life had been taken already. His son's. Instead, he offered love for the one who'd killed his son.”

She looked at Kent's eyes for a sign of recognition. They stared into her own, blank. “The unexpected affection nearly broke the young killer's heart. He went to the father and begged his forgiveness. And do you know what the father did?”

Kent did not respond.

“The father loved the killer as his own son. Adopted him.” She paused. “Can you believe that?”

Kent's lip lifted in a snarl. “I'd kill the kid.” He took a swig from that drink of his.

“Actually, the father had already lost one son. To crucifixion. He wasn't about to let another be crucified.”

He sat there like a lump on a log, his eyes half closed and his lower lip sagging. If he understood the meaning behind her words, he did not show it.

“God the Father, God the Son. You know how that feels, don't you? And yet you have murdered him in your own heart. Murdered the son. In fact, the last time I was in here, there was a picture of you above the fireplace.” She motioned to the whitewashed wall where the picture had hung. “You were the one holding the hammer and nails. Looks like you got tired of looking at yourself.”

She grinned.

“Anyway. Now he wants to adopt you. He loves you. More than you could ever know. And he knows how this all feels. He's been here. Does that make sense to you?”

Kent still did not respond. He blinked and closed his mouth, but she wasn't about to start interpreting his gestures. She simply wanted to plant this seed and leave.

For a moment she thought that he might actually be feeling sorrow. But then she saw his jaw muscles knot up, and she knew better.

“Think about it, Kent. Open your heart.” Helen turned from him and walked toward the door, wondering if that was it.

It was.

“Good-bye, Kent,” she said, and walked out the door.

She suddenly felt exhilarated. She realized that her heart was pounding simply from the excitement of this message she had delivered.

Her Pinto sat on the driveway, dumb and yellow. She withdrew her keys and approached the car door. But she didn't want to drive.

She wanted to walk. Really walk. An absurd notion—she had been on her feet enough already, and her knees were sore.

The notion stopped her three feet from the car, jingling the keys in her hands. She could not walk, of course. Helen glanced back to the front door. It remained closed. The sky above hung blue in its arches. A beautiful day for a walk.

She wanted to walk.

Helen turned to her left and walked to the street. She would walk. Just to the end of the block. Granted, her knees were not what they once were, but they would hold her that far if she walked slowly. She hummed to herself and eased down the sidewalk.

KENT SAW the door swing shut, and its slam rang like a gong in his mind. He did not move except to swivel his head from the entry. But his eyes stayed wide open, and his fingers were trembling.

Desperation swept in like a thick wave, and on its face rose a wall of sorrow that took his breath away. His throat tightened to an impossible ache, and he grunted to release the tension in the muscles. The wave engulfed him, refusing to sweep by alone, carrying him in its folds.

Then Kent's shoulders began to shake, and the sobs came hard. The ache worked on his chest like a vise, and he was suddenly unsure if it was sorrow or desire now squeezing the breath out of him.

Spencer was right.

Oh, God! Spencer was right!

The admission erupted from his mind, and Kent felt his mouth yawning in a breathless cry. The words came out audibly, in a strained croak.

“Oh, God!” He clenched his eyes. Had to—they were burning. “Oh, God!”

The words brought a wash of comfort, like a soothing anesthetic to his heart. He said it again. “Oh, God.”

Kent sat in the wave for a long time, strangely relishing each moment of its respite, aching for more and more. Losing himself there, in the deepest sorrow, and in the balm of comfort.

He recalled a scene that played on the walls of his mind like an old, eight-millimeter film. It was Gloria and Spencer, dancing in the living room, late one evening. They held hands and twirled in circles and sang about streets that were golden. His camera eye zoomed to their faces. They gazed at each other in rapture. He had discarded the moment with a chuckle then, but now it came like the sugar of life. And he knew that somewhere in that exchange lay the purpose of living.

The memory brought a new flood of tears.

When Kent finally stood and looked about the living room, it was dusk. Spent, he trudged into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator without bothering to turn on the lights. He pulled out a day-old pizza, slid onto a barstool, and nibbled on the soggy crust for a few minutes.

A mirror glared at him from the shadowed wall. It showed a man with sagging cheeks and red eyes, his hair disheveled, wearing the face of death. He stopped his chewing and stared, wondering if that could be him. But he knew immediately that it was. There was the new Kent—a broken, discarded fool.

He turned his back to the mirror and ate part of the cold pizza before tossing it and retiring before the television. Kent fell asleep two hours later to the monotones of some Spanish soccer commentator.

The alarm clock's green analog numbers read 11 A.M. when his eyes flickered open the following morning. By noon he had managed a shower and clean clothes. He had also managed a conclusion.

It was time to move on.

Only six days had passed since Spencer's death. Four weeks to the day since Gloria's passing. Their deaths had left him with no one. But that was just it— there was no one left to mourn with. Except Helen. And Helen was from another planet. That left only him, and he could not live with himself. Not just himself.

He would have to find death quickly, or go off and find some life.

Killing himself had a certain appeal—a kind of final justice to the madness. He had mulled over the idea for long hours in recent days. If he did kill himself, it would be with an overdose of some intoxicating drug; he'd already concluded that after discarding a hundred other options. Might as well go out flying high.

On the other hand, something else was brewing in his head, something set off by Helen's words. This God business. The memory lingered like a fog in his mind, present but muddled. The emotions had nearly destroyed him. A sort of high he could not remember having felt.

He remembered thinking, just before falling asleep the night before, that it might have been his love for Spencer that triggered the emotions. Yes, that would be it. Because he was desperate for his son. Would give anything—everything— to give him life. How incredible that one little life could mean so much. Six billion people crawling over the globe, and in the end, the death of one ten-year-old boy caused him to ache so badly.

Kent left the house, squinting in the bright sunlight.

It was time to move on.

Yes, that was the conclusion.

But it was really no conclusion at all, was it? Move on to
what?
Working at the bank carried as much appeal as a barefooted trek across the Sahara. He hadn't had contact with any of his coworkers for a week now. How could he possibly face Borst? Or worse, fat-boy Bentley? They no doubt carried on, soaking in acclamations of a superb job, reaping his rewards while he sat dead in the water, surrounded by two floating bodies. If he had even a single violent bone in his body he'd take that nine-millimeter pistol his uncle had given him for his thirtieth birthday and walk on down to that bank. Play postal worker for a day. Deliver some good will.

He could sue, of course—fire a few legal projectiles their way. But the thought of suing with Dennis Warren's assistance now brought a sickness to his gut. For one thing, Dennis had gone off to lala land that last day. His attorney's words still rumbled through his mind:
I don't think you are ready. I don't think you are ready at all, my fine friend. Perhaps this afternoon you will be ready.

This afternoon? Then Spencer had died.

No, Dennis was out of the question, Kent concluded. If he did sue the bank, it would be with another attorney.

That left finding another job, a thought that sickened him even more than the notion of suing. But at least he would be able to continue paying the bills. A lawsuit might very well suck him dry.

Either way, he should probably talk to Helen again. Go back for some of the comfort she seemed to have a handle on. God. Maybe Spencer was right after all. Kent felt a knot rise to his throat, and he cursed under his breath. He wasn't sure he could stomach too many more of these emotional surges.

The day passed in a haze, divided between the park and the house, but at least Kent was thinking again. It was a start. Yes, it was time to move on.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE VISION came to Kent that night in the early morning hours, like a shaft of black through the shadows of his mind.

Or maybe it wasn't a vision. Maybe he was actually there.

He stood in the alley behind the bank. Steam rose from the grate; the dumpster lay tipped on its side, reeking foul, and Kent was watching that vagrant slurping at his bagged bottle. Only now he wasn't tipping the bag back. He was sticking a long, pink tongue down the bottle's neck and using it like a straw. It was the kind of thing you might expect in a dream. So yes, it must have been a vision. A dream.

The vagrant no longer wore faded clothes but a black tuxedo with shiny shoes and a pressed shirt. Downright respectable. Except for the straggly hairs growing off his chin and neck. It appeared as though the man was attempting to cover up a dozen red warts, but the long strands of hair only emphasized them, and that certainly was not respectable. That and the tongue trick.

The vagrant-turned-respectable-citizen was rambling on about how lucky Kent was with his fancy car and big-time job. Kent interrupted the prattling with the most obvious of points.

“I'm no better off than you, old man.”

“Old man?” The vagrant licked his lips wet with that long pink tongue. “You think I'm old? How old do I look to you, fella?”

“It's just an expression.”

“Well, you are right. I am old. Quite old, actually. And I have learned a few things in my time.” He grinned and snaked his tongue into the bottle again without removing his eyes from Kent.

Kent furrowed his brow. “How do you do that?” he asked.

The tongue pulled out quickly. “Do what?”

“Make your tongue do that?”

The vagrant chuckled and fingered one of the warts under his chin. “It's one of the things I've learned over the years, boy. Anybody can do it. You just have to stretch your tongue for a long time. See?” He did it again, and Kent shuddered.

The man pulled his tongue back into his mouth and spoke again. “You ever see those tribal people who stretch their necks a foot high? It's like that. You just stretch things.”

A chill seemed to have descended into the alley. The white steam from the grate ran along the ground, and Kent was thinking he should get on in to work. Finish up some programming.

But that was just it. He didn't want to walk through that door. In fact, now that he thought about it, something very bad had happened in there. He just couldn't quite remember what.

“So what's keeping you, boy?” The man peered at the door. “Go on in. Take your millions.”

“Huh? That's what you think?” Kent replied. “You think people like me make millions slaving away for some huge bank? Not even close, old man.”