The Heaven Trilogy (53 page)

When what is over, Kent?

He looked up at the mirror and stared at his disheveled reflection. The face Lacy had rejected. Three days' stubble. Maybe four days'. The face of Kevin Stillman, still bearing scars from the surgery, if you knew where to look.

When what is over, Kent?

The lump swelled in his throat, like a balloon. Another tear slipped from his right eye.
I'm sorry, Gloria. God, I'm sorry.
His chest was aching.
I'm sorry, Spencer.

Yes, and what would Spencer think of you now?

His shoulders shook, and the mirror dissolved in a single sob.
I'm so sorry.

It's over, Kent.

He sucked at the air and caught his breath. The notion popped in his mind with sudden clarity. Yes, it was over, wasn't it? There was nothing left to do anymore. He had spent his life. He had drained it of meaning. Now it was time to step aside and let the others have a try.

It was time to stop trudging. It was time to die.

Yes, it's time to die, Kent.

Yes, let the other fools bloody their fingers climbing up life's cliff. Let them claw over the edge to find the wastelands stretching like a dusty graveyard. In the end it was all the same. In the end it was the grave.

Yes. You've come home, Kent. Welcome home, Kent.

It was the first touch of peace Kent had felt in weeks, and it tingled down his spine.
Now I lay me down to sleep . . .
Right beside the others who wasted their lives climbing this cliff called life and then lay down to die on barren wastelands. Salmon fighting their way up the river. Lemmings rushing to the cliff. Humans dying in the wastelands. It all made sense now.

Kent brushed his teeth. No sense dying with dirty teeth. He dropped the toothbrush half finished and spat the foam from his mouth. He didn't bother running any water to clean the mess.

The easiest way to slip into the grave would be through some sort of overdose; he'd thought so a hundred times. But thinking of it now, it seemed there ought to be more to the matter. It could be a month before they found his rotting body, maybe longer. Maybe he'd do the deed in a place that made a statement. The bank, for instance. Or in the steeple of a church. On the other hand, did he care? No, he did not care at all. He simply wanted out. Done. Over. He wanted to end. Find Bono's graveyard. Find a priest . . .

Confess.

Kent was halfway across the room, headed nowhere, when the thought dropped into his head. He pictured Bono telling him that.
“Confess, my son.”
The word hollowed his chest. It seemed to carry a sense of purpose. And a suicide with purpose felt better than a senseless one. It would be something like leaning over that cliff and calling down to the million fools struggling up the stone face.
“Hey, fellas, there ain't nothin' up here but ashes and tombstones. Save yourselves the energy.”

Confess to a priest. Find a church, find a man of the collar, confess the crime, then drift off to the wasteland. Maybe meet Helen's God. The thought brought a tightness to his chest again.
I'm sorry, Helen.
Dear old Helen.

Kent sat on the bed and rested his forehead on his hands. An image of Helen filled his mind, and he swallowed against the knot in his throat. She was pointing to the bare spot above his fireplace—the spot that had once graced a painting of Christ.
“You crucified him, Kent,”
Helen was saying. Only she wasn't yelling it or stuffing it down his throat. She was crying and smiling.

“Yes,” he muttered beneath his breath. A tear slipped down his cheek. “And now I'm going to crucify myself, Helen.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

HELEN CALLED Bill at six that morning, pacing in small circles while she waited for him to answer. “Come on, Bill.”

The dream had changed last night. The sound of running had quickened; the breathing had come in gasps. She had awakened wet with sweat and rolled from bed, the fingers of panic playing on her spine.

“Get up, Bill. Pick up the phone!”

A groggy voice spoke through the receiver. “Hello.”

“Something's up, Bill.”

“Helen? What time is it?”

“It's already six, and I should've been walking half an hour ago, but I started praying in my kitchen and I'm telling you, I could hardly stand it.”

“Whoa, slow down, Helen. Sorry, I had a late appointment last night.”

She stopped her pacing and peered out the window. A fine drizzle fell from a dark gray sky. “I don't know. But it's never been like this before.”

“Like what, Helen. What are you talking about?”

“There's electricity in the air. Can't you feel it?” Helen moved her arm through the air and felt her hair stand on end. “Heavens, Bill, it's everywhere. Close your eyes and calm yourself. Tell me if you feel anything.”

“I'm not the one who needs calming—”

“Just do it, Pastor.”

The phone went dead for a moment before he came back on. “No. I'm sorry. I see only the backs of my eyelids over here. It's raining outside.”

“It feels like heaven is about to tear loose, Bill. Like it's a bag of white-hot light, bursting at the seams over here.”

He didn't answer right away, and she was suddenly impatient. She should be out walking and praying. The thought brought another shiver to her bones. “Glory,” she whispered. Bill's breathing suddenly went ragged in the receiver.

“Helen . . . ?” his voice warbled.

Her pulse quickened. She spun from the window. “Yes? You see something?”

“Helen, I think something is going to happen . . . Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

“Bill!” She knew it! He was seeing something right now. Had to be! “Bill, what is it? Tell me!”

But he just mumbled on. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” His voice wavered over the phone, and Helen fought a sudden urge to drop the receiver and rush to his house. He was over there seeing into the other side, and she was standing here on this side, holding this ridiculous phone and wanting to be
over there.

“Come on, Bill,” she suddenly blurted. “Stop mumbling and tell me something!”

That put the pause in him. But only for a moment. Then he started again. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” It was not anything akin to swearing. Quite the opposite. This much Helen knew with certainty: Pastor Bill Madison was peeking into the heavens this very minute. And he was desperately yearning for what he was seeing, yes sir. The truth of it oozed from his shuddering voice as he cried to his God. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

He fell silent suddenly.

Helen took a deep breath and waited a few seconds before pressing again. “What was it, Pastor? What did you see?”

He was not talking. Perhaps not listening, either.

“Bill . . .”

“I . . . I don't really know,” came the weak reply. “It just came like a blanket of light . . . like last time, only this time I heard laughter. Lots of laughter.”

“Ha! You heard it, did you? Well, what did I tell you? You see? Have you ever in your life heard such laughter?”

He laughed a crazy little chuckle. “No. But who is it? Who's laughing? . . . Do you think it's
God?”

Helen lifted her arm and saw that the hair stood on end. She should walk. She needed to walk
now!
“The laughter is from humans, I think. The saints. And maybe from angels as well.”

“The saints are laughing?
Laughing,
huh? And what about God? Did I see him in there?”

“I don't know what you saw, Bill. I wasn't there. But God is responsible for the light, and you saw the light, right? I think he is mostly loving and being loved and laughing—yes, laughing too—and weeping.”

“And why, Helen? Why are we seeing these things? It's not common.”

“No, it's not common. But it's real enough. Just like in biblical times, Bill. He's nudging our stubborn minds. Like my walking—impossible yet true. Like Jericho. Like two-thirds of the Scriptures, impossible yet true and here today. He has not changed, Bill.” She gazed back out the window. “He has not changed.”

“Yes. You are right. He has not changed.”

“I have to go, Pastor. I want to walk.”

“Yes, you should walk. It's supposed to snow today, they say. First snow of the season. You dress warm, okay?”

Snow? Goodness, that would be something, walking in the snow. “I'll be fine. My legs are not so concerned with the elements these days.”

“Go with God, Helen.”

“I will. Thank you, Bill.”

Helen grabbed a light jacket on the way out and entered the gray morning air. Streetlights glowed like halos in a long string down the glistening pavement. One of those Volkswagen bugs drove by, its lights peering through the mist. The sound of its wheels running over the pavement sounded like tearing paper. She pulled on the jacket and walked into the drizzle, mumbling, hardly aware of the wet.

Father, thank you, thank you, thank you.
Her body shivered once, as a chill swept through her bones. But it was not the cold; it was that light, crackling just behind the black clouds, that set off the tremor. True enough, she could not actually see it, but it fizzled and snapped and dazzled there, just the same. Her heart ran at twice its customary clip, as if it too knew that a rare power streamed through the air, unseen but fully charged.

Perhaps the prince of this earth wanted to put a damper on things. Soak his domain with a cold, wet blanket in an attempt to mask the light behind it all. But she was not seeing the blanket at all. She was seeing that light, and it felt warm and dry and bright.
Glory.

Helen glanced at her white running shoes, stabbing forward with each stride. They flung droplets out ahead of her, christening the sidewalk like a priest flinging water on a baby's head.
Blessed be these feet, walking by the power of God.
It might have been a good idea to pull on long pants and a sweater, but she was not following good ideas these days.

She had run out of words in this prayer-walking weeks ago. She might have prayed through the entire Bible—she didn't know. But now it was just her heart yearning and her mouth mumbling.
You made this earth, Father. It's yours. There's no way a few drops will stand in your way! Goodness, you parted a whole sea for the Israelites—surely this here is nothing. In fact, maybe it's your rain. How about that?

Helen lifted her hands and grasped at the drops, smiling wide. For a brief moment her chest felt as though it might explode, and she skipped for a few steps. Another car with lights glaring whisked by, its tires hissing on the wet street. It honked once and sped on. And no wonder; she surely looked like a drowned rat with her matted hair and drooping wet dress.
Crazy old woman, walking in this stuff. She'll catch her death!

Now
there
was a thought.
Take me, Father. I'll gladly come. You know that, don't you? Don't get me wrong here. I'll do whatever you wish of me. But you know I'd die to be with you. To be rid of this flesh and this old wrinkled face and this hair that keeps falling out. Not that it's so bad, really. I thank you for it; really I do. And if you'd want me to, I'd bring it with me. But I'll tell you this, my God: I would give anything to be there with you. Take me any way you choose. Strike me dead with a bolt of lightning, roll me over with a monster truck, send a disease to eat away my bones—any way, just bring me home. Like those before me.

She jumped once and swung her arm—a grandma-style victory whoop. “Glory!” This was how the martyrs had felt, she thought. Marching to Zion!

The sky slowly but barely brightened as the hours faded. Helen walked, scarcely conscious of her route. The path took her due west along side streets. She'd been here before, numerous times, and she knew the four-hour turnaround point well. If she took a loop around the fountain at 132nd and Sixth, she would end up back at home eight hours after her morning departure. The fat Buddha-looking statue at the fountain's center would be wet today, the goldfish swimming at its feet doubly doused.

Helen groaned at the thought of rounding the fountain and heading home. It should have come as a comfort with all the rain drenching her to the bone and the dark sky foreboding a storm, but it didn't. Not today. Today the thought of heading home made her heart sink. She wanted to hike right over the distant, crackling horizon like Enoch and climb under the black clouds. She wanted to find the light and join in the laughter.
Glory!

The traffic was light, the normal straggle of pedestrians absent, the shops eerily vacant. Helen approached Homer's Flower Shop on the corner of 120th and Sixth. The old man stood under his eaves with folded arms and raised brows as she came near.

“They say snow's coming, you know. You shouldn't be out here.”

“I'm fine, old man. This is no time to stop. I'm near the end now.” He squinted at the comment. Of course, he could have no idea what she referred to, but then, a little mystery now and then never hurt anybody.

“Don't say I didn't warn you, old lady,” he said.

She was even with him now and kept her head turned to meet his stare. “Yes, indeed. You have warned me. Now hear the warning of God, old man. Love him always. With every last breath, love him madly.”

He blinked and took a step back. She smiled and walked on past. Let him think that one through.
Love God madly. Glory!

She'd come to a string of street merchants who'd packed it in for the day, all except for Sammy the cap man who, truth be said, was more a homeless freeloader than an actual merchant, but nobody was saying so. Those who knew him also knew that he had sincerely if unsuccessfully tried at this life's game. Sometimes the ball rolls that way. He'd left a dead wife and a bankrupt estate in his wake. No one seemed to mind forking over a ten-dollar bill for a cheap, two-dollar cap— not when it was Sammy collecting the money. He stood under the eaves beside two large crates filled with his hats.