The Next Queen of Heaven

by Gregory Maguire

  The Next Queen

  of Heaven

  GREGORY MAGUIRE

  For those who keep singing

  and

  for those who keep silent.

  1999

  Table of Contents

  1999

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY GREGORY MAGUIRE

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  TO TABITHA’S REMARK that the town’s first speed-trap camera was totally unfair and kind of kinky, Mrs. Scales replied, after a prayerful silence, “Why don’t you think of it as the Eye of God?”

  “God doesn’t do three strikes you’re out, last I heard,” said Tabitha. “Or give tickets. Big Brother’s more like it. I bet Jack Reeves sits in his mayor’s spy room somewhere taking notes and feeling himself.”

  “I doubt it,” said her mother. “But Big Brother, that’s good. You’re doing some reading.”

  “Don’t count on it. It’s just the forensic club is going Big Brother this, Big Brother that, at the No More Columbines pep rally.”

  “Well, you can relax about surveillance from anyone but me. Besides, they say the camera isn’t hooked up yet. It doesn’t see anything. So it can’t do anything.”

  Tabitha inhaled around the gum she had tongued against the back of her front teeth. “Maybe you’re right about it being, like, the Eye of God.”

  Praise you Jesus, thought her mother, she’s coming around at last.

  “Totally fucking blind.”

  They coasted past the hapless aperture, a heady four miles per hour over the limit. A little frostiness of mood, not so bad in itself. Union Street curved north into downtown Thebes—what passed for downtown—and the silence locked mother and daughter together. Better than the usual smackdown session, thought Mrs. Scales.

  She took advantage of the time out to practice her Inner Breathing. Breathe east. She imagined, miles out of sight, the softwood heart of the Northeast, the Adirondacks.

  Breathe west. In the slant light of dusk—daylight savings time taking its bite again—she glimpsed the first iteration of America’s liquid prairie. It looked like chemical water on fire in the gloaming. The Lakes, the Lakes. Ontario, Huron, Superior, Erie. That other one. Not for the first time did Erie seem the word to cover them all.

  Breathe north. Montreal (more or less). Breathe south. Syracuse. Compass rose breathing. Center yourself, for Christ’s sake.

  Mrs. Scales considered her dilemmas. Maybe this very moment, in the car hurrying past nasturtium-edged clouds, Tabitha was undergoing a conversion. Evolving from potty mouth to docile daughter. It could happen. Leontina was praying for it hard enough, wasn’t she? Or did this mean that her prayer, like her backhand and also according to the dental technician the care of her gums, was sadly lacking?

  At the light by Croton Drugs, old Mrs. Chanarinjee in her push-walker and sari paused in the crosswalk. She leaned down at the open passenger window and chuckled a hello across Tabitha to her mother. Tabitha, recoiling as if she were being nosed by a dog, muttered, “She has curry coming out of her cunt,” and flipped her the bird. Mrs. Chanarinjee reached in and grabbed Tabitha’s middle finger and squeezed it till she squealed. Inner breathing north east south west. Discernment, please. Was Mrs. Chanarinjee dispensing the wrath of a savage foreign god she’d never quite abandoned, or was she just unclear on the execution of the American handshake?

  “Let the fuck go a me. Aren’t you supposed to be like on some burning pile of furniture or something?”

  “I’m supposed to be on Percoset for my hips,” said Mrs. Chanarinjee. All business now. “This Sunday, Mrs. Leontina Scales. Is it your turn to do the milk or mine?”

  “I think mine, Savitra. Better get to the curb before the light changes.”

  “Before the light changes, yes, yes.”

  “Stupid bitch.” Tabitha exercised no volume control. “Stupid holy cow. Who wears tablecloths in fucking October?”

  Breathe. The compass rose again. Inner Breathing of the spirit. “It wouldn’t hurt you, Tabitha, to try to be nicer to people.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt me if she fell down dead in that paisley bed-sheet.”

  The next day Tabitha’s mother met with Pastor Jakob Huyck and put it to him in hypothetical terms. If there was a child who had a mouth on her, who seemed determined to drive her single parent into an early grave, what would Pastor Huyck recommend? “Prayer,” said Pastor Huyck promptly. He nodded his head and picked at his straw-colored goatee as if it had lice in it. He was about fifty-five, and Mrs. Scales thought the goatee seemed rather a loose-cannon approach to Modern Maturity. “Prayer, and a good example,” said Pastor Huyck in his coming-attractions baritone. “Does she have a good example at home, Leontina?”

  “An example of what?”

  “I’ll do the praying. You be the good example. Don’t forget your Inner Breathing. Also your pocketbook, it’s there by the plant.”

  On her way home, Mrs. Scales considered his advice. Be a good example? Had he meant her to be an example of goodness? She already had that one down cold, and it wasn’t working. So he must mean be a good, effective example of badness. To show Tabitha how objectionable it was.

  Centering herself by Inner Breathing and through flexing her rump muscles in rotation against the car seat, she veered off course and headed to the high school. “Thought I’d surprise you with a ride home,” she called brightly into the clot of sullen teenagers loitering between parked cars.

  “No way,” said Tabitha, refusing to be separated from the human camouflage. “Caleb Briggs gets done at the plant at three, and he’s taking me to the Ames in Cleary Corners. The new Boss Bitch CD is out.”

  “I’ll take you. I have to get some milk for Sunday anyway.”

  “Shit,” said Tabitha. She left her bosom companions without comment. They looked into middle distances, perhaps hoping for this charade of family life to conclude lest they became virally infected. Not for the first time, Mrs. Scales wondered if anyone actually liked her daughter. They didn’t seem distressed to have her flushed out of their midst.

  Leontina Scales used her blinker and peered both ways before inching out.

  “This is so embarrassing,” said Tabitha. “Nobody’s mother has picked them up since like fourth grade. You’re like demented. This is like Auschwitz.”

  “We’re clear. You can sit up.”

  “I like it down here. I think I’ll die down here.”

  “I have to go to the Grand Union first. Then to Maxy’s Hardware. You want to come in?”

  “What the fuck for? I’d rather squat here and read the Bible.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Scales felt a pleasant shock. This was turning out better than she thought.

  “Earth to Mom. Only kidding. I’m not a, you know. Loser.”

  Mrs. Scales took her time in the Grand Union. She did Inner Breathing to steady her resolve as far as the fish aisle, but the ice smelled old. By the time she go
t back to the car, Tabitha was fake snoring, nasally sucking in the word “fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” and exhaling on “shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.”

  “Very funny. Next stop, Maxy’s.”

  “Can I get out there and walk home?”

  “I thought I was taking you to the Ames to get that new CD. The Boss Lady.”

  “Boss Bitch, Mom. Bitch.” Apparently Tabitha liked the sound of that. “Bitch, Mom. Bitch, Mom.”

  “Tabitha.”

  Her daughter muttered a profanity so cutting-edge that Leontina couldn’t place it as scatological, theological, sociological, or erotic. “That isn’t very nice.” She hoped a generic response wasn’t too lame.

  “Depends on who does it.” A snort.

  After Maxy’s, Mrs. Scales steered the car over Irish Hollow Road and came the back way into the Crosswinds Shopping Center parking lot. Tabitha opened her eyes. “Look, that’s Caleb’s motorcycle? That one? I’ll get out here and go with him? Caleb Briggs? He musta called in sick to work. I’ll go home with him. You know. Caleb Briggs.”

  “Oh no you won’t. Go in and pick up your new CD. I have to go to the ATM first. I’m all out. I’ll meet you in a little while at the cashier.”

  Mrs. Scales sat in the car with her hands clenched on the steering wheel. The minute hand twitched seven times. Then she got out. It felt as if she were going to the doctor. All dry mouth and nervous stomach. She aimed the door-lock rays at one of her new bumper stickers. “I brake for Communion.” When Leontina Scales had raised Tabitha in such decency, why was she so contrary? Why?

  At the door of the Ames she looked in. This was the busy time. She saw Mrs. Prothero from church, with Mrs. Getchen and Mrs. Howe. Old Man Getchen was nodding off on a bench in the mold-blue light of fluorescence, trying to outlive his wife. Through the glass Mrs. Scales thought she could see Tabitha way down at the back. She didn’t know if Tabitha had found her CD yet. A formation of teenagers dawdled in front of the checkout lines, apparently waiting for one of their herd to reappear. Great. An audience. This wouldn’t work without an audience.

  Mrs. Scales pushed the door open. “Afternoon, Vivian, hello there, Pauline. Mrs. Howe.” This wasn’t going to be easy. “Mind my language for a moment.” She wasn’t sure they had heard her. She took a deep Breath, Inner from all four quarters of the compass. Pastor Huyck recommended this, she reminded the Lord. “Tabitha! Tabitha Scales! Tabitha!”

  The chattering yielded at once to an all-strings version of “Beauty and the Beast.” Cashiers turned. Mrs. Prothero, Mrs. Getchen, Mrs. Howe turned. Mrs. Scales gave a wave and a bright-eyed smile that verged, she knew, on the hysterical. “Tabitha Scales,” she yelled, a gritty, carrying, outdoorsy bray, “you get the hell over here, or I’ll kick your ass so hard the shit is going to paralyze the fucking fan!” There. Four, count ’em, four Little Uglies in one sentence. Leontina had been good in English composition in her day.

  Mr. Getchen stood up. “Pauline, get a move on if you know what’s good for you.” Mrs. Getchen gaped at him as if he’d orchestrated all this.

  Picked out by perspective, Tabitha appeared at the far end of an aisle. Her hands theatrically up on either side of her head, a pantomimed shrug you could have read through a beer glass. “What’s the matter, what are you doing?” she called. “I’m coming, okay?”

  Mrs. Scales let it rip some more. “I don’t know why in tarnation I put up with a bitch like you. Did you get your stupid music?” Tarnation was a choke cribbed out of her own mother’s mouth; Mrs. Scales hoped no one noticed.

  Tabitha was all but sprinting. “Chill! Chill, will you?” She breezed past the few customers in line.

  Mrs. Scales waited until Tabitha was right in front of her. She used as ordinary a voice as she could manage. “What a shame. Didn’t they carry the CD you wanted? Dear?”

  “Forget it. I’m here. Let’s go. Are you mental? Are you, like, having sudden onset industrial menopause? Why are you doing this?”

  “For the love of Christ.” Leontina passed her friends from church, who were staring palely at her. She hesitated. The teenagers had all clustered near the bottle deposit cash window as if ready to dive through it for safety in the event that Mrs. Scales was packing heat. Empowered, Mrs. Scales raised her voice to them. “A little demonstration of contemporary slang. Would you like to hear me improvise—?”

  “Mom.”

  Some store manager had just turned the Muzak up three notches and was probably calling Jack Reeves over at the police station. “Well, next time, then,” said Mrs. Scales. She couldn’t resist adding, “Thank you for not listening.” She strode out across the mud mat. Tabitha skulked after.

  The parking lot was a relief for them although, with her pulse racing, Mrs. Scales couldn’t keep track of the order for Inner Breathing.

  “I was, like, dying of embarrassment. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Well, honey.” She made a show of gripping her car keys in a way that suggested she could use them to gouge out her own daughter’s eyes if attacked. “Now you know how I feel when you use coarse language in front of my friends. It’s not a whole lot of fun. Is it.”

  Total silence in the car on the way home, which these days was the only way to escape Tabitha’s spontaneous profanity. But it was a start.

  2

  FOR THREE DAYS Tabitha managed a civil tongue, but the ceasefire failed on Saturday night. She went out and didn’t come home till eight a.m. next morning. Welts on her arms, her clothes disheveled, a rubber Halloween mask of Richard Nixon slung onto the kitchen table like the head of John the Baptist or Holofernes. Its nose a half inch deep in margarine. “Where have you been, young lady?” asked Mrs. Scales, swallowing back her alternative opening gambit, Has some pervert deflowered my firstborn because he was turned on by the thought of a cross-dressing Tricky Dick?

  When she was ready to reply, Tabitha managed, “Bliss out, life is adventure, and after all, Halloween’s coming tonight, isn’t it? So go to Sunday service, and trick or treat already.”

  “I need to talk to you about hymen integrity.”

  “Mom, I’m not talking about anything till I zone out for a while. I’m, like, so wasted.”

  Leontina moved the margarine away from the rubber mask. “And you know Pastor Jakob forbids the children of the Cliffs of Zion Radical Radiant Pentecostal Church plastic masks and costumes. Disguises of all kinds promote dishonesty, and dishonesty is an open invitation to You Know Who. A recipe for trouble and no mistake. Though I gather you’ve been experimenting with making mistakes.”

  Tabitha, letting out a laugh that yodeled into a shriek, impounded herself in the bathroom. The water ran suspiciously noisy. “Are you weeping in there?” said Mrs. Scales, ear against the door. Her sons emerged from their separate dens, blinking and scratching like the animals they were. “Tabitha’s been out all night. I believe she’s been drinking, or something,” said their mother. “And I have to go to Meeting even if nobody else is, and I don’t want to leave her in this condition without you boys knowing.”

  “She’s drinking? At this hour? Attagirl,” said Hogan, and went back to bed.

  “I’ll fix her some coffee and find some aspirin, Mom,” said Kirk. “You go on to Meeting. Go. Go.”

  She left feeling that she was living and driving a lie, with her car sporting the other new bumper sticker that said “Grace Happens.” Happens to whom? That’s what she wanted to know. Maybe the bumper sticker was missing a line: GRACE HAPPENS TO VANISH.

  Mrs. Scales tiptoed into Meeting with a red face. In this claustrophobic town, someone at Meeting would be ready to share new gossip about the Hussy of Thebes, Tabitha Scales. How much more shame could Tabitha heap upon her family? Was she aiming for an entry in Guinness World Records?

  And—oh, but her mother could hardly tolerate thoughts at the clinical level—what yowls of pleasure or pain had Tabitha emitted at the infliction of those wounds? And that aroma of sex … soft baby asparagus cut with a weak solution of C
lorox. Despite her own clammy celibacy in that regard, currently, Mrs. Scales remembered the characteristics of intercourse all too well.

  Leontina found it hard to focus during Pastor Jakob Huyck’s homily. She fretted with a frozen smile until the announcements, when Pastor Huyck reminded them, “The Radical Radiant Pentecostals and the Roman Catholics enjoy an unholy alliance. We share the parking lot between our buildings. And I’ve promised Father Mike Sheehy you won’t mow down any Catholics today. Prove me prophetic.”

  Devotion yielded to committee sessions and study circles. Leontina Scales excused herself a few minutes early from the Inner Breathing class that Savitra Chanarinjee always called Remedial Prayer. She would set up the coffee for the break. She plugged in the twin Mister Coffees—or Misters Coffee, as Kirk would have it. (Mister Fastidious.)

  Then Leontina realized that what with her rage and worry she’d forgotten to stop and get 2 percent milk from the Stewart’s. What milk did lurk in the back of the Cliffs of Zion fridge was giving off an almighty odor. So Mrs. Scales prayed briefly for the courage to change the things she could, and she crossed the parking lot, weaving between Roman Catholic and Radical Radiant Pentecostal cars. She sneaked through the back door of the church of Our Lady Something or Other. (Our Ladies were like Barbies: new ones seemed to be issued annually.)

  She couldn’t find a light switch, but descended the stairs anyway. Overhead the folksy choir was insisting “All We Have We Give to You.” Mrs. Scales hoped that the sentiment extended to non-dairy creamer.

  Mrs. Scales was a devout woman when the mood struck, and regularly on Sunday mornings the mood struck with some aggression. However, as she felt her way down to Our Lady’s kitchenette, she found herself wincing. Wurlitzer piety it was not.

  What a week. Ruefully she remembered a few days ago, Tabitha waffling on about an Eye of God that had accidentally gotten unplugged somehow. A God that had suffered some sort of seizure and was cognizant but paralyzed. It was hard to imagine His Eye following her down these dark steps.

  The argument this morning with Tabitha has thrown everything awry, thought Leontina. I can’t even begin to locate my Inner Breathing. My mind’s too worked up with Halloween images. A menace underneath the stairs. A creature in the dark. Slobbering its syllables together: OPEN YOUR MIND TO ME. Hackneyed, of course, B-movie quality at best, but better than OPEN YOUR LEGS.