The Heaven Trilogy (15 page)

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?”

“Yes.” Kent heard Spencer pad up behind him, and he wanted to turn to the boy and beg his forgiveness. Linda was staring at him with bright gray eyes, and he diverted his gaze past her to the street.
Spencer, my dear son, I love you so much. I could never hurt a hair on your head. Never. Never, never!

He should turn now and hold the boy. Spencer was all he had left. Kent swallowed and stepped past her. “Take care of him,” he instructed without shaking her hand. “He knows the rules.”

Every bone in Kent’s body ached to spin and run back to Spencer. Yet he trudged forward to the Lexus waiting in the driveway. He saw his son from the corner of his eye when he slammed the door shut. The boy stood in the doorway with limp arms.

Kent roared down the street, thinking he had just stooped as low as he had ever stooped. Might as well have licked some concrete while he was down there. Why the subject of God sent him into such a tailspin he could hardly fathom. Death usually seemed to bring people to their knees, begging the man upstairs for some understanding. But Gloria’s death seemed to have planted a root of bitterness in his heart. Maybe because she had died so violently despite her faith. And his mother-in-law Helen’s prayers had ended where all prayers end: in her own gray matter.

He arrived at the red-brick bank filled with foreboding from its first sighting, ten blocks earlier. He would call Dennis again today—find out how quickly they could get a suit filed. Maybe then he could leave.

Kent made his way to the alley behind the bank. There was no way he would step through those fancy swinging doors up front and risk running into fat-boy Bentley. The rear entrance would do just fine for the balance of his tenure, thank you. He stepped down the dingy alley.

White fingers of steam rose from a sewer grate halfway down the narrow passage. Garbage lay strewn beside the dumpster, as if the whole cage had been tipped and then righted again. Some homeless vagrant too eager for his own good. Kent pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and found the silver one he’d been issued for the door a year earlier after complaining he needed longer access. Since then he’d come and gone as he pleased, often working late into the night. The memory sat in his mind now, mocking.

How many hours had he given to the bank? Thousands at least. Tens of thousands, all for Borst and Fat-Boy. If Spencer’s God was somehow actually involved in the world, it was as a tormentor. Let’s see which of them we can get to scream the loudest today. Kent pushed the key into the slot.

A whisper rasped on the wind behind him. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, you sicko.” Kent whirled.

Nothing!

His heart pumped hard. The dumpster sat still; the alley gaped on either side, empty to the streets, white strands of steam lifted lazily from the grate. But he had heard it, clear as day.
You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, you sicko!

The stress was getting to him. Kent turned to the gray-steel fire door and reinserted the key with an unsteady hand.

To his left, a movement caught his eyes, and he jerked his head that way. A man wearing a torn red Hawaiian shirt and filthy slacks that had possibly once been blue leaned against the dumpster, staring at him. The sight frightened Kent badly, and his hand froze on the key. Not three seconds ago, he would have sworn the alley was empty.

“Life sucks,” the man said, and then lifted a brown bag to his lips and took a slug from a hidden bottle. He did not remove his eyes from Kent’s. Scattered patches of scraggly hair hung off his neck. His lumpy nose shined red and big.

“Life really
sssssucksss!”
He grinned now, and his teeth were jagged yellow. He cackled and lifted the brown bag.

Kent watched the vagrant take another slug. He yanked on the door and stepped in quickly. Something was haunting him; his mind was bending. G
et a grip, Kent. You’re losing your grip.

The door swooshed shut, and suddenly the hall was pitch dark. He groped the wall, found the switch, and flipped it up. The long fluorescent tubes stuttered to white, illuminating the empty hall. Long and empty like the prospects facing his life now. Bleak, white, long, empty.

Life sucks.

Kent forced himself to the end and out to the main corridor. Somehow he had embarked on a roller coaster, swooping up and down and around sharp curves at breakneck speed, intent on throwing him to his death. Some thrill ride from hell, and he wasn’t being allowed to disembark. Each hour was rolling into the next, each day full of new twists and turns. They say that when it rains, it pours. Yes, well, it was pouring all right. Fire and brimstone.

Betty was gone when he stepped into the Information Systems suites, probably to the john to apply yet another layer of mascara to her foot-long fake lashes. She’d always fancied herself to be half her age with twice the life. Kent slipped into his office and closed the door quietly.
Here we go then.
He sat and tried to still the buzzing in his head.

For a full minute Kent stared at the exotic fish making their predictable sweeps across the three monitors. It was not until then that it occurred to him that he still gripped his briefcase. He dropped it on the floor and picked up the phone.