Gregory Maguire - The Next Queen of Heaven

The Next Queen
of Heaven

GREGORY MAGUIRE

For those who keep singing
and
for those who keep silent.

T O T ABITHAS REMARK that the towns first speed-trap camera was totally unfair and kind of kinky, Mrs. Scales replied, after a prayerful silence, Why dont you think of it as the Eye of God?

God doesnt do three strikes youre out, last I heard, said Tabitha. Or give tickets. Big Brothers more like it. I bet Jack Reeves sits in his mayors spy room somewhere taking notes and feeling himself.

I doubt it, said her mother. But Big Brother, thats good. Youre doing some reading.

Dont count on it. Its 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 isnt hooked up yet. It doesnt see anything. So it cant do anything.

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

Praise you Jesus, thought her mother, shes 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 Thebeswhat passed for downtownand 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 duskdaylight savings time taking its bite againshe glimpsed the first iteration of Americas 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 Christs 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, wasnt 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 Tabithas 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 shed never quite abandoned, or was she just unclear on the execution of the American handshake?

Let the fuck go a me. Arent you supposed to be like on some burning pile of furniture or something?

Im 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 wouldnt hurt you, Tabitha, to try to be nicer to people.

It wouldnt hurt me if she fell down dead in that paisley bed-sheet.

The next day Tabithas 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?

Ill do the praying. You be the good example. Dont forget your Inner Breathing. Also your pocketbook, its 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 wasnt 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 Id 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 hes taking me to the Ames in Cleary Corners. The new Boss Bitch CD is out.

Ill 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 didnt 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. Nobodys mother has picked them up since like fourth grade. Youre like demented. This is like Auschwitz.

Were clear. You can sit up.

I like it down here. I think Ill die down here.

I have to go to the Grand Union first. Then to Maxys Hardware. You want to come in?

What the fuck for? Id 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. Im 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 got back to the car, Tabitha was fake snoring, nasally sucking in the word fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck and exhaling on shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

Very funny. Next stop, Maxys.

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 couldnt place it as scatological, theological, sociological, or erotic. That isnt very nice. She hoped a generic response wasnt too lame.

Depends on who does it. A snort.

After Maxys, 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, thats Calebs motorcycle? That one? Ill get out here and go with him? Caleb Briggs? He musta called in sick to work. Ill go home with him. You know. Caleb Briggs.