“Both of you, please,” Mary said.
“We’re going,” Joseph said. “Get some rest.”
“Flanoy,” she called softly when they had gone, “Flanoy—”
Who no longer brought his violin, she noticed, who came now whenever she felt need of him, who seemed to feel her need even before she did, who anticipated it and suddenly appeared and climbed into her lap and asked about them, questions about Jesus, about Joseph, herself, things not in the Bible, how she’d felt when she found out who her son was, if they’d taken vacations together as his family had, if it was always religious, if she’d heard from Jesus when he was in the wilderness all that time, whether she’d believed she’d see him again after they killed him, and trading his history for hers, filling her in on the world, if only his limited experience of it, but knowing more real history from his brief decade on earth than she knew for all her millennia in the sky, and what could she know, Flanoy asked—did history say its prayers?—did she know the slaves had been freed, or the names of state capitals, did she know there was television now, movies—he told her movies he’d seen, breaking her heart as he recounted sad stories about children, their animals, faithful dogs and noble horses, how the children had to put them away themselves when they were injured, the lessons they’d learned, and making her laugh when he told her the comedies—saying, though she knew all about this, how loved she was, how honored, winning her over, as she did him, with confidences, telling his secrets, climbing on her lap as he grew tired, his soft, comfortable body almost meant to be there—and now maybe Jesus had a right to be jealous—and all manner of things spoken of which she had never spoken of, and one day bringing his violin. “I’ve been practicing,” he said shyly, and played to perfection grand compositions she had never heard, even in Heaven.
“Why, you’re so good,” she said, surprised.
“Yes,” he said. “I don’t know where it comes from. I think I’m inspired,” and played a melody that left them both in tears, the child so wracked by the beauty that he could not finish.
“Come,” she said, “sit in my lap.”
And Flanoy climbed up and Mary held him, the lovely melody still echoing somewhere in memory, the both of them still listening. “Ah,” she said. “Ah,” sighed Flanoy. And afterwards, in the stillness—as if they both heard together not only the melody but when it had stopped—Flanoy asked his question.
“Was it like that?”
“What?”
“When God—You know.”
“When God?”
He toyed with the collar of her gown, his gentle fingers lightly tracing the line of her throat, and it was as if she blossomed itch just as he assuaged it, need just as he answered it.
“When God put Jesus in you.”
“When God—?”
“Do you know how He did it? Did you know it was Him? I mean you were a virgin, did you never suspect?”
“You,” she screamed. She flung him from her lap.
“But what did I do?”
“You’re at me again. Wasn’t one time enough?”
“What did I do?” Flanoy asked, crying. “I didn’t do anything. What did I do?” he sobbed, and ran from the room.
“I’m carrying His child!” shrieked the Virgin Mary.
God gave a gala, a levee at the Lord’s.
All Heaven turned out. “Gimme,” He said, “that old time religion.” His audience beamed. They cheered, they ate it up. They nudged each other in Paradise. “What did I tell you?” He demanded over their enthusiasm. “It’s terrific, isn’t it? I told you it would be terrific. All you ever had to do was play nice. Are you disappointed? Is this Heaven? Is this God’s country? In your wildest dreams—let Me hear it. Good—in your wildest dreams, did you dream such a Treasury, this museum Paradise? Did you dream My thrones and dominions, My angels in fly-over? My seraphim disporting like dolphins, tumbling God’s sky in high Heaven’s high acrobacy? Did you imagine the miracles casual as card tricks, or ever suspect free lunch could taste so good? They should see you now, eh? They should see you now, trembling in rapture like neurological rut. Delicious, correct? Piety a la mode! That’s it, that’s right. Sing hallelujah! Sing Hizzoner’s hosannas, Jehovah’s gee whiz! Well,” God said, “that’s enough, that will do.” He looked toward the Holy Family, studying them for a moment. “Not like the crèche, eh?” He said. “Well is it? Is it?” He demanded of Jesus.
“No,” Christ said softly.
“No,” God said, “not like the crèche. Just look at this place—the dancing waters and indirect lighting. I could put gambling in here, off-track betting. Oh, oh, My costume jewelry ways, My game show vision. Well, it’s the public. You’ve got to give it what it wants. Yes, Jesus?”
“Yes,” Jesus said.
“It just doesn’t look lived in, is that what you think?”
“Call on someone else,” Christ said.
“Sure,” God said. “I’m Hero of Heaven. I call on Myself.”
That was when He began His explanations. He revealed the secrets of books, of pictures and music, telling them all manner of things—why marches were more selfish than anthems, lieder less stirring than scat, why landscapes were to be preferred over portraits, how statues of women were superior to statues of men but less impressive than engravings on postage. He explained why dentistry was a purer science than astronomy, biography a higher form than dance. He told them how to choose wines and why solos were more acceptable to Him than duets. He told them the secret causes of inflation—“It’s the markup,” He said—and which was the best color and how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. He explained why English was the first language at Miss Universe pageants and recited highlights from the eighteen-minute gap.
Mary, wondering if she showed yet, was glad Joseph was seated next to her. Determined to look proud, she deliberately took her husband’s hand. So rough, she thought, such stubby fingers.
He explained why children suffered and showed them how to do the latest disco steps. He showed them how to square the circle, cautioning afterwards that it would be wrong.
He revealed the name of Kennedy’s assassin and told how to shop for used cars.
Why He’s talking to me, Quiz thought. These other folks couldn’t ever have had any use for this stuff. He’s talking to me. Quiz was right, but He had something for everyone. He was unloading, giving off wisdom like radioactivity, plumbing the mysteries, and now His voice was reasonable, not the voice of a grandfather but of a king, a chief, someone unelectable, there always, whose very robes and signals of office were not expensive or even rare so much as His, as if He wore electricity or mountain range or clothed Himself in waterfall. He explained—”I am the Manitou, too”—how the rain dance worked. They were charmed. He described how He had divided the light from the darkness on the morning of the first day. They were impressed. He demonstrated how He had done Hell. They were awed.
“You have wondered,” He said, “why things are as they are. You have wondered, you have speculated. You have questioned My motives.” Groans of denial went up from the saints. He ignored them. “ ‘Why,’ the philosophers ask, ‘so piecemeal? Why His fits and starts theology, His stop and go arrangements? Can’t He make up His mind? Why the carrot, why the stick? Why the evenings and mornings of those consecutive days? Why only after first fashioning them could He see that they were good? Why, having landscaped an Eden, having leached and prepared the precious pious soils, having His fell swoop harvests and sweet successful bumper crops, did He need the farmer and plant the man, set him upright, a scarecrow essence in the holy field? Why first an Adam then an Eve, or Eve at all, or if an Eve why torn from that depleted man who, image of his maker once removed removes again to blur the reciprocities in that deserving girl? Why a serpent, why a tree? Why fine print at all so near the start of things? Why codicils and conditions, all that lawyerly qualm? Why strings? Why that Miranda decision hocus mumbo jumbo pocus, reading rights to a man and a woman who not only do not know that they are already in trouble but do not even know what trouble is? And ain’t exile cruel and unusual punishment when there’s no place to go?