I gave in—partly because it was easier, partly because I wanted to ask the angel a question. I got up and went to the front of the bus.
“You wanted me?”
“Yes. You know the rules. Angels in front, creatures in back, saints in the middle. If you sit in back with creatures, you are teaching them bad habits. How can you expect to maintain your saintly privileges if you ignore protocol? Don’t let it happen again.”
I thought of several retorts, all unheavenly. Instead I said, “May I ask a question?”
“Ask.”
“How much longer until this bus reaches the River from the Throne?”
“Why do you ask? You have all eternity before you.”
“Does that mean that you don’t know? Or that you won’t tell?”
“Go sit down in your proper section. At once!”
I went back and tried to find a seat in the after space. But my fellow creatures had closed in and left me no room. No one said anything and they would not meet my eye, but it was evident that no one would aid me in defying the authority of an angel. I sighed and sat down in the mid-section, in lonely splendor, as I was the only saint aboard. If I was a saint.
I don’t know how long it took to reach the Throne. In Heaven the light doesn’t vary and the weather does not change and I had no watch. It was simply a boringly long time. Boring? Yes. A gorgeous palace constructed of precious stones is a wonderful sight to see. A dozen palaces constructed of jewels can be a dozen wonderful sights, each different from the other. But a hundred miles of such palaces will put you to sleep, and six hundred miles of the same is deadly dull. I began to long for a used-car lot, or a dump, or (best yet) a stretch of green and open countryside.
New Jerusalem is a city of perfect beauty; I am witness to that. But that long ride taught me the uses of ugliness.
I never have found out who designed the Holy City. That God authorized the design and construction is axiomatic. But the Bible does not name the architect(s), or the builder(s). Freemasons speak of “the Great Architect,” meaning Jehovah—but you won’t find that in the Bible. Just once I asked an angel, “Who designed this city?” He didn’t sneer at my ignorance, he didn’t scold me—he appeared to be unable to conceive it as a question. But it remains a question to me: Did God create (design and build) the Holy City Himself, right down to the smallest jewel? Or did He farm it out to subordinates?
Whoever designed it, the Holy City has a major shortcoming, in my opinion—and never mind telling me that my presumption in passing judgment on God’s design is blasphemous. It is a lack, a serious one.
It lacks a public library.
One reference librarian who had devoted her life to answering any and all questions, trivial and weighty, would be more use in Heaven than another cohort of arrogant angels. There must be plenty of such ladies in Heaven, as it takes a saintly disposition and the patience of Job to be a reference librarian and to stick with it for forty years. But to carry on their vocation they would need books and files and so forth, the tools of their profession. Given a chance, I’m sure they would set up the files and catalog the books—but where would they get the books? Heaven does not seem to have a book-publishing industry.
Heaven doesn’t have industry. Heaven doesn’t have an economy. When Jehovah decreed, after the expulsion from Eden, that we descendants of Adam must gain our bread by the sweat of our faces, He created economics and it has been operating ever since for ca. 6000 years.
But not in Heaven.
In Heaven He giveth us our daily bread without the sweat of our faces. In truth you don’t need daily bread; you can’t starve, you won’t even get hungry enough to matter—just hungry enough to enjoy eating if you want to amuse yourself by stopping in any of the many restaurants, refectories, and lunchrooms. The best hamburger I ever ate in my life was in a small lunchroom off the Square of the Throne on the banks of the River. But again, I’m ahead of my story.
Another lack, not as serious for my taste but serious, is gardens. No gardens, I mean, except the grove of the Tree of Life by the River near the Throne, and a few, a very few, private gardens here and there. I think I know why this is so and, if I am right, it may be self-correcting. Until we reached Heaven (the people of the Rapture and the resurrected dead-in-Christ) almost all citizens of the Holy City were angels. The million or so exceptions were martyrs for the faith, children of Israel so holy that they made it without ever having personally experienced Christ (i.e., mostly before 30 A.D.), and another group from unenlightened lands—souls virtuous without ever knowing of Christ. So 99 percent of the citizens of the Holy City were angels.
Angels don’t seem to be interested in horticulture. I suppose that figures—I can’t imagine an angel down on his/her knees, mulching the soil around a plant. They just aren’t the dirty-fingernails sort needed to grow prize roses.
Now that angels are outnumbered by humans by at least ten to one I expect that we will see gardens—gardens, garden clubs, lectures on how to prepare the soil, and so forth. All the endless ritual of the devoted gardener. Now they will have time for it.
Most humans in Heaven do what they want to do without the pressure of need. That nice lady (Suzanne) who wanted my blessing was a lacemaker in Flanders; now she teaches it in a school open to anyone who is interested. I have gathered a strong impression that, for most humans, the real problem of an eternity of bliss is how to pass the time. (Query: Could there be something to this reincarnation idea so prevalent in other religions but so firmly rejected by Christianity? Could a saved soul be rewarded, eventually, by being shoved back into the conflict? If not on earth, then elsewhere? I’ve got to lay hands on a Bible and do some searching. To my utter amazement, here in Heaven Bibles seem to be awfully hard to come by.)
The information booth was right where it was supposed to be, close to the bank of the River of the Water of Life that flows from the Throne of God and winds through the grove of the Tree of Life. The Throne soars up from the middle of the grove but you can’t see it very well that close to its base. It’s like looking up at the tallest of New York skyscrapers while standing on the sidewalk by it. Only more so. And of course you can’t see the Face of God; you are looking straight up one thousand four hundred and forty cubits. What you see is the Radiance…and you can feel the Presence.
The information booth was as crowded as that cherub had led me to expect. The inquirers weren’t queued up; they were massed a hundred deep around it. I looked at that swarm and wondered how long it would take me to work my way up to the counter. Was it possible to work my way there other than by the nastiest of bargain-day tactics, stepping on corns, jabbing with elbows, all the things that make department stores so uninviting to males?
I stood back and looked at that mob and tried to figure out how to cope. Or was there some other way to locate Margrethe without stepping on corns?
I was still standing there when a STAFF cherub came up to me. “Holy one, are you trying to reach the information booth?”
“I surely am!”
“Come with me. Stay close behind me.” He was carrying a long staff of the sort used by riot police, “Gangway! Make way for a saint! Step lively there!” In nothing flat I reached the counter of the booth. I don’t think anyone was injured but there must have been some hurt feelings. I don’t approve of that sort of action; I think that treatment should be even-handed for everyone. But, where R.H.I.P. is the rule, being even a corporal is vastly better than being a private.
I turned to thank the cherub; he was gone. A voice said, “Holy one, what do you want?” An angel back of the counter was looking down at me.
I explained that I wanted to locate my wife. He drummed on the counter. “That’s not ordinarily a service we supply. There is a co-op run by creatures called ‘Find Your Friends and Loved Ones’ for that sort of thing.”
“Where is it?”
“Near Asher Gate.”
“What? I just came from there. That’s where I registered in.”
“You should have asked the angel who checked you in. You registered recently?”
“Quite recently; I was caught up in the Rapture. I did ask the angel who registered me…and got a fast brushoff. He, she, uh, that angel told me to come here.”
“Mrf. Lemme see your papers.”
I passed them over. The angel studied them, slowly and carefully, then called to another angel, who had stopped servicing the mob to watch. “Tirl! Look at this.”
So the second angel looked over my papers, nodded sagely, handed them back—glanced at me, shook his head sadly. “Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No. Holy one, you had the misfortune to be serviced, if that is the word, by an angel who wouldn’t help his closest friend, if he had one, which he doesn’t. But I’m a bit surprised that she was so abrupt with a saint.”
“I wasn’t wearing this halo at the time.”
“That accounts for it. You drew it later?”
“I did not draw it. I acquired it miraculously, on the way from Asher Gate to here.”
“I see. Holy one, it’s your privilege to put Khromitycinel on the report. On the other hand I could use the farspeaker to place your inquiry for you.”
“I think that would be better.”
“So do I. In the long run. For you. If I make my meaning clear.”
“You do.”
“But before I call that co-op let’s check with Saint Peter’s office and make sure your wife has arrived. When did she die?”
“She didn’t die. She was caught up in the Rapture, too.”
“So? That means a quick and easy check, no searching of old rolls. Full name, age, sex if any, place and date of—no, we don’t need that. Full name first.”
“Margrethe Svensdatter Gunderson.”
“Better spell that.”
I did so.
“That’s enough for now. If Peter’s clerks can spell. You can’t wait here; we don’t have a waiting room. There is a little restaurant right opposite us—see the sign?”
I turned and looked. “‘The Holy Cow’?”
“That’s it. Good cooking, if you eat. Wait there; I’ll send word to you.”
“Thank you!”
“You are welcome—” She glanced again at my papers, then handed them back. “—Saint Alexander Hergensheimer.”
The Holy Cow was the most homey sight I had seen since the Rapture: a small, neat lunchroom that would have looked at home in Saint Louis or Denver. I went inside. A tall blackamoor whose chef’s hat stuck up through his halo was at the grill with his back to me. I sat down at the counter, cleared my throat.
“Just hold your horses.” He finished what he was doing, turned around. “What can I—Well, well! Holy man, what can I fix for you? Name it, just name it!”
“Luke! It’s good to see you!”
He stared at me. “We have met?”
“Don’t you remember me? I used to work for you. Ron’s Grill, Nogales. Alec. Your dishwasher.”
He stared again, gave a deep sigh. “You sure fooled me… Saint Alec.”
“Just ‘Alec’ to my friends. It’s some sort of administrative mistake, Luke. When they catch it, I’ll trade this Sunday job for an ordinary halo.”
“Beg to doubt—Saint Alec. They don’t make mistakes in Heaven. Hey! Albert! Take the counter. My friend Saint Alec and I are going to sit in the dining room. Albert’s my sous-chef.”
I shook hands with a fat little man who was almost a parody of what a French chef should look like. He was wearing a Cordon Bleu hat as well as his halo. Luke and I went through a side door into a small dining room, sat down at a table. We were joined by a waitress and I got another shock.
Luke said, “Hazel, I want you to meet an old friend of mine, Saint Alec—he and I used to be business associates. Hazel is hostess of The Holy Cow.”
“I was Luke’s dishwasher,” I told her. “Hazel, it’s wonderful to see you!” I stood up, started to shake hands, then changed my mind for the better, put my arms around her.
She smiled up at me, did not seem surprised. “Welcome, Alec! ‘Saint Alec’ now, I see. I’m not surprised.”
“I am. It’s a mistake.”
“Mistakes don’t happen in Heaven. Where is Margie? Still alive on earth?”
“No.” I explained how we had been separated. “So I’m waiting here for word.”
“You’ll find her.” She kissed me, quickly and warmly—which reminded me of my four-day beard. I seated her, sat down with my friends. “You are sure to find her quickly, because that is a promise we were made and is precisely carried out. Reunion in Heaven with friends and loved ones. ‘We shall gather by the River—’ and sure enough, there it is, right outside the door. Steve—Saint Alec, you do remember Steve? He was with you and Margie when we met.”
“How could I forget him? He bought us dinner and gave us a gold eagle when we were stony. Do I remember Steve!”
“I’m happy to hear you say that…because Steve credits you with converting him—born-again conversion—and getting him into Heaven. You see, Steve was killed on the Plain of Meggido, and I was killed in the War, too, uh, that was about five years after we met you—”
“Five years?”
“Yes. I was killed fairly early in the War; Steve lasted clear to Armageddon—”
“Hazel…it hasn’t been much over a month since Steve bought us that dinner at Rimrock.”
“That’s logical. You were caught up in the Rapture and that touched off the War. So you spent the War years up in the air, and that makes it work out that Steve and I are here first even though you left first. You can discuss it with Steve; he’ll be in soon. By the way, I’m his concubine now—his wife, except that here there is no marrying or giving in marriage. Anyhow Steve went back into the Corps when war broke out and got up to captain before they killed him. His outfit landed at Haifa and Steve died battling for the Lord at the height of Armageddon. I’m real proud of him.”
“You should be. Luke, did the War get you, too?”
Luke gave a big grin. “No, sir, Saint Alec. They hanged me.”
“You’re joking!”
“No joke. They hanged me fair and square. You remember when you quit me?”
“I didn’t quit you. A miracle intervened. That’s how I met Hazel. And Steve.”
“Well…you know more about miracles than I do. Anyway, we had to get another dishwasher right fast, and we had to take a Chicano. Man, he was a real bad ass, that one. Pulled a knife on me. That was his mistake. Pull a knife on a cook in his own kitchen? He cut me up some, I cut him up proper. Jury mostly his cousins, I think. Anyhow the D.A. said it was time for an example. But it was all right. I had been baptized long before that; the prison chaplain helped me be born again. I spoke a sermon standing on that trap with the noose around my neck. Then I said, ‘You can do it now! Send me to Jesus! Hallelujah!’ And they did. Happiest day of my life!”
Albert stuck his head in. “Saint Alec, there’s an angel here looking for you.”
“Coming!”
The angel was waiting just outside for the reason that he was taller than the doorway and not inclined to stoop. “You are Saint Alexander Hergensheimer?”
“That’s me.”
“Your inquiry concerning a creature designated Margrethe Svensdatter Gunderson: The report reads: Subject was not caught up in the Rapture, and has not shown up in any subsequent draft. This creature, Margrethe Svensdatter Gunderson, is not in Heaven and is not expected. That is all.”
XXIII
I cry unto Thee, and Thou dost not hear me:
I stand up, and Thou regardest me not.
Job 30:20
So of course I eventually wound up in Saint Peter’s office at the Gate of Judah—having chased all over Heaven first. On Hazel’s advice I went back to the Gate of Asher and looked up that co-op “Find Your Friends and Loved Ones.”
“Saint Alec, angels don’t pass out misinformation and the records they consult are
accurate. But they may not have consulted the right records, and, in my opinion, they would not have searched as deeply as you would search if you were doing it yourself—angels being angels. Margie might be listed under her maiden name.”
“That was what I gave them!”
“Oh. I thought you asked them to search for ‘Margie Graham’?”
“No. Should I go back and ask them to?”
“No. Not yet. And when you do—if you must—don’t ask again at this information booth. Go directly to St. Peter’s office. There you’ll get personal attention from other humans, not from angels.”
“That’s for me!”
“Yes. But try first at ‘Find Your Friends and Loved Ones.’ That’s not a bureaucracy; it’s a co-op made up of volunteers, all of them people who really care. That’s how Steve found me after he was killed. He didn’t know my family name and I hadn’t used it for years, anyhow. He didn’t know my date and place of death. But a little old lady at ‘Find Your Friends’ kept right on searching females named Hazel until Steve said ‘Bingo!’ If he had just checked at the main personnel office—Saint Peter’s—they would have reported ‘insufficient data, no identification.’”
She smiled and went on, “But the co-op uses imagination. They brought Luke and me together, even though we hadn’t even met before we died. After I got tired of loafing I decided that I wanted to manage a little restaurant—it’s a wonderful way to meet people and make friends. So I asked the co-op and they set their computers on ‘cook,’ and after a lot of false starts and wrong numbers it got Luke and me together and we formed a partnership and set up the Holy Cow. A similar search got us Albert.”
Hazel, like Katie Farnsworth, is the sort of woman who heals just by her presence. But she’s practical about it, too, like my own treasure. She volunteered to launder my dirty clothes and lent me a robe of Steve’s to wear while my clothes dried. She found me a mirror and a cake of soap; at long last I tackled a five-day (seven-year?) beard. My one razor blade was closer to being a saw than a knife by then, but a half hour’s patient honing using the inside of a glass tumbler (a trick I had learned in seminary) restored it to temporary usefulness.