Read Online The Next Queen of Heaven-SA by Gregory Maguire - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gregory Maguire
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous, Fantasy, Action & Adventure, New York (State), City and Town Life, Teenagers, Mothers and daughters, Eccentrics and eccentricities, City and Town Life - New York (State)
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and Hogan, no more than ghost images once Kirk was involved, followed bitterly.
The house looked pretty good, Tabitha had to admit. She had collected the newspapers and the laundry, the empty glasses and dirty plates. Once she had put the new cat safely in a bedroom closet with the door closed, she had made Hogan vacuum the whole place. Kirk, on his own, had piled some pumpkins and leaves and sheaves of wheat into a kind of Harvest Home assemblage, like a picture on the front of a menu. The TV was on, companionably; everyone’s eyes slid over there to check what was on—as much a way of telling the time as anything else.
Commercial break; must be about quarter past four.
Mrs. Scales detached herself from her younger son and stood in the middle of the Colonial-style braided rug. She looked about her, and turned around with her arms out. “Mom, it’s not that clean that you don’t recognize it!” said Tabitha.
“See, I told you vacuuming was a waste of time,” muttered Hogan. “You’re such a nag, Tabbers.”
“You’re home,” said Tabitha, “this is home, your home, and you’re home!” Mrs. Scales shook her head and pursed her lips. She began to tap one shoulder as if looking for a pocketbook strap, then she patted her trouser pockets for car keys.
“Sit down and put your feet up,” said Kirk. “We’ll get some supper on the table. You’re just worn out. Come, here’s your chair.” He rubbed the velour upholstery of the recliner. “You want this or the Shopping Channel?”
Mrs. Leontina Scales made a gesture like the casting of a fly fisherman. They all understood it: Turn it off with the remote. Hogan did.
The house seemed quieter with the TV off and Mom home than it had seemed with her gone. Weird, thought Tabitha. “I’m going to start supper,” she said. She had been hoping for a cry of delight from Mom. Tabitha’s not learning to cook had been another cause of friction between them. But Mom was busy scrabbling with the old Parade magazines and the outdated TV Guides on the half-barrel side table. “Suppertime,” said Tabitha, louder.
“Upper time, don’t bother.”
“She’s lost the beginning part,” said Kirk. “She’s not saying the start of the sentence.
That’s what’s so odd. Mom, what’s going on?”
She had found the worn out paperback Bible, bound in black faux leather. “Ache me home,” she said to Kirk. “Ache me home this minute, you bastard.” Tears stood thickly in Kirk’s eyes. “You are home, Mom.”
Hogan said, “Fuck this crazy shit,” and disappeared into the garage.
In the kitchen Tabitha began to smash pots around, maybe to drown out the sound of Kirk’s analysis, his girlie whimpers. “Spaghetti-O’s, frozen green beans, chow mein noodles, how does that sound?” she called. “All I gotta do is find the can opener. Do we have one?” No answer. She came to the door to shrug her question again, louder.
“Izzy,” said Mrs. Scales in a dismissive voice. She laid her hands on the book and closed her eyes.
“Dizzy?” said Kirk. “Should I get you something—”
“Izzy,” said their mother. “Izzy.”
“Busy?”
She nodded.
“Now what are you doing that you’re too busy for supper?” said Tabitha in a false high voice.
“Eating the Bible,” said Mrs. Leontina Scales. Her well-chewed fingernails began to twist at the book’s cover, as if she had forgotten which way to open a book.
8
ON THE WHOLE, Jeremy liked Father Mike Sheehy. Our Lady’s needed someone with common sense, and for that they had Sister Alice Coyne. But Father Mike was a burly sort of ordinary guy. When he wore his short-sleeved black cotton shirts in the summertime, Jeremy half expected to see the holy initials JMJ tattooed on his forearms. He wasn’t doughy, he wasn’t especially bookish. His sermons tended to be powered by scraps of science trivia popularized by Carl Sagan or Lewis Thomas.
Jeremy suspected that parishioners of
The house looked pretty good, Tabitha had to admit. She had collected the newspapers and the laundry, the empty glasses and dirty plates. Once she had put the new cat safely in a bedroom closet with the door closed, she had made Hogan vacuum the whole place. Kirk, on his own, had piled some pumpkins and leaves and sheaves of wheat into a kind of Harvest Home assemblage, like a picture on the front of a menu. The TV was on, companionably; everyone’s eyes slid over there to check what was on—as much a way of telling the time as anything else.
Commercial break; must be about quarter past four.
Mrs. Scales detached herself from her younger son and stood in the middle of the Colonial-style braided rug. She looked about her, and turned around with her arms out. “Mom, it’s not that clean that you don’t recognize it!” said Tabitha.
“See, I told you vacuuming was a waste of time,” muttered Hogan. “You’re such a nag, Tabbers.”
“You’re home,” said Tabitha, “this is home, your home, and you’re home!” Mrs. Scales shook her head and pursed her lips. She began to tap one shoulder as if looking for a pocketbook strap, then she patted her trouser pockets for car keys.
“Sit down and put your feet up,” said Kirk. “We’ll get some supper on the table. You’re just worn out. Come, here’s your chair.” He rubbed the velour upholstery of the recliner. “You want this or the Shopping Channel?”
Mrs. Leontina Scales made a gesture like the casting of a fly fisherman. They all understood it: Turn it off with the remote. Hogan did.
The house seemed quieter with the TV off and Mom home than it had seemed with her gone. Weird, thought Tabitha. “I’m going to start supper,” she said. She had been hoping for a cry of delight from Mom. Tabitha’s not learning to cook had been another cause of friction between them. But Mom was busy scrabbling with the old Parade magazines and the outdated TV Guides on the half-barrel side table. “Suppertime,” said Tabitha, louder.
“Upper time, don’t bother.”
“She’s lost the beginning part,” said Kirk. “She’s not saying the start of the sentence.
That’s what’s so odd. Mom, what’s going on?”
She had found the worn out paperback Bible, bound in black faux leather. “Ache me home,” she said to Kirk. “Ache me home this minute, you bastard.” Tears stood thickly in Kirk’s eyes. “You are home, Mom.”
Hogan said, “Fuck this crazy shit,” and disappeared into the garage.
In the kitchen Tabitha began to smash pots around, maybe to drown out the sound of Kirk’s analysis, his girlie whimpers. “Spaghetti-O’s, frozen green beans, chow mein noodles, how does that sound?” she called. “All I gotta do is find the can opener. Do we have one?” No answer. She came to the door to shrug her question again, louder.
“Izzy,” said Mrs. Scales in a dismissive voice. She laid her hands on the book and closed her eyes.
“Dizzy?” said Kirk. “Should I get you something—”
“Izzy,” said their mother. “Izzy.”
“Busy?”
She nodded.
“Now what are you doing that you’re too busy for supper?” said Tabitha in a false high voice.
“Eating the Bible,” said Mrs. Leontina Scales. Her well-chewed fingernails began to twist at the book’s cover, as if she had forgotten which way to open a book.
8
ON THE WHOLE, Jeremy liked Father Mike Sheehy. Our Lady’s needed someone with common sense, and for that they had Sister Alice Coyne. But Father Mike was a burly sort of ordinary guy. When he wore his short-sleeved black cotton shirts in the summertime, Jeremy half expected to see the holy initials JMJ tattooed on his forearms. He wasn’t doughy, he wasn’t especially bookish. His sermons tended to be powered by scraps of science trivia popularized by Carl Sagan or Lewis Thomas.
Jeremy suspected that parishioners of
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