Read Online The Next Queen of Heaven-SA by Gregory Maguire - Free Book Online Page B
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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a certain age who had been trained actually to listen to sermons couldn’t fathom Father Mike’s streamy bio-faith. By the time he finished, their minds were filled with stars and grains of sand and even the tiniest sparrow and the inside and the outside of the curve of eternity. It was probably the closest many of them came to mystical thought or a good marijuana buzz.
Jeremy found Father Mike in the food pantry. He and Peggy Mueller were stacking industrial-size drums of no-name chicken stock. “We had an appointment,” said Jeremy.
Father Mike brushed back the forelock of his thinning, sandy hair, and replied, “Oh, right. I was in the office but then Peggy came by and she had these donations from Job Lot Circus. And they’re awfully heavy.”
“You need more help?”
“This is the last of them; I can finish stacking,” said Peggy Mueller. “I’ll type up directions on how to make vegetable soup and divide it for freezing. Our regular clients aren’t going to know what to do with so much chicken stock. I’d hate to see it go to waste.” She blinked at Jeremy and put a finger out desultorily. “Would you, for instance, know what to do with a gallon can of chicken stock? Jeremy?”
“Is this an essay question or multiple choice?”
“I don’t know how you get by,” said Peggy Mueller. “Artists. Musicians. The world could blow up and you’d be thinking your thoughts. You need a wife, Jeremy.” She primped a bit as if she weren’t already married. She probably knew that Jeremy was gay. This could be one of those social farces, acted out for the benefit of Father Mike. In fact Jeremy wasn’t much of a cook, though. So point taken.
Peggy Mueller was well into her forties. She had a bad back. Stacking cans of chicken stock was penance, a nod to the ancient beloved convention of martyrdom. She drew her sweater about her bony shoulders and elevated her chin and said, “Go on, Father Mike; I’ll finish up here.”
“Don’t forget to enter everything in the green book,” said Father Mike. “The federal regulations are so strict, you can’t even give food to the hungry without filing forms in triplicate.” He finished stamping on the edges of the cardboard boxes, breaking them down for the recycling bin, and nodded to Jeremy. “Come on, Sister Alice is still upstairs, I think.” Sister Alice was lambasting someone at the phone company about erroneous charges.
Jeremy, who liked Sister Alice too, felt sorry for the person on the other end of the line.
Father Mike and Jeremy crowded in the doorway ostentatiously. The main office of the rectory was a study in early 1970s office decor. A lime green shag carpet had been tramped into submission by parishioners coming to conduct the business part of being Catholic. Some suspiciously artsy seminarian who had preceded him in parish employment, Jeremy guessed, had color-coordinated the three metal filing cabinets with a shade of green that had aged differently, in splotches, so the cabinets were deteriorating into camouflage. The desk weighed about a thousand pounds and featured rubber molding as if it had been designed for a ride in an executive amusement park. Bumper desks. The top of the desk, covered with paperwork, hadn’t been seen since Father Mike’s investiture as pastor.
Father Mike tapped his watch crystal. “This is not worth the time it’s taking, good-bye,” said Sister Alice, and hung up.
“Mrs. Castaneda making calls to her sister in Chiapas again?” asked Father Mike. Mrs.
Castaneda was the cleaning lady.
“Mistake on the Motherhouse bill, I’m afraid,” said Sister Alice. “Four calls to Kuala Lumpur, an obvious mistake. No rest for the weary.”
She followed Father Mike and Jeremy into the staff room and, unusually, closed the door.
“It was quite a do last week, wasn’t it?” said Father Mike. “That statue. I still don’t know why it took it into its head to skip off the top of the refrigerator
Jeremy found Father Mike in the food pantry. He and Peggy Mueller were stacking industrial-size drums of no-name chicken stock. “We had an appointment,” said Jeremy.
Father Mike brushed back the forelock of his thinning, sandy hair, and replied, “Oh, right. I was in the office but then Peggy came by and she had these donations from Job Lot Circus. And they’re awfully heavy.”
“You need more help?”
“This is the last of them; I can finish stacking,” said Peggy Mueller. “I’ll type up directions on how to make vegetable soup and divide it for freezing. Our regular clients aren’t going to know what to do with so much chicken stock. I’d hate to see it go to waste.” She blinked at Jeremy and put a finger out desultorily. “Would you, for instance, know what to do with a gallon can of chicken stock? Jeremy?”
“Is this an essay question or multiple choice?”
“I don’t know how you get by,” said Peggy Mueller. “Artists. Musicians. The world could blow up and you’d be thinking your thoughts. You need a wife, Jeremy.” She primped a bit as if she weren’t already married. She probably knew that Jeremy was gay. This could be one of those social farces, acted out for the benefit of Father Mike. In fact Jeremy wasn’t much of a cook, though. So point taken.
Peggy Mueller was well into her forties. She had a bad back. Stacking cans of chicken stock was penance, a nod to the ancient beloved convention of martyrdom. She drew her sweater about her bony shoulders and elevated her chin and said, “Go on, Father Mike; I’ll finish up here.”
“Don’t forget to enter everything in the green book,” said Father Mike. “The federal regulations are so strict, you can’t even give food to the hungry without filing forms in triplicate.” He finished stamping on the edges of the cardboard boxes, breaking them down for the recycling bin, and nodded to Jeremy. “Come on, Sister Alice is still upstairs, I think.” Sister Alice was lambasting someone at the phone company about erroneous charges.
Jeremy, who liked Sister Alice too, felt sorry for the person on the other end of the line.
Father Mike and Jeremy crowded in the doorway ostentatiously. The main office of the rectory was a study in early 1970s office decor. A lime green shag carpet had been tramped into submission by parishioners coming to conduct the business part of being Catholic. Some suspiciously artsy seminarian who had preceded him in parish employment, Jeremy guessed, had color-coordinated the three metal filing cabinets with a shade of green that had aged differently, in splotches, so the cabinets were deteriorating into camouflage. The desk weighed about a thousand pounds and featured rubber molding as if it had been designed for a ride in an executive amusement park. Bumper desks. The top of the desk, covered with paperwork, hadn’t been seen since Father Mike’s investiture as pastor.
Father Mike tapped his watch crystal. “This is not worth the time it’s taking, good-bye,” said Sister Alice, and hung up.
“Mrs. Castaneda making calls to her sister in Chiapas again?” asked Father Mike. Mrs.
Castaneda was the cleaning lady.
“Mistake on the Motherhouse bill, I’m afraid,” said Sister Alice. “Four calls to Kuala Lumpur, an obvious mistake. No rest for the weary.”
She followed Father Mike and Jeremy into the staff room and, unusually, closed the door.
“It was quite a do last week, wasn’t it?” said Father Mike. “That statue. I still don’t know why it took it into its head to skip off the top of the refrigerator
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