Job: A Comedy of Justice (38 page)

“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.

But now I needed a proper shave even though I had shaved—tried to shave—a couple of hours ago. I did not know how long I had been on this hunt but I did know that I had shaved four times…with cold water, twice without soap, and once by Braille—no mirror. Plumbing had indeed been installed for us fleshly types…but not up to
American Standard
quality. Hardly surprising, since angels don’t use plumbing and don’t need it, and since the overwhelming majority of the fleshly ones have little or no experience with inside plumbing.

The people who man the co-op were as helpful as Hazel said they would be (and I don’t think my fancy halo had anything to do with it) but nothing they turned up gave me any clue to Margrethe, even though they patiently ran computer searches on every combination I could think of.

I thanked them and blessed them and headed for Judah Gate, all the way across Heaven, thirteen hundred and twenty miles away. I stopped only once, at the Square of the Throne, for one of Luke’s heavenburgers and a cup of the best coffee in New Jerusalem, and some encouraging words from Hazel. I continued my weary search feeling much bucked up.

The Heavenly Bureau of Personnel occupies two colossal palaces on the right as you come through the gate. The first and smaller is for B.C. admissions; the second is for admissions since then, and includes Peter’s office suite, on the second floor. I went straight there.

A big double door read SAINT PETER—Walk In, so I did. But not into his office; here was a waiting room big enough for Grand Central Station. I pushed through a turnstile that operated by pulling a ticket out of a slot, and a mechanical voice said, “Thank you. Please sit down and wait to be called.”

My ticket read “2013” and the place was crowded; I decided, as I looked around for an empty seat, that I was going to need another shave before my number would come up.

I was still looking when a nun bustled up to me, and ducked a knee in a quick curtsy. “Holy one, may I serve you?” I did not know enough about the costumes worn by Roman Catholic orders to know what sisterhood she belonged to, but she was dressed in what I would call “typical”—long black dress down to her ankles and to her wrists, white starched deal over her chest and around her neck and covering her ears, a black headdress covering everything else and giving her the silhouette of a sphinx, a
big
rosary hanging around her neck…and an ageless, serene face topped off by a lopsided pince-nez. And, of course, her halo.

The thing that impressed me most was that she was here. She was the first proof I had seen that papists can be saved. In seminary we used to argue about that in late-night bull sessions…although the official position of my church was that certainly they could be saved, as long as they believed as we did and were born again in Jesus. I made a mental note to ask her when and how she had been born again—it would be, I was sure, an inspiring story.

I said, “Why, thank you, Sister! That’s most kind of you. Yes, you can help me—that is, I hope you can. I’m Alexander Hergensheimer and I’m trying to find my wife. This is the place to inquire, is it not? I’m new here.”

“Yes, Saint Alexander, this is the place. But you did want to see Saint Peter, did you not?”

“I’d like to pay my respects. If he’s not too busy.”

“I’m sure he will want to see you, Holy Father. Let me tell my Sister Superior.” She picked up the cross on her rosary, appeared to whisper into it, then looked up. “Is that spelled H,E,R,G,E,N,S,H,E,I,M,E,R, Saint Alexander?”

“Correct, Sister.”

She spoke again to the rosary. Then she added, to me, “Sister Marie Charles is secretary to Saint Peter. I’m her assistant and general gopher.” She smiled. “Sister Mary Rose.”

“It is good to meet you, Sister Mary Rose. Tell me about yourself. What order are you?”

“I’m a Dominican, Holy Father. In life I was a hospital administrator in Frankfurt, Germany. Here, where there is no longer a need for nursing, I do this work because I like to mingle with people. Will you come with me, sir?”

The crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea, whether in deference to the nun or to my gaudy halo, I cannot say. Maybe both. She took me to an unmarked side door and straight in, and I found myself in the office of her boss, Sister Marie Charles. She was a tall nun, as tall as I am, and handsome—or “beautiful” may be more accurate. She seemed younger than her assistant…but. how is one to tell with nuns? She was seated at a big flattop desk piled high and with an old-style Underwood typewriter swung out from its side. She got up quickly, faced me, and dropped that odd curtsy.

“Welcome, Saint Alexander! We are honored by your call. Saint Peter will be with you soon. Will you be seated? May we offer you refreshment? A glass of wine? A Coca-Cola?”

“Say, I would really enjoy a Coca-Cola! I haven’t had one since I was on earth.”

“A Coca-Cola, right away.” She smiled. “I’ll tell you a secret. Coca-Cola is Saint Peter’s one vice. So we always have them on ice here.”

A voice came out of the air above her desk—a strong, resonant baritone of the sort I think of as a good preaching voice, a voice like that of “Bible” Barnaby, may his name be blessed. “I heard that, Charlie. Let him have his Coke in here; I’m free now.”

“Were you eavesdropping again, Boss?”

“None of your lip, girl. And fetch one for me, too.”

Saint Peter was up and striding toward the door with his hand out as I was ushered in. I was taught in church history that he was believed to have been about ninety when he died. Or when he was executed (crucified?) by the Romans, if he was. (Preaching has always been a chancy vocation, but in the days of Peter’s ministry it was as chancy as that of a Marine platoon sergeant.)

This man looked to be a strong and hearty sixty, or possibly seventy—an outdoor man, with a permanent sun tan and the scars that come from sun damage. His hair and beard were full and seemed never to have been cut, streaked with gray but not white, and (to my surprise) he appeared to have been at one time a redhead. He was well muscled and broad shouldered, and his hands were calloused, as I learned when he gripped my hand. He was dressed in sandals, a brown robe of coarse wool, a halo like mine, and a dinky little skullcap resting in the middle of that fine head of hair.

I liked him on sight.

He led me around to a comfortable chair near his desk chair, seated me before he sat back down. Sister Marie Charles was right behind us with two Cokes on a tray, in the familiar pinchwaist bottles and with not-so-familiar (I had not seen them for years) Coke glasses with the tulip tops and the registered trademark. I wondered who had the franchise in Heaven and how such business matters were handled.

He said, “Thanks, Charlie. Hold all calls.”

“Even?”

“Don’t be silly. Beat it.” He turned to me. “Alexander, I try to greet each newly arrived saint personally. But somehow I missed you.”

“I arrived in the middle of a mob, Saint Peter. Those from the Rapture. And not at this gate. Asher Gate.”

“That accounts for it. A busy day, that one, and we still aren’t straightened out. But a saint should be escorted to the main gate…by twenty-four angels and two trumpets. I’ll have to look into this.”

“To be frank, Saint Peter,” I blurted out, “I don’t think I
am
a saint. But I can’t get this fancy halo off.”

He shook his head. “You are one, all right. And don’t let your misgivings gnaw at you; no saint
ever
knows that he is one, he has to be told. It is a holy paradox that anyone who thinks he is a saint never is. Why, when I arrived here and they handed me the keys and told me I was in charge, I didn’t believe it. I thought the Master was playing a joke on me in return for a couple of japes I pulled on Him back in the days when we were barnstorming around the Sea of Galilee. Oh, no! He meant it. Rabbi Simon bar Jona the old fisherman was gone and I’ve been Saint Peter ever since. As you are Saint Alexander, like it or not. And you will like it, in time.”

He tapped on a fat file folder lying on his desk. “I’ve been reading your record. There is no doubt about your sanctity. Once I reviewed your record I recalled your trial. Devil’s Advocate against you was Thomas Aquinas; he came up to me afterwards and told me that his attack was
pro forma,
as there had never been any doubt in his mind but what you qualified. Tell me, that first miracle, ordeal by fire—did your faith ever waver?”

“I guess it did. I got a blister out of it.”

Saint Peter snorted. “One lonely blister! And you don’t think you qualify. Son, if Saint Joan had had faith as firm as yours, she would have quenched the fire that martyred her. I know of—”

Sister Marie Charles’ voice announced, “Saint Alexander’s wife is here.”

“Show her in!” To me he added, “Tell you later.”

I hardly heard him; my heart was bursting.

The door opened; in walked Abigail.

I don’t know how to describe the next few minutes. Heartbreaking disappointment coupled with embarrassment summarizes it.

Abigail looked at me and said severely, “Alexander, what in the world are you doing wearing that preposterous halo? Take it off instantly!”

Saint Peter rumbled, “Daughter, you are not ‘in the world’; you are in my private office. You will not speak to Saint Alexander that way.”

Abigail turned her gaze to him, and sniffed. “You call
him
a saint? And didn’t your mother teach you to stand up for ladies? Or are saints exempt from such niceties?”

“I do stand up, for
ladies.
Daughter, you will address me with respect. And you will speak to your husband with the respect a wife owes her husband.”

“He’s not my husband!”

“Eh?” Saint Peter looked from her to me, then back. “Explain yourself.”

“Jesus said, ‘For in the resurrection they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels.’ So there! And He said it again in Mark twelve, twenty-three.”

“Yes,” agreed Saint Peter, “I heard Him say it. To the Sadducees. By that rule you are no longer a wife.”

“
Yes!
Hallelujah! Years I have waited to be rid of that clod—be rid of him without sinning.”

“I’m unsure about the latter. But not being a wife does not relieve you of the duty to speak politely to this saint who was once your husband.” Peter turned again to me. “Do you wish her to stay?”

“Me? No, no! There’s been a mistake.”

“So it appears. Daughter, you may go.”

“Now you just wait! Having come all this way, I have things I’ve been planning to tell you. Perfectly scandalous goings-on I have seen around here. Why, without the slightest sense of decency—”

“Daughter, I dismissed you. Will you walk out on your own feet? Or shall I send for two stalwart angels and have you thrown out?”

“Why, the very idea! I was just going to say—”

“You are
not
going to say!”

“Well, I certainly have as much right to speak my mind as anyone!”

“Not in this office. Sister Marie Charles!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Do you still remember the judo they taught you when you were working with the Detroit police?”

“I do!”

“Get this yenta out of here.”

The tall nun grinned and dusted her hands together. What happened next happened so fast that I can’t describe it. But Abigail left very suddenly.

Saint Peter sat back down, sighed, and picked up his Coke. “That woman would try the patience of Job. How long were you married to her?”

“Uh, slightly over a thousand years.”

“I understand you. Why did you send for her?”

“I didn’t. Well, I didn’t intend to.” I started to try to explain.

He stopped me. “Of course! Why didn’t you say that you were searching for your concubine? You misled Mary Rose. Yes, I know whom you mean: the zaftig shiksa who runs all through the latter part of your dossier. Very nice girl, she seemed to me. You are looking for her?”

“Yes, surely. The day of the Trump and the Shout we were snatched up together; But that whirlwind, a real Kansas twister, was so violent that we were separated.”

“You inquired about her before. An inquiry relayed from the information booth by the River.”

“That’s right.”

“Alexander, that inquiry is the last entry in your file. I can order the search repeated…but I can tell you ahead of time that it will be useful only to assure you. The answer will be the same: She is not here.”