The Heaven Trilogy Page 2

  Kent felt a fresh surge of affection seize his heart. Boy, he loved her! “This means that your father has just changed the way banks process funds.” He paused, thinking about that. “Let me put it another way. Your father has just saved Niponbank millions of dollars in operating costs.” He thrust a finger into the air and popped his eyes wide. “No, wait! Did I say millions of dollars? No, that would be in one year. Over the long haul, hundreds of millions of dollars! And do you know what big banks do for people who save them hundreds of millions of dollars?”

  He stared into his son’s bright eyes and answered his own question quickly before Spencer beat him to it. “They give them a few of those millions, that’s what they do!”

  “They’ve approved the bonus?” Gloria asked.

  “Borst put the paperwork through this morning.” He turned to the side and pumped his arm again. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”

  Spencer slid off his knee, flopped backward on the couch, and kicked his legs into the air. “Yahoo! Does this mean we get to go to Disneyland?”

  They laughed. Kent stood and stepped toward Gloria. “You bet it does.” He plucked one of the roses still gripped in her hand and held it out at arm’s length. “It also means we will celebrate tonight.” He winked at his wife again and began to dance with the rose extended, as if it were his partner. “Wine . . .” He closed his eyes and lifted his chin. “Music . . .” He spread his arms wide and twirled once on his toes. “Exquisite food . . .”

  “Lobster!” Spencer said.

  “The biggest lobster you can imagine. From the tank,” Kent returned and kissed the rose. Gloria laughed and wiped her eyes.

  “Of course, this does mean a few small changes in our plans,” Kent said, still holding up the red bud. “I have to fly to Miami this weekend. Borst wants me to make the announcement to the board at the annual meeting. It seems that my career as a celebrity has already begun.”

  “This weekend?” Gloria lifted an eyebrow.

  “Yes, I know. Our anniversary. But not to worry, my queen. Your prince will be leaving Friday and returning Saturday. And then we will celebrate our twelfth like we have never dreamt of celebrating.”

  His eyes sparkled mischievously, and he turned to Spencer. “Excuse me, sire. But would Sunday or Monday suit you best for a ride on the Matterhorn?”

  His son’s eyes bulged. “The Matterhorn?” He gasped. “Disneyland?”

  Gloria giggled. “And just how are we supposed to get to California by Sunday if you’re going to Miami?”

  Kent looked at Spencer, sucking a quick breath, feigning shock. “Your mother’s right. It will have to be Monday, sire. Because I do fear there is no carriage that will take us to Paris in time for Sunday’s games.”

  He let the statement stand. For a moment only the breeze sounded, flipping the kitchen curtains.

  Then it came. “Paris?” Gloria’s voice wavered slightly.

  Kent turned his head toward her and winked. “But of course, my queen. It is, after all, the city of love. And I hear Mickey has set up shop to boot.”

  “You are taking us to Paris?” Gloria demanded, still unbelieving. The giggle had fled, chased away by true shock. “Paris, France? Can—can we do that?”

  Kent smiled. “My dear, we can do anything now.” He lifted a fist of victory into the air.

  “Paris!”

  Then the Anthonys let restraint fly out the window, and pandemonium broke out in the living room. Spencer hooted and unsuccessfully attempted to vault the couch as his parents had. He sprawled to a tumble. Gloria rushed Kent and shrieked, not so much in shock, but because shrieking fit the mood just now. Kent hugged his wife around the waist and swung her in circles.

  It was a good day. A very good day.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THEY SAT there, the three of them, Gloria, Helen, and Spencer, in Helen’s living room, on overstuffed green chairs, the way they sat every Thursday morning, preparing to begin their knocking. Gloria’s right leg draped over her left, swinging lightly. She held folded hands on her lap and watched grandmother and grandson engage each other with sparkling eyes.

  The fact that Spencer could join them came as one of the small blessings of homeschooling. She had questioned whether a boy Spencer’s age would find a prayer meeting engaging, but Helen had insisted. “Children have better spiritual vision than you might think,” she’d said. It only took one meeting with Helen for Spencer to agree.

  At age sixty-four, Gloria’s mother, Helen Jovic, possessed one of the most sensitive spirits harbored in the souls of mankind. But even the most dimwitted soul who’d read her story would know why. It was all there, penned by her late husband, Jan Jovic—the events of that fateful day in Bosnia as told in “The Martyr’s Song” and then the rest of the story written in When Heaven Weeps.

  Gloria knew the story perhaps better than she knew her own for the simple reason that it was written and her own history wasn’t. How many times had she read Janjic’s story? She could clearly imagine that day when a handful of soldiers including Jan Jovic entered the small village in Bosnia and tormented the peaceloving women and children.

  She could imagine the great sacrifice paid that day.

  She could see the heavens opening.

  And above all she could hear the song. “The Martyr’s Song,” penned now and sung throughout the world by many devout believers.

  That day had forever changed Jan Jovic’s life. But it was only the beginning. If you knew how to listen, the Martyr’s Song could be heard today, still changing lives. Helen’s life, for example. And then her daughter Gloria’s life. And now Spencer’s life.

  When Jan had died Helen was still quite young. She’d been left alone to find solace with God. And nothing seemed to bring her that solace like the hours she spent shuffling about the house, hounding heaven, drawing near to the throne. The shuffling used to be pacing, an insistent pacing that actually began many years ago while Gloria was still a child. Gloria would often kneel on the sofa, combing the knots from her doll’s hair, watching her mother step across worn carpet with lifted hands, smiling to the sky.

  “I am an intercessor,” Helen told her young daughter. “I speak with God.”

  And God spoke to her, Gloria thought. More so lately, it seemed.

  Helen sat flat footed, rocking slowly in the overstuffed green rocker, her hands resting on the chair’s worn arms. A perpetual smile bunched soft cheeks. Her hazel eyes glistened like jewels set in her face, which was lightly dusted with powder but otherwise free of makeup. Her silver hair curled to her ears and down to her neck. She was not as thin as she had been in her early years, but she carried the additional fifteen pounds well. The dresses her mother wore were partly responsible. She could not remember ever seeing her mother wear slacks. Today the dress was a white summer shirtwaist sprinkled with light blue roses that flowed in soft pleats to her knees.

  Gloria glanced at her son, who sat with his legs crossed under him the way he always sat, Indian style. He was telling his grandmother about the upcoming trip to Disneyland with wide eyes, stumbling over his words. She smiled. They had finalized the plans last evening at Antonio’s while dining on steak and lobster. Kent would leave for Miami Friday morning and return Saturday in time to catch a 6 P.M. flight to Paris. The short-notice tickets had cost the world, but the fact had only put a broader smile on her husband’s face. They would arrive in France on Monday, check into some classy hotel called the Lapier, catch their breath while feasting on impossibly expensive foods, and rest for the next day’s adventure. Kent was finally about to live his childhood dream, and he was setting about it with a vengeance.

  Of course, Kent’s success did not come without its price. It required focus, and something was bound to give in favor of that focus. In Kent’s case it was his faith in God, which had never been his strong suit anyway. Within three years of their marriage, Kent’s faith left him. Entirely. There was no longer room in his heart for a faith in the unseen. He was too busy chasin
g things he could see. It wasn’t just an apathy—Kent did not do apathy. He either did or he did not do. It was either all out or not at all. And God became not at all.

  Four years ago, just after Spencer had turned six, Helen had come to Gloria, nearly frantic. “We need to begin,” she’d said.

  “Begin what?” Gloria had asked.

  “Begin the knocking.”

  “Knocking?”

  “Yes, knocking—on heaven’s door. For Kent’s soul.”

  For Helen it was always either knocking or hounding.

  So they had begun their Thursday morning knocking sessions then. The door to Kent’s heart had not opened yet, but through it all Gloria and Spencer had peeked into heaven with Helen. What they saw had them scrambling out of bed every Thursday morning, without fail, to go to Grandma’s.

  And now here they were again.

  “Delightful!” Helen said, flashing a smile at Gloria. “That sounds positively wonderful. I had no idea there was more than one Disneyland.”

  “Heavens, Mother,” Gloria said. “There’s been more than one Disney park for years now. You really need to get out more.”

  “No, thank you. No, no. I get out quite enough, thank you.” She said it with a grin, but her tone rang with sincerity. “My being a stranger in that world out there is just fine by me.”

  “I’m sure it is. But you don’t have to sequester yourself.”

  “Who said I was sequestering myself ? I don’t even know what sequestering means, for goodness’ sake. And what does this have to do with my not knowing about a Disneyland in Paris, anyway?”

  “Nothing. You were the one who brought up being a stranger. I’m just balancing things out a bit, that’s all.” God knew Helen could use a little balance in her life.

  Her mother’s eyes sparkled. She grinned softly, taking up the challenge. “Balance? Things are already out of balance, Honey. Upside down out of balance. You take one hundred pounds of Christian meat, and I guarantee you that ninety-eight of those pounds are sucking up to the world. It’s tipping the scale right over, love.” She reached up and pulled at the wrinkly skin on her neck. Nasty habit.

  “Maybe, but you really don’t have to use words like sucking to describe it. That’s what I’m talking about. And how many times have I told you not to pull on your neck like that?”

  Dramatics aside, Helen was right, of course, and Gloria took no offense. If anything, she warmed to her mother’s indictments of society.

  “It’s just flesh, Gloria. See?” Helen pinched the loose skin on her arms and pulled, sampling several patches. “See, just skin. Flesh for the fire. It’s what’s tipping the scales the wrong way.”

  “Yes, but as long as you live in this world, there’s no need to walk around pulling your skin in public. People don’t like it.” If she didn’t know better, she would guess her mother senile at times.

  “Well, this isn’t public, for one thing, dear.” Helen turned to Spencer, who sat watching the discussion with an amused smile. “It’s family. Isn’t that right, Spencer?”

  She turned back to Gloria. “And for another thing, maybe if Christians went around pulling their skin or some such thing, people would actually know they were Christians. God knows you can’t tell now. Maybe we should change our name to the Skinpullers and walk around yanking on our skin in public. That would set us apart.”

  Silence settled around the preposterous suggestion.

  Spencer was the first to laugh, as if a dam had broken in his chest. Then Gloria, shaking her head at the ridiculous image, and finally Mother, after glancing back and forth, obviously trying to understand what was so funny. Gloria could not tell if Helen’s laughter was motivated by her own skin-pulling or by their infectious cackling. Either way, the three of them had a good, long hoot.

  Helen brought them back to a semblance of control, still smiling. “Well, there’s more to my suggestion than what you might guess, Gloria. We laugh now, but in the end it will not seem so strange. It’s this ridiculous walking around pretending not to be different that will seem crazy. I suspect a lot of heads will be banging the walls of hell in regret someday.”

  Gloria nodded and wiped her eyes. “Yes, you’re probably right, Mother. But you do have a way with images.”

  Helen turned to Spencer. “Yes, now where were we when your mother so delicately diverted our discussion, Spencer?”

  “Disneyland. We’re going to Euro Disney in Paris,” Spencer answered with a smile and a sideways glance at Gloria.

  “Of course. Disneyland. Now Spencer, what do you suppose would be more fun for a day, Euro Disney or heaven?”

  The sincerity descended like a heavy wool blanket.

  It was perhaps the way Helen said heaven. As if it were a cake you could eat. That’s how it was with Helen. A few words, and the hush would fall. Gloria could feel her heart tighten with anticipation. Sometimes it would begin with just a look, or a lifted finger, as if to say, Okay, let us begin. Well, now it had begun again, and Gloria sighed.

  Spencer’s mouth drifted into a smile. “Heaven!”

  Helen lifted an eyebrow. “Why heaven?”

  Most children would stutter at such a question, maybe answer with repeated words learned from their parents or Sunday school teachers. Basically meaningless words for a child, like, “To worship God.” Or, “’Cause Jesus died on the cross.”

  But not Spencer.

  “In heaven . . . I think we’ll be able to do . . . anything,” he said.

  “I think we will too,” Helen said, perfectly serious. She sighed. “Well, we’ll see soon enough. Today it will have to be Paris and Disneyland. Tomorrow maybe heaven. If we’re so fortunate.”

  The room fell silent, and Helen closed her eyes slowly. Another sign.

  The sound of her own breathing rose and fell in Gloria’s ears. She closed her eyes and saw pinpricks in a sea of black. Her mind climbed to another consciousness. Oh, God. Hear my son’s cry. Open our eyes. Draw our hearts. Bring us into your presence.

  For a few minutes Gloria sat in the silence, displacing small thoughts and drawing her mind to the unseen. A tear gently ripped opened in heaven for her then, like a thin fracture in a wall, allowing shafts of light to filter through. In her mind’s eye, she stepped into the light and let it wash warm over her chest.

  The knocking started with a prayer from Helen. Gloria opened her eyes and saw that her mother had lifted her hands toward the ceiling. Her chin was raised, and her lips moved around a smile. She was asking God for Kent’s soul.

  For thirty minutes they prayed like that, taking turns calling on God to hear their cry, show his mercy, send word.

  Near the end, Helen rose and fetched herself a glass of lemonade. She got hot, praying to heaven, she said. Being up there with all those creatures of light made her warm all over. So she invariably broke for the lemonade or ice tea at some point.

  Sometimes Gloria joined her, but today she did not want to break. Today the presence was very strong, as if that crack had frozen open and continued to pour light into her chest. Which was rather unusual, because usually the tear opened and closed, allowing only bursts of light through. A thoughtful consideration by the gatekeepers, she had once decided. So as not to overwhelm the mortals with too much at once.

  Thoughts of Paris had long fled, and now Gloria basked in thoughts of the unseen. Thoughts of floating, like Spencer had said. Like the pinpricks of light in the dark of her eyes. Or maybe like a bird, but in outer space, streaking through a red nebula, wide mouthed and laughing. She would give her life for it, in a heartbeat. Thinking of it now, her pulse thickened. Sweat began to bead on her forehead. Raw desire began to well up within her, as it often did. To touch him, to see the Creator. Watch him create. Be loved with that same power.

  Helen once told her that touching God might be like touching a thick shaft of lightning, but one filled with pleasure. It might very well kill you, she said, but at least you’d die with a smile on your face. She’d chuckled and
shook her head. Her mother seated herself, slurped the lemonade for a few seconds, and set the clinking glass beside her chair. Helen sighed, and Gloria closed her eyes, thinking, Now, where was I?

  It was then, in that moment of regularity, that the tear in heaven gaped wide, opening as it never had. They had prayed together every Thursday, every week, every month, every year for five years, and never before had Gloria even come close to feeling and seeing and hearing what she did then.

  She would later think that it is when contemplating inexplicable times such as these that men say, He is sovereign. He will do as he wills. He will come through a virgin; he will speak from a bush; he will wrestle with a man. He is God. Who can know the mind of the Lord? Amen. And it is the end of the matter.

  But it is not the end of the matter if you are the virgin Mary, or if you hear him from a bush like Moses, or if you wrestle with God as did Jacob. Then it is only the beginning.

  It happened suddenly, without the slightest warning. As if a dam holding the light back had broken, sending volumes of the stuff cascading down in torrents. One second trickles of power, feathering just so, like lapping waves, and the next a flood that seemed to pound into the small living room and blow away the walls.

  Gloria gasped and jerked upright. Two other audible heaves filled the room, and she knew that Spencer and Helen saw it as well.

  The buzzing started in her feet and ran through her bones, as if her heels had been plugged into a socket and the juice cranked up. It swept up her spine, right into her skull, and hummed. She gripped the chair’s padded arms to keep her hands still from their trembling.

  Oh, God! she cried, only she didn’t actually cry it, because her mouth had frozen wide. Her throat had seized. A soft moan came out. “Uhhhh . . .” And in that moment, with the light pouring into her skull, rattling her bones, she knew that nothing—absolutely nothing—could ever compare to this feeling.