makes a joke He shakes the world with His laughter.”
“I’m him, Pop.”
“Sure, and I’m the contractor who built this place.”
Quiz, in Heaven, feeling good, his felicity only a little tempered by the fact that no one had met him. In life, too, no one had much met him. He’d carried his own suitcases, stopped at the “Y”-not a churchgoer, it was this, he believed, which had saved him, his decision to sleep among Christians at Y.M.C.A.s- seen L.A. and Chicago and other cities from air-conditioned tour buses. Indeed, he had come away from these towns with the vague impression that they had a slightly greenish cast to them. Heaven had no such cast.
Heaven was pure light, its palaces and streets, its skies and landscapes primary as acrylic, lustered as lipstick. There was nothing of Hell’s dinge or filtered, mitigate shade. It struck him that Heaven was like nothing so much as one of those swell new cities in the Sun Belt-Phoenix, Tucson.
It was a gradual thing, his growing uneasiness. Not much offended at not being met, he nevertheless felt that he’d like to get settled and had determined to start looking around for a “Y” when this cripple came loping up.
“God bless you,” said the cripple.
“Sorry, buddy, I don’t give handouts,” said Quiz, and a magnificent nimbus suddenly bloomed behind the Christ’s head like the fanned tail of a peacock.
Quiz, in Heaven, on his knees before the Master, making rapid signs of the cross, his fingers flashing from forehead to breastbone, breastbone to left shoulder, left shoulder to right, boxing the compass, sending pious semaphore.
“Come see God,” Christ said, and the man who gave no handouts offered the Saviour his arm and they were in God’s throne room and God Himself up on the bench and Quiz all lavish, choreographed humility, prostrate in Moslem effacement, his nose burrowing a jeweled treasury of floor, but put upon, wondering if this were any position for an American, even a dead one, to be in. Barely hearing Christ’s words, their meaning slurred by his fear. “-the man You smote… redeemed from Hell… thought You would want…
perfect act of contrition.”
And Quiz, daring at last to raise his head, to poke it up like someone strafers have made a pass at and missed, marshaling his features, managing to look wounded, injured, aggrieved, forgiving but not quite forgetting.
“You go too far,” God told His son.
Because he don’t love me, Joseph thought. Because he’s adopted. He goes around like that to spite Him, to get His attention, His goat he’s after. What do I care he ain’t perfect? What do I care he ain’t him?
What a business. We walked around on eggshells with each other, nervous even when we were alone.
Sure. Could I watch her undress? Could I hold her in my arms whom the Lord had His eye on? What a business. Because I’m old- fashioned, a zealot of the Lord, and take from Him what a real man wouldn’t take from nobody. They call me cuckold and saint me for it. I know what I know if I don’t know my rights. He ain’t him. I love him, but he ain’t. What can I do but go along if He in His infinite wisdom Abrahams me and Isaacs the kid, the one time testing a father, the next a husband? Loyalty oaths He wants, guarantees every fifty thousand miles. All right, He has them. So when does He call me in?
When does He say “Well done, good and faithful servant? It was a hoax, my little two- thousand-year joke. Go home. Cleave unto Mary. If she’ll still have you.” What a business. What a business.
In Hell, Quiz’s translation was much discussed.
“He burnt up.”
“He never did. You don’t burn up down here.”
“We’re eternal lights.”
“He flew off. I saw his contrail in what we have for sky.”
“He was never one of us.”
“He was an omen,” Lesefario said.
“Is that Flanoy? Do you remember me, Flanoy? It’s Mr. Quiz.”
“Hi, Mr. Quiz.”
“What a shame. A kid like you. Dead as a
“I’m him, Pop.”
“Sure, and I’m the contractor who built this place.”
Quiz, in Heaven, feeling good, his felicity only a little tempered by the fact that no one had met him. In life, too, no one had much met him. He’d carried his own suitcases, stopped at the “Y”-not a churchgoer, it was this, he believed, which had saved him, his decision to sleep among Christians at Y.M.C.A.s- seen L.A. and Chicago and other cities from air-conditioned tour buses. Indeed, he had come away from these towns with the vague impression that they had a slightly greenish cast to them. Heaven had no such cast.
Heaven was pure light, its palaces and streets, its skies and landscapes primary as acrylic, lustered as lipstick. There was nothing of Hell’s dinge or filtered, mitigate shade. It struck him that Heaven was like nothing so much as one of those swell new cities in the Sun Belt-Phoenix, Tucson.
It was a gradual thing, his growing uneasiness. Not much offended at not being met, he nevertheless felt that he’d like to get settled and had determined to start looking around for a “Y” when this cripple came loping up.
“God bless you,” said the cripple.
“Sorry, buddy, I don’t give handouts,” said Quiz, and a magnificent nimbus suddenly bloomed behind the Christ’s head like the fanned tail of a peacock.
Quiz, in Heaven, on his knees before the Master, making rapid signs of the cross, his fingers flashing from forehead to breastbone, breastbone to left shoulder, left shoulder to right, boxing the compass, sending pious semaphore.
“Come see God,” Christ said, and the man who gave no handouts offered the Saviour his arm and they were in God’s throne room and God Himself up on the bench and Quiz all lavish, choreographed humility, prostrate in Moslem effacement, his nose burrowing a jeweled treasury of floor, but put upon, wondering if this were any position for an American, even a dead one, to be in. Barely hearing Christ’s words, their meaning slurred by his fear. “-the man You smote… redeemed from Hell… thought You would want…
perfect act of contrition.”
And Quiz, daring at last to raise his head, to poke it up like someone strafers have made a pass at and missed, marshaling his features, managing to look wounded, injured, aggrieved, forgiving but not quite forgetting.
“You go too far,” God told His son.
Because he don’t love me, Joseph thought. Because he’s adopted. He goes around like that to spite Him, to get His attention, His goat he’s after. What do I care he ain’t perfect? What do I care he ain’t him?
What a business. We walked around on eggshells with each other, nervous even when we were alone.
Sure. Could I watch her undress? Could I hold her in my arms whom the Lord had His eye on? What a business. Because I’m old- fashioned, a zealot of the Lord, and take from Him what a real man wouldn’t take from nobody. They call me cuckold and saint me for it. I know what I know if I don’t know my rights. He ain’t him. I love him, but he ain’t. What can I do but go along if He in His infinite wisdom Abrahams me and Isaacs the kid, the one time testing a father, the next a husband? Loyalty oaths He wants, guarantees every fifty thousand miles. All right, He has them. So when does He call me in?
When does He say “Well done, good and faithful servant? It was a hoax, my little two- thousand-year joke. Go home. Cleave unto Mary. If she’ll still have you.” What a business. What a business.
In Hell, Quiz’s translation was much discussed.
“He burnt up.”
“He never did. You don’t burn up down here.”
“We’re eternal lights.”
“He flew off. I saw his contrail in what we have for sky.”
“He was never one of us.”
“He was an omen,” Lesefario said.
“Is that Flanoy? Do you remember me, Flanoy? It’s Mr. Quiz.”
“Hi, Mr. Quiz.”
“What a shame. A kid like you. Dead as a
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