Stanley Elkin - The Living End

“Better?” she asked.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

He climbed down from her lap and seated himself cross-legged beside her like a child in short pants. She stroked his head, her fingers trailing a forgetful, comfortable doodle in his fine hair. She dozed.

Christ was there, Joseph was. Flanoy was gone.

“Where’s the child?” she asked.

“Flanoy? Gone off,” her son said.

“He’s a good boy.”

“You’re good to him, Madonna. I was in time for the tableau.”

“He wanted to know if you had playmates. He wanted to know if you were lonely.”

“Who is this kid, Mary?” her husband asked. “What do we know about him anyway?”

“His name’s Flanoy,” she told him wearily. “He’s from Minnesota. He’s dead.”

“Big deal. Who ain’t dead?”

“Mother is comfortable with the dead.”

“With you maybe not so comfortable,” Joseph said. “Bamboozler. Do you know how tired the woman gets? What a strain? Come clean, why don’t you? Admit you ain’t him.”

“Please, Joseph. I have a mouth.”

“You got a mouth? Use it. Tell him. Go on. What, you’re so crazy about these people it makes a difference he ain’t Messiah?”

“Oh, please,” Christ said.

“Both of you,” Mary said.

“You’re tired,” Joseph said. “He woke you. This one. Your son, the magic cripple, who bumps into things.”

“Both of you, please,” Mary said.

“We’re going,” Joseph said. “Get some rest.”

“Flanoy,” she called softly when they had gone, “Flanoy—”

Who no longer brought his violin, she noticed, who came now whenever she felt need of him, who seemed to feel her need even before she did, who anticipated it and suddenly appeared and climbed into her lap and asked about them, questions about Jesus, about Joseph, herself, things not in the Bible, how she’d felt when she found out who her son was, if they’d taken vacations together as his family had, if it was always religious, if she’d heard from Jesus when he was in the wilderness all that time, whether she’d believed she’d see him again after they killed him, and trading his history for hers, filling her in on the world, if only his limited experience of it, but knowing more real history from his brief decade on earth than she knew for all her millennia in the sky, and what could she know, Flanoy asked—did history say its prayers?—did she know the slaves had been freed, or the names of state capitals, did she know there was television now, movies—he told her movies he’d seen, breaking her heart as he recounted sad stories about children, their animals, faithful dogs and noble horses, how the children had to put them away themselves when they were injured, the lessons they’d learned, and making her laugh when he told her the comedies—saying, though she knew all about this, how loved she was, how honored, winning her over, as she did him, with confidences, telling his secrets, climbing on her lap as he grew tired, his soft, comfortable body almost meant to be there—and now maybe Jesus had a right to be jealous—and all manner of things spoken of which she had never spoken of, and one day bringing his violin. “I’ve been practicing,” he said shyly, and played to perfection grand compositions she had never heard, even in Heaven.

“Why, you’re so good,” she said, surprised.

“Yes,” he said. “I don’t know where it comes from. I think I’m inspired,” and played a melody that left them both in tears, the child so wracked by the beauty that he could not finish.

“Come,” she said, “sit in my lap.”

And Flanoy climbed up and Mary held him, the lovely melody still echoing somewhere in memory, the both of them still listening. “Ah,” she said. “Ah,” sighed Flanoy. And afterwards, in the stillness—as if they both heard together not only the melody but when it had stopped—Flanoy asked his question.

“Was it like that?”

“What?”

“When God—You know.”

“When God?”

He toyed with the collar of her gown, his gentle fingers lightly tracing the line of her throat, and it was as if she blossomed itch just as he assuaged it, need just as he answered it.

“When God put Jesus in you.”

“When God—?”

“Do you know how He did it? Did you know it was Him? I mean you were a virgin, did you never suspect?”

“You,” she screamed. She flung him from her lap.

“But what did I do?”

“You’re at me again. Wasn’t one time enough?”

“What did I do?” Flanoy asked, crying. “I didn’t do anything. What did I do?” he sobbed, and ran from the room.

“I’m carrying His child!” shrieked the Virgin Mary.

God gave a gala, a levee at the Lord’s.

All Heaven turned out. “Gimme,” He said, “that old time religion.” His audience beamed. They cheered, they ate it up. They nudged each other in Paradise. “What did I tell you?” He demanded over their enthusiasm. “It’s terrific, isn’t it? I told you it would be terrific. All you ever had to do was play nice. Are you disappointed? Is this Heaven? Is this God’s country? In your wildest dreams—let Me hear it. Good—in your wildest dreams, did you dream such a Treasury, this museum Paradise? Did you dream My thrones and dominions, My angels in fly-over? My seraphim disporting like dolphins, tumbling God’s sky in high Heaven’s high acrobacy? Did you imagine the miracles casual as card tricks, or ever suspect free lunch could taste so good? They should see you now, eh? They should see you now, trembling in rapture like neurological rut. Delicious, correct? Piety a la mode! That’s it, that’s right. Sing hallelujah! Sing Hizzoner’s hosannas, Jehovah’s gee whiz! Well,” God said, “that’s enough, that will do.” He looked toward the Holy Family, studying them for a moment. “Not like the crèche, eh?” He said. “Well is it? Is it?” He demanded of Jesus.

“No,” Christ said softly.

“No,” God said, “not like the crèche. Just look at this place—the dancing waters and indirect lighting. I could put gambling in here, off-track betting. Oh, oh, My costume jewelry ways, My game show vision. Well, it’s the public. You’ve got to give it what it wants. Yes, Jesus?”

“Yes,” Jesus said.

“It just doesn’t look lived in, is that what you think?”

“Call on someone else,” Christ said.

“Sure,” God said. “I’m Hero of Heaven. I call on Myself.”

That was when He began His explanations. He revealed the secrets of books, of pictures and music, telling them all manner of things—why marches were more selfish than anthems, lieder less stirring than scat, why landscapes were to be preferred over portraits, how statues of women were superior to statues of men but less impressive than engravings on postage. He explained why dentistry was a purer science than astronomy, biography a higher form than dance. He told them how to choose wines and why solos were more acceptable to Him than duets. He told them the secret causes of inflation—“It’s the markup,” He said—and which was the best color and how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. He explained why English was the first language at Miss Universe pageants and recited highlights from the eighteen-minute gap.

Mary, wondering if she showed yet, was glad Joseph was seated next to her. Determined to look proud, she deliberately took her husband’s hand. So rough, she thought, such stubby fingers.

He explained why children suffered and showed them how to do the latest disco steps. He showed them how to square the circle, cautioning afterwards that it would be wrong.

He revealed the name of Kennedy’s assassin and told how to shop for used cars.