The opening of a short piece I'm working on . . .
It doesn’t surprise me that her feet aren’t actually touching the heavenly floor (jasper, chalcedony—one of those) but floating a few inches above it. The surprise is that she opens the door herself. Surely she has angels for that.
“Hail-” I begin but she holds up a slender hand – a familiar pose. “Please, just don’t.”
Her smile – you’ve seen in a million times –all those paintings and statues – is heartbreakingly sweet and equally heartbreakingly resigned. “Come in,” she says, motioning me in. “We might as well get started.”
For years – maybe aeons—I’ve dreamed of scoring this interview. The Big Three, of course, are famously ineffable, but the BVM has the reputation of being approachable. Still, I can hardly believe my luck as I follow her down the echoing hall and into a pleasant sitting room where a bank of tall windows overlooks a sea of billowing clouds.
She settles onto a vast white sofa, tucking her bare feet under her soft blue robe, and pointing to a comfortable chair. I sit and two goblets of something red materialize on the little table between us.
“Wine?” I raise an eyebrow. “Or is it…you know… the Blood of the Lamb? I am honored-”
She rolls those soulful eyes, picks up the nearest cup, and takes a sip. “Sorry to disappoint you. This is pomegranate juice. I find all that Blood of the Lamb stuff a bit off-putting. After all, He is my son.”
This is my opening. “Yes, and that’s one of the thing I’d like you to share with us. It’s been so long since He actually manifested to humanity. Can you tell us what He’s up to these days?”
A tiny crease appears between those gull wing eyebrows. “I thought you wanted to talk about me, not Him. It’s always the same—He…They…go off being ineffable for centuries at a time. Does He write? Does He call? Maybe a card at Christmas—sometimes one on Assumption Day—‘Love you, Ma.’”
She makes a face and does the eye roll again. “Big deal---He loves everybody.”
She sets her goblet down on the table just a little too hard and some of the juice sloshes out, only to evaporate instantly, leaving the marble surface unstained. The tiny frown disappears, and she leans toward me, enveloping me in her sweetness.
“Heavens, now I’m sounding like a Jewish mother. Of course, He’s got so much to do—about His Father’s business as he told me long ago. And I know” she made those little air quotes, “He’s with us always. But still…”
***
“You’re not going to call it ‘Interview with the Carpenter’s Wife’ or something like that, are you?”
Her gaze is sharp and I can feel those eyes boring through the cover of my notebook where I’d jotted down a few ideas. The Carpenter’s Wife was one. Also The Messiah’s Mom.
“Because," she continues, "aside from the fact that publishing today is overrun with titles like The Podiatrists Cousin. The Analyst’s Aunt, The Exterminator’s Ex , I really dislike the false assumption that the subject of the piece is defined by a relationship until he or she or they breaks free and assets his or her or their identity. “
She’s on a roll now – who knew the BVM follows popular fiction?
“It’s almost as bad as all those girl titles- Gone Girl, Girl on the Train, Girl with the Dragon Tattoo…” She points a slender finger at me. “Girl from Galilee—don’t even think about it.”
