Free The Next Queen of Heaven-SA by Gregory Maguire

just then. Our Lady had been very happy there for decades.”

    “Perhaps a truck went by,” said Sister Alice. “Vibrations, you know. They better get that speed trap thingy hooked up soon. What with 1-81 northbound down to one lane, all that traffic slipping off and cutting through Thebes is making Union Street into Trampoline Alley.”

    “I called Pastor Huyck about the patient. Her name is Leontina Scales,” said Father Mike.
    “He hasn’t had the chance to see her yet, but he’s been told by the clinic that she’s recovering nicely, and has gone home. No harm done, thank goodness. So that’s why I was tied up a good part of Sunday afternoon. Jeremy, Sister Alice tells me about your request for rehearsal space in the rectory.”

    “Sister Alice gave you all the particulars?”

    “Your friends—being sick, you mean.”

    “Both of them.” He considered. “Not so bad yet, but I only know what I know by made-for-TV movies on Lifetime. These are the first cases in Thebes.”

    “That we’re aware of,” said Father Mike, but he wouldn’t say more on that.

    “We’re rehearsing for a cabaret spot in Manhattan. In January. That’s what, eight, ten weeks from now. It’s an AIDS benefit, a showcase for singer-songwriters, and somehow I qualified for a slot. We’re doing a short set of my own music. There’s going to be judges. People with connections. Some executives from recording studios. Stephen Sondheim is on the panel.” Father Mike looked puzzled. “Father Mike wouldn’t know him,” intoned Sister Alice,
    “Sondheim’s not Catholic.” She began to hum “Send in the Clowns.”

    “Oh, him,” said Father Mike. “I like that song. Well, isn’t that grand. So, if you win, will you become the next Saint Louis Jesuits? Catholic megastars?”

    “We’re not doing religious music. Sometimes I write other stuff.”

    “Secular? Like the Clancy Brothers?”

    “It’s not very cutting edge, but it’s beyond the Clancy Brothers.” Father Mike looked put out. “I still have that eight-track tape of the Carpenters. I love how they sounded. I wish they’d done an album of religious music. Maybe that anorectic one would have gotten faith and trusted God enough to eat a decent breakfast every now and then.”

    “You should get a new tape deck,” said Jeremy. “The eight-track keeps you in the past, Father Mike.”

    “When I get a new car. But so many devout mechanics around here who all want to fix my old car for free—never going to happen. Anyway, cutting to the chase, Jeremy. We can’t give you a room in the rectory for eight weeks. I’m sorry.”

    Jeremy turned his head and looked at Father Mike out of the corner of his eyes. “What’s the problem?” His voice sounded more brittle than he intended.

    “Now, none of that. It’s not the AIDS issue or the gay issue either, Jeremy. True, the Parish Council deludes itself into thinking it has jurisdiction over pastoral decisions, but in fact it’s a matter of simple logistics. As you know, Thursday is choir night. Friday alternates between Legion of Mary and Holy Names. Monday night I do couples counseling, and since the office is right next door to the meeting room, music is out of the question. And we’ve made a commitment for every second Tuesday from now through Easter for adult education of the catechumens. So that leaves us Wednesdays, Jeremy, or Saturdays. And with the vigil mass, Saturdays aren’t workable.”

    “Saturdays are out for us too. Sean is still able to work, and he works a shift and a half on Saturday, because it’s time-and-a-half.”

    “Sean Riley? Not Sean Riley,” said Father Mike. “Oh, Jesus.”

    Shoot. Big mouth big mistake. “I hadn’t meant to say that.”

    “Lips are sealed,” said Father Mike. Sister Alice trained her eyes on the floor.

    “But Wednesdays?” said Jeremy.

    “Not on,” said Father Mike. “Nothing regular, but the room is already booked in mid-November for two