Heavenly Intervention
The dimly lit boardroom was silent, absolutely still, even though twenty-seven gloomy figures ringed the long, gleaming ironwood table, thirteen on either side, and one more at the end. Three places stood empty – one at either side of the head, and the head itself. It seemed nobody was even breathing.Suddenly the room brightened as the great oak doors swung open. A blast from Gabriel’s horn pierced the air, sending shudders reverberating through the assembled room.
“For cryin’ out loud, Gabe! Can’t you for once blow that piece of tin at a respectable volume? You’re supposed to announce my arrival, not blow my head off!”
“Sorry boss,” said Gabriel. “That’s the volume ‘shock and awe’ calls for.”
“Well, until this mess is cleared up, we don’t need any more ‘awe’. Just keep it down to ‘shock’ volume.”
“Gottcha.” A more subdued trumpet blast followed.
The figure entering the boardroom should really be described in two parts. From the neck down he was the quintessential old fashioned executive; blue serge, three piece suit complete with a red carnation in the lapel over a fine silk, powder blue shirt and red ascot, right down to the finely crafted Italian leather shoes. From the neck up he presented an entirely different picture.
Most prominent was the big raw steak he was holding over his right eye. Protruding from his nostrils were blood-soaked wads of cotton batting. Even his snowy white, cropped beard was spotted with dribbles of blood from his nose. He was a mess, a pathetic sight to behold!
Still, he strode into the room like a man on a mission, his left eye, the only one you could see, glaring with determination. The stack of papers in his left hand literally slammed down on the table as he took his place. Keeping his one good eye on the assembled counsel, he felt around for the gavel and grasping it, gave it a Tiger Woods type of swing directly onto the table. The resultant crash was like a mighty thunderclap that reverberated around the room, shaking everything within it. ‘Hm – not bad’ he thought and did it again. He had more wrist action in his left hand than he’d thought - something to remember in future.
The archangel Michael brought a silver dish to put the steak on. “I’ll put it in the fridge to keep it cold for you. Holy shit! You collected one hell of a shiner! You must have run into Frank O’Connell’s cane again. Why don’t you just send him straight to hell and be done with him?”
“Hey! Watch your language, snotnose!” That voice echoed from somewhere near the ceiling, from some invisible female body.
“Bloody hell,” said Kuldip, the Indian sub – angel. “Does that woman never sleep?”
“I heard that!” said the voice.
God opened the ledger in front of him, squinting with his good eye until he came upon the name of Francis Michael O’Connell. “Eight hundred and fifty three times so far I’ve sent him to hell. Eight hundred and fifty three times he’s turned up back here within twenty minutes, waving that big cane of his and telling me what’s wrong with the churches – that they’re only a bunch of corporations looking for market share and virgin boys and girls. Apparently he tells Satan the same thing so the devil doesn’t want anything to do with him either. Satan has even gone to the trouble of building a high-powered ejection seat to shoot him back here the very second he shows up. It’s like playing ping-pong. But it wasn’t him this time,” God said, rolling his eyes upwards to the source of the voice, “It was her.”
“Uh-oh,” said St. Peter. “Somebody’s been talking to her? Do we have a mole hiding in here somewhere?”
“Naw,” God replied. “She’s been talking to those other brats of hers down there.”
“Where? In hell?”
“No, I meant on earth. What we’re dealing with here is one of those tight-knit Irish families. They’re usually squabbling amongst themselves but just let an outsider intervene and that bunch is tighter’n a bull’s ass in fly time! ‘You fight me; you fight my gang’ kind of attitude. I should have seen it coming. And now they got that other bunch involved – the O’Tooles. That’s Frank Junior’s wife Erin’s family. They’re about as ornery as the O’Connells.
“I heard that and I don’t appreciate it!” said the voice.
God chose to ignore her. “Let’s get down to the problem and figure out a way to fix it,” he said. “First I want a run down on what led to this disaster. Where, by the way, is the Grim Reaper?”
St. Peter said, “You don’t want to know!”
“Oh yes I do! Now out with it!”
“It’s not my fault Lord,” St Peter whimpered. “I was just going by the book.”
“Well, what then? I haven’t got all day. Actually I have if I want to, but that’s a moot point”
St. Peter punched in a few numbers on his keyboard.
‘C’mon, c’mon, let’s get with the program!”
The whole wall to God’s right lit up like a giant computer screen. St. Peter googled “Calgary” and the skyline appeared; dimly at first, and then sharpened to a clear picture. Finding the Foothills hospital, he ‘left–clicked’ his mouse on it until he was in the ICU. Frank Junior’s bed was empty. Maybe it would still all work out, God thought. Maybe the young O’Connell was on his way after all. Maybe all that ruckus was just a tempest in a teapot after all and they’d all be able to get back to work. St. Peter was about to scan the morgue when the surveillance camera caught a slight movement by the hospital room window. A man was standing there attached to a rolling cart of various bags of intravenous medications, looking out of the window. It was Frank Junior. Well, thought St. Peter, there goes that mission.
Panning back to the young O’Connell’s bed one more time, St. Peter noticed a strange, translucent sort of a figure lying on it. What was that? It hadn’t been there a minute ago. It was a sort of a man. It was a man! It was the Grim Reaper for God’s sake, or at least what was left of him!
“There,” said St. Peter. “There’s your Grim Reaper.”
“Oh - - my - - God!” they all said, almost in unison.
“Hah!” grated the female voice.
“Jesus Christ!” Bellowed God.
“I heard that!” the female voice scolded. “Watch your mouth!”
“I’m just calling my son, or did you forget I had one?”
“Oh.”
A side door opened in the boardroom. “Hey dad, how’s it goin’?”
“Son, I need you to help me out here. I got a big crisis and I can’t get that O’Connell woman off my back. Go do something with her. Tell her a parable or something.”
“It’s no use dad. The only one she’ll listen to is mom.”
“Well then, get your mother to have tea with her. Do something!”
“I’m on it!” Jesus left.
“Now maybe we can get down to business. I don’t know how much higher my stress meter can go. Pete, I want an explanation, and I want it now!”
St. Peter opened his own ledger, flipped the pages until he came to the ‘O’s’. “Ah, there it is,” he muttered. “Hm.”
His finger went down the page. “Yep, I thought so. Here it is right here. Frank O’Connell - ‘Suspicion of trying to get classified information’. That’s a misdemeanor under most circumstances, but far more serious when an interior designer commits it. You remember that he’s got an interior design degree don’t you? Well, you know how pushy those types are. Well, he can’t do that! There’s only one place where that knowledge can be authorized and that’s right up here. No, we’re in the clear. We only did what was called for.”
“What in blazes are you talking about?” asked God. “What information is so precious that it’s got to be classified?” He leaned his head on the heel of his hand, “Ouch!” he exclaimed, remembering his shiner too late.
St. Peter continued. “A couple of years ago he decided to go back to school and learn about the effects of aging through light and color.”
He looked up at God, expecting an acknowledgement of the problem. God only stared at him blankly. “Light and color – light and color – don’t you remember?”
“Refresh my memory,” said God disdainfully.
St. Peter sighed wearily, turned to the Old Testament to read. “‘And in the beginning God created man in his own image. In his own image created he him.’ Sounds like somebody could have used a few grammar lessons too when that was written.”
“Don’t be funny,” God said. “That’s how people used to talk. Get to the point.”
“Okay, okay, I’m coming to it. Remember when you caught Adam and Eve screwing around in the Garden of Eden and booted them out because they had found carnal knowledge?”
“Oh yeah, I remember. I was some pissed off – them sneaking around behind my back, hiding behind all those lovely colored leaves an flowers.”
God’s eyes instinctively rolled upwards, waiting for another blast from Maggie O’Connell, the clan matriarch. It didn’t come. Maybe Mary had got to her. Why oh why couldn’t she be more like Mary - demure, refined and civil? Heaven would be so much more heavenly. “Go on,” he instructed St. Peter.
“Right then and there you classified knowledge of aging through light and color. To quote you directly, you said unto them ‘Ye may have gained carnal knowledge even though I forbade it, but I’m buggered if anybody – note I said anybody, will ever have knowledge of aging through light and color in any place other than in heaven. That knowledge is hereby classified – by God!’ – your exact words.”
“So then,” wondered God, “it all seems perfectly normal. Where did things go so wrong?”
Upstairs, in a quaint little tearoom, Mary sat delicately poised in the finely upholstered chair, teacup suspended in mid air. Her eyes were the size of saucers and her mouth agape. “You did what to God?” she sputtered.
“I hit him in the bridge of the nose with my fist.” Maggie said defensively. She quickly added, “I didn’t mean to do it that hard. It was instinctive when I heard he was bringing our Franky up here. I just wanted to cuff him on the ear like I do to my old man when he gets out of line, but I was really angry and I guess my fist was closed. Besides, he moved so I missed his ear and caught him on the nose.”
“My dear, it’s very lucky that you’re still up here. By rights, you should have been banished by now.”
“Oh, there’s no chance of that. Who would keep my husband in line otherwise?”
“Well, there’s that. But what was all that ruckus about in the first place? You know that immortality isn’t an option down there on earth. That only works up here.”
“Oh, I know,” said Maggie, “but it wasn’t his turn!” She was getting worked up again. “It’s too hard to have to bury your children. If anyone knows that, you must. Look what happened to your kid.”
Mary’s face saddened. After all these years she still felt the pain. “But Maggie,” she said, refocusing her mind. “You’re not burying your child. You’re already up here. One would think you’d be happy to see him.”
“Of course I would. I can’t wait! But you don’t understand either. See, back down on earth there’s a huge age difference between Junior and his siblings. He’s almost young enough that each of them could be his parent, and they’re very possessive about him – always were. You see what I mean? They tend to get real pissy about his wellbeing.”
“Yes that would be very sad for all of them,” Mary agreed. “I see what you mean. Heartbreaking, and that’s not even taking his wife into account.”
“In fact it was Erin who first let me know about it, sort of.” Nellie smiled that mischievous smile of hers, like the cat that had just swallowed the canary.
“What exactly does that mean Maggie?”
“Actually, she was talking to God, and I just happened to be within earshot. That of course, is when I smacked him one. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but it’s too late now. Besides, it’s all turning out the way it should, so I guess it was justified.”
“But what about the Grim Reaper? I know you had something to do with that!”
A broad grin crept over Nellie’s face. “Insurance,” she said. “I was desperate. Everyone was so worried and depressed I had to do something, and it all came together like clockwork. Everyone was leaving to go back to their own homes in a terrible state. Nora and her daughter Mabel – that’s my granddaughter had taken Nora’s sister to the airport in fact. In the meantime the Grim Reaper had to wait until later to gather Junior up so he thought he’d pick up Mrs. Wildon in Red Deer and come back for Franky later.”
“You mean it was that close? It was to be that night?”
“Yep. It was a pivotal moment. I had to think of something real quick and the ingredients were all there. On the one hand you’ve got the Grim Reaper being a Sunday driver on his big shiny Harley, and on the other you’ve got Mabel who suffers from chronic heavy foot. All I had to do was to arrange a little ‘meeting’.”
“And –?” Asked Mary.
“I just kind of, sort of finessed the off ramp sign on the road just enough to make her think she was headed back to the hospital. I fixed it as soon as she got on the Red Deer highway so it wouldn’t effect anyone else.”
“You didn’t!” exclaimed Mary.
“I did. And then I just waited. You know there’s miles and miles of highway where you just can’t turn around. Of course, the more anxious Mabel got, the heavier her foot became. Old Grim never had a chance! The wind suction from the speed of the car bounced him and his big Harley off the road, right through the first barbed wire fence. The Harley flipped end for end, and he flew over the second one, landing at the feet of a great Hereford bull. The rest is history, as they say.”
Maggie paused to sip her tea, giving a little nod of satisfaction to emphasize her accomplishment.
“Oh my!” Mary fairly stammered. The women are all right I hope. That was a dangerous maneuver.”
“Oh, not at all. Perhaps you’ve been up here for too long to remember how these things work, and you’ve never seen how fast today’s vehicles will go. But old Grim was invisible, so they didn’t even know it happened. By the time the bull got through with him, I figured it would be quite a while before he’ll venture out to mess with one of my brood without permission again.”
Mary put down her empty cup and rose gracefully from her seat. She had so much charm and grace about her, Maggie thought. “I must go Maggie. It was a lovely visit. I learned so much. Perhaps we should get together again soon.”
“Oh, I’d like that,” Maggie smiled. Imagine – Mary, mother of Jesus had learned something from her! Maggie too wanted to learn more from this long-suffering, gracious woman.
“Yes,” Mary said. “Perhaps you can give me some lessons with that cuff in the ear tactic. I have a few issues with Joseph that need attending to.”
Maggie smiled. Maybe they weren’t so different after all.
Down in the boardroom St. Peter was saying, “It’s all in the details – the order of things, you know – cause and effect. What was that ‘old what’s his name’ figured out? ‘For every action there is a direct and opposite reaction’. See, you never restricted -.”
“Oh stop with your Goddam long winded explanations! I don’t -.”
“I heard that!” she was back.
“Just declassify the light and color shit! Let the kid do what he wants, and give me my steak! I’ve had it!”
God took the cold piece of meat, slapped it over his eye and stood up to leave. “- and do something about the Grim Reaper before we get too far behind.”
With renewed energy, now that the issue was resolved, Gabriel blew an enthusiastic blast out of his horn. God jumped back at the unexpected sound. He slowly removed the steak from his eye, looked at it a moment to make a deliberate decision, and then rammed it down the mouth of Gabriel’s horn. “Aw shaddap” he muttered and stomped unceremoniously out of the room.
