Sin to Get Saved Read online

  Shortly Bartholomew brought them in on a backcountry road. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way to the house,” he said. “These trees get tricky if you got wings any bigger than a sparrow’s.” And I’ll be needing mine intact for when we get the heck up out of here, Hubert heard him mean. For Bartholomew exhibited no signs that he might be preparing to make himself comfortable.

  The road soon narrowed into more of a path, and Bartholomew led Hubert through the woods until they came to a small clearing by a river. Hubert recognized the cabin from a photograph that hung in Grandad’s bedroom—it was the house he’d built for Hubert’s grandma when they were first married. It had been destroyed by a fire, and Hubert’s grandma along with it, when Hubert’s mama was still a little girl.

  “You wouldn’ta turned out this way up there,” Grandad frequently reminded Hubert. “None of it would have turned out this way…” Hubert knew the bourbon was a sin, but he’d also learned that Grandad didn’t take correction with quite the same enthusiasm as he doled it out, so he did his best to stay small and meek and out from underfoot. Which enraged his grandad, too, but after the first bottle, what didn’t?

  “Whatever y’all boys is lookin’ for, you ain’t gonna find it ‘round here.”

  Hubert was startled by the voice and the squeaky screen door that slammed shut behind it. The bearded slab of meat that stepped out onto the porch wasn’t threatening them per se, but nor had he rolled a Welcome Wagon out the door behind him. And he was carrying an axe. But he noticed Bartholomew’s wings and softened fractionally. “You an angel?”

  Bartholomew nodded an affirmative. “I am. I’m Bartholomew. This here’s Hubert.”

  The beard parted to show a flash of teeth. “That’s my name.”

  Hubert’s eyes went round. Gawking at the vast bearded stranger, he could pick out his same cowlick, and his same off-centered beak, but this Hubert was also yoked like a draft horse. He had a thick neck and a heavy belly and hands like catcher’s mitts, and he was beaten weathered and red by a life outdoors.

  “That’s me?” Hubert asked Bartholomew.

  Bartholomew nodded, but Big Bearded Hubert stepped down off the porch to answer. “You’re Hubert?” he asked with a laugh. “No wonder they sent me. You’d never get your first tree down.” He lumbered across the clearing and offered Hubert and Bartholomew handshakes.

  “You have to chop down trees?” Hubert asked, nodding towards the axe.

  “‘Less we wanna freeze to death, I do. Stove needs wood, plus I got another bed to build. Lookin’ at what a runt you are, you’d think I could get me at least one kid didn’t grow out of the danged crib.” He laughed and gave Hubert a hearty slap on the shoulder that nearly knocked him down.

  “You have kids?”

  A hilarious question, judging by Big Bearded Hubert’s laugh. “Do I have kids?” He hollered the word again. “Kids! Get on out here, meet your Pa’s friends.”

  Two young girls, aged maybe three and five, appeared to peek out the screen door. They were joined by a young brother still in diapers, who tumbled to his hands and knees when a teenager in a long skirt carrying a baby pushed through the door and stepped out onto the porch. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Your Pa has some friends visiting. Where’re your brothers and sisters at?”

  She shrugged.

  “Well, find some of ‘em, gal!”

  Hubert had counted five. “There are more?”

  Another hilarious inquiry. “I got seventeen of ‘em and a pregnant wife,” Big Bearded Hubert said.

  Hubert’s jaw moved, but he couldn’t get any sound to come out. Eighteen children?

  Big Bearded Hubert gave Hubert another balance-threatening back-slap. “Your grandad wants to be proud of you, Hubert. Er, well, of me. He ain’t never gonna be proud of that,” he said. He gave Hubert’s narrow shoulders a shake, then stepped back to include spectacular shirtless Bartholomew, and everything his presence implied, in his indictment. “Now is he?”

  Hubert was too stunned to cry. His chest was cold and tight and he reached instinctively for Bartholomew’s hand.

  “That’s probably about enough of that,” Bartholomew said.

  Big Bearded Hubert shrugged. “They wanted sensitive, they coulda kept this one.”

  “I understand,” Bartholomew said. “But he’s having some trouble adjusting. Maybe take it easy?”

  Another shrug.

  “What all’s goin’ on out here?” a shrill and hassled voice demanded. The screen slammed, and an enormous woman in a faded, flowered sundress stomped onto the porch. “Hubert, who’s them queers holding hands? You could take a couple steps back from the pretty boy, while you’re at it. Your boy’s got a diaper needs changin’, and I thought you was gonna fix me some supper?”

  “Is that your wife?”

  Big Bearded Hubert nodded.

  Eighteen children. Regular Hubert shivered.

  Big Bearded Hubert called out, “Comin’, Butterball. We was just sayin’ good-bye.” He looked from Hubert to Bartholomew, raised an eyebrow: right?

  “That little stupid-lookin’ one looks like you,” Butterball called out with a cackle.

  “Bartholomew?” Hubert tugged at the angel’s hand.

  “Sorry to have troubled you,” Bartholomew said.

  “Wasn’t no trouble,” Big Bearded Hubert called after them as they turned to find their way back to the road. “Explained a lot.”

  “That’s really Heaven?” Hubert asked as he slouched along the trail through the trees. He was still holding Bartholomew’s hand—this place was too cruel for him to feel alone on top of it.

  “It’s not your Heaven, Hubert. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

  “But it’s my grandad’s? When he thinks of Paradise, it’s me chopping wood with a giant wife and eighteen kids?”

  “Well, this is eternity, don’t forget. You’re liable to end up with a lot more than eighteen.”

  “Bartholomew, that’s my worst nightmare, what we just saw. I feel like crying, ‘cept I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop. Chopping wood? For eternity?”

  Bartholomew shuddered, too. “Yeah, well, that’s kind of what I’ve been trying to tell you, Hubert—your Heaven has to be right for you. It doesn’t matter what your preacher or your grandad think it should be like—that’s why they get their own. You think your grandad wants you tellin’ him what his purple eternity’s gonna look like?”

  This got a laugh. “He sure don’t.”

  “Then why’s he get to tell you?”

  “Well…” Hubert couldn’t think of a good reason. The men who’d cooked up these versions of Paradise didn’t understand Hubert at all. A simple little house, maybe up on a hill by the ocean; some companionship from someone for once in his life who could go ten minutes without telling Hubert how he was shameful or why he was evil or what he was doing wrong—talk about Paradise! Actually, when you put it that way…

  “I know,” Bartholomew said, seeming suddenly inspired as they cleared the trees onto the road near where they’d touched down. “You wanna go home?”

  Hubert nodded. “Please.”

  “What if we take a little detour?”

  Hubert shrugged. “I’ll follow you,” he said with a little chuckle.

  Bartholomew smiled, then scooped Hubert up and sailed into the sky. “We’re not gonna go quite so high on the way home,” he said. Hubert felt the thrum of his voice through his chest. “There’s something it might help you to see.”

  They hadn’t flown but a short distance when they passed through a cloud. “Here, look,” Bartholomew said as they came out the other side.

  The landscape below had changed utterly, and a huge city of skyscrapers and superhighways glittered off into the distance in every direction. It was noisy and lively and the streets were jammed with shoppers, block after block after block. Hubert had never been in a city bigger than San Francisco, which was plenty big. He hoped they wouldn’t
land; if he or some slick surrogate Hubert had a place in this Heaven, he didn’t feel the need to know about it. But soon another cloud appeared, and they flew through it into a whole new world. An oasis of colored tents and shady trees and smoky fire pits clustered around a sparkling spring. Music and laughter floated up to Hubert, entwined with the smell of spices and sizzling fat.

  Another cloud, another scene, as distinct from the previous, Hubert learned to expect, as from the one to come. They flew over beaches and mountains and prairies of flowers in bloom; past New York City as it was in 1890, as it was in 1955, and as someone hoped it would be five hundred years into a computerized, push-button future. Some streets unraveled like pastel imaginings by Dr. Seuss; some rivers ran over with champagne; some people seemed happily settled into eternities of scenic solitude, others would never fear another moment away from the dance floor. Bright, dark; bustling, calm; nature and cities, but also spaceships, steam trains, and yachts the size of Yosemite.

  “Definitely something for everyone,” Hubert said when they landed on the lawn in front of the house in his Heaven.

  “Exactly,” Bartholomew said. “So why should you be any less worthy?”

  Hubert shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I dunno. ‘Cause I’m queer, I guess?”

  Unimpressed, Bartholomew shook his head.

  “‘Cause I’m skinny and ugly?” Hubert practically whispered.

  “Hubert.” Bartholomew put his arms around Hubert. “Please tell me that sounded like a terrible reason to you, too.”

  He shrugged. He looked at his feet. He wanted to look into Bartholomew’s friendly face, but he couldn’t. “It’s what they always taught me.” A tear escaped his left eye, and Bartholomew wiped it gently with a golden finger, then placed his hand against Hubert’s chest.

  “And in your heart,” he said, “does that sound true?”

  Hubert couldn’t push his answer past the lump in his throat, and when he tried he broke down in sobs. Bartholomew took Hubert in his arms, kissed him sweetly on the forehead, and said, “Good. ‘Cause it sure shouldn’t.”

  Chapter 4

  Months flew by in seconds; seconds unfolded over months. “We don’t really have ‘time’ here,” Bartholomew had explained. “Not the way you think of it. But there’s hardly any point in putting this beautiful house on the edge of this beautiful ocean without plopping a sunset into it every once in a while, is there?”

  They often watched the sun go down together, from the front porch or from the cluster of rocks near the edge of the cliff. Other than that, for a long while Hubert kept mostly to himself. If he needed anything, which was rare, or just wanted something, which was almost never, he called on Bartholomew, who was always happy to provide, but otherwise went about his business. Which seemed to consist mostly of riding the wind like a roller coaster and frolicking in the surf with mermaids from neighboring Heavens. Sometimes Hubert went for what felt like days without seeing him, but had only to whisper his name to bring him striding through the front door.

  One evening as the sun set about sinking into the sea, it washed Hubert’s entire Heaven with a golden glow. Hubert felt as though he had to push through great curtains of light to make his way down the gentle slope to where a radiant Bartholomew stared out to a sea that glittered like glass. My, but those jeans were snug. Bartholomew had lately exhibited the littlest belly pot—someone had to frolic in those chocolate waterfalls—and the extra pounds hadn’t done his plump rump any harm. His ringlets danced on the breeze that ruffled his feathers and carried their light lavender scent across the lawn, and his face was a study in serenity when Hubert sidled up beside him.

  “Wow,” Hubert said. The sunset, the ocean, Bartholomew—it was all breathtaking, and Hubert saw no point in parsing his admiration; let the angel hear what he wanted to hear.

  “Right?” Without really looking away from the horizon, Bartholomew opened his arms in invitation. Hubert stepped into them. Words failed Hubert as they watched the sun paint the sky, although commentary on the swirling tableau scarcely seemed necessary. A gash of orange bled rose, then ruby; the clouds added quick dabs, here of peach, there of pink, while purple crept across the canvas as if the Creator had kicked a bucket of it over. To doubt love in this moment seemed to Hubert downright rude.

  “Bartholomew?”

  “Yes, Hubert?”

  Hubert turned within Bartholomew’s embrace to look into his eyes, which reflected the riotous sky. “You know how when I first got here you kept trying to…you know…be sexy?”

  “I don’t have to try to be sexy, Hubert,” Bartholomew insisted with a wink. “It pretty much just happens.”

  Hubert smiled. Surprised Bartholomew when he said, “I know. What I mean, I guess…why ain’t you tried nothing since? You know…come on to me?”

  Bartholomew turned the whole of his attention from the sky to Hubert’s earnest face. “This is your Heaven, Hubert. I made myself…let’s say ‘available’ to you at first because I thought it was what you wanted. I mean, I kind of assumed…” They chuckled together, and the angel went on. “You didn’t, so I dropped it.” He waited for Hubert to respond—he could see the wheels turning in Hubert’s head—but when he didn’t, he asked him, “Why?”

  Hubert shrugged. “I don’t know…” he hedged. “I guess it’s just…you know, now…” Hubert’s eyes fell away from Bartholomew’s, he barely whispered. “I might not mind it so much.”

  Bartholomew put a finger under Hubert’s chin, lifted it to guide Hubert’s eyes back to his. “Really?”

  Hubert nodded. It might have been the first thing Bartholomew had ever seen him do without hesitation. Then Hubert smiled. Sure Bartholomew had wings, but even without them they would have flown back to the house.

  Bartholomew seemed way more excited about Hubert coming to terms with being Hubert than it had occurred to Hubert to be. “Hubert’s Big Gay Mansion,” he exclaimed, flinging wide the front door. “Take one!”

  It was nothing like the front room Hubert had left forty minutes before. Suddenly every surface seemed upholstered. There were heavy curtains everywhere, and designer chairs clustered around a suede sectional sofa; every corner and cranny had a naked man in it, some cast in bronze, others hewn of marble, and there were so many candles Hubert felt like he’d fallen face-first into a birthday cake.

  “Umm…”

  Bartholomew took stock of Hubert’s hesitation to gush. “Too much?” he asked.

  “It’s a little…”

  “Too much,” Bartholomew said again. With a flick of his finger, the room reverted to its original condition. “Maybe we’ll ease you into that.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But maybe we could still do some art?” Bartholomew wondered.

  “Maybe…”

  “We’ve got this big wall here.” It faced the wall of windows, made the hallway on its other side possible. “Maybe a nice Tom of Finland?” He flicked his finger, summoning a black and white pencil sketch of what appeared to be several mustachioed policemen in various stages of undress admiring the absurdly round buns on a naked blonde youth.

  “Umm…”

  “Right,” Bartholomew muttered. “Tom of Finland might be a bit advanced. How ‘bout Michelangelo?” Another flick and a colossal statue of a naked man teetered on a pedestal, again with absurdly round buns. Hubert wasn’t opposed to absurdly round buns in general—at least, not anymore—but Bartholomew’s were really the only ones he was interested in.

  “Does it have to be so…?”

  “So gay?”

  “Well, I was gonna say ‘so naked,’ but same thing, I guess.”

  Bartholomew flicked his finger again. Now he was naked, and the statue, twice his height and half-again as thick, sported the jeans.

  Hubert laughed.

  “That better?”

  “It’s better. What else you got?”

  Bartholomew considered this request. As he flipped through a mental file of priceless art, ea
ch one flashed onto the wall or into the living room. Hubert liked some better than others—Matisse and Monet went into the ‘Maybe’ pile; Warhol, Cadmus, and Hockney were rejected outright—but he wasn’t ready to live with any of it, and Bartholomew was ready to just throw up a fish tank and be done with it when he got an idea.

  “What do you think of this?” He flicked, and two lopsided stick figures under a magic-marker rainbow splashed across the wall. Scribbled green grass underlined the scene, and three randomly placed lower-case Ms must have been meant as birds. Unless the one was a hat…

  Hubert gasped. “I made that.”

  “I know.”

  “In, like, kindergarten.”

  Hubert sat down. “It’s me and my mama. Supposed to be.”

  Bartholomew smiled.

  Hubert did not. “Grandad threw it away when I brought it home. Said if it was my mama, why wasn’t she wearing a skirt? He said it looked like two boys, and only perverts liked the rainbow. ‘Perverts,’ he said; I musta been five?”

  “I’m sorry, Hubert. I’ll take it down. We’ll keep looking.”