The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [155]
"No," he said at last. Then he added, "Not yet. Some poetry is tragic. It is perhaps harder to appreciate."
Anne stood then, tired, for it was the middle of the night, and was about to go back to bed when she glanced back and saw a familiar look on his face. "What?" she demanded. "What!"
"Nothing." He shrugged, knowing his singular congregation very well. "Only: if this is all that is holding you back from faith, perhaps you should just go ahead and blame God whenever you think it’s appropriate."
A slow smile started across Anne’s face and she sat back down on the cushion next to him, looking speculative.
"What?" it was his turn to ask. She was grinning wickedly now. "What are you thinking, Anne?"
"Oh, I’m just considering a few sentiments I might express to God," she said sweetly, and then clamped both hands over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. "Oh, Emilio, my darling child," she said behind her fingers in a fey and crafty voice. "I do believe you’ve hit upon a theology I can live with! I have your permission for this, do I, Father? You are willing to be implicated as an accessory?"
"How rude do you plan to get?" Emilio started to laugh warily but his face was now wholly alive. "I’m only a priest! Maybe we should check with a bishop or something—"
"Chicken shit!" she cried. "Don’t back down on me now!" And getting up on her knees, poking him in the chest repeatedly, she began to deliver herself of a series of increasingly impolite, entirely profane and very vigorously expressed opinions on the suffering and untimely death of innocents, on the fate of Cleveland in the World Series of 2018, and on the persistence of evil and of Republicans from Texas in a universe ruled by a deity who had the nerve to claim omnipotence and justice, all of which Emilio earnestly translated, with wondrously pompous and Latinate phrases, into standard groveling platitudes. Pretty soon they were clinging to each other and laughing like loons, and the whole thing got louder and rowdier until George Edwards, roused by the noise, was jolted fully awake by Anne screaming, "Emilio, stop it! Old women have weak bladders!"
"Sandoz," George yelled, "what the hell are you doing with my wife?"
"We’re discussing theology, dear," Anne sang breathlessly, snorting in great gulps of air.
"Oh, for Christ’s sake!"
"We’re still working on theodicy!" Emilio yelled. "We haven’t gotten to divine incarnation yet." Which laid them both out again.
"Kill ’em, George," D.W. suggested loudly. "Justifiable homicide."
"Will all of you please shut the fuck up?" Jimmy hollered, which for some reason made Anne and Emilio laugh even harder.
"A New York echo! Anne cried. "Hetloo-o-o!"
"Shut the fuck u-u-u-u-p!" Emilio supplied, doubling over.
"Oh, well, what the hell. Maybe I’ll give religion another try," Anne said softly, wiping her eyes as the cleansing laughter faded and they caught their breath. "You think God can handle the kind of crap that I’m likely to dish out?"
Emilio lay back on a cushion, exhausted and happy. "Anne," he said, putting his hands behind his head, "I think God will be glad to have you back."
THE LAST THING Marc Robichaux thought before the crash was, Merde, the Father Superior will be furious.
It had looked reasonable to him. The runway was still quite distinct and the vegetation looked soft and leafy. He believed that the root systems might actually be helpful in stabilizing the soil so that the wheels of the plane would not sink. Sofia had landed on many forms of terrain during her training and seemed confident that she could manage this. So they decided to go down.
Neither Marc nor Sofia had counted on vines. They must have been woody, like grapevines, or the plants would have pulled apart when the wheels touched down. Instead they grabbed viciously at the fragile little plane’s undercarriage and the sudden stop had thrown him and Sofia brutally into their harnesses. Sitting in the front seat, Marc had a terrifying view of the ground coming up to meet