...and it has an illustration, unlike most adult novels. (By "adult", we mean "novels largely read by grown-ups", not "nudge-nudge, wink-wink or things to do with sexytime".
Here is a discussion of Heaven (we've finally decided to capitalise it) between Keturah (Kettlecorn) and Stig. In a later excerpt we'll explain why we think Bram's idea of Heaven on earth (Earth?) is the consumption of 22 peanut-butter cups. How dare we.
Is there vengeance in heaven? Will we finally get a good kick-at-the-can if we pass through the Pearly Gates, honest and, heaven forbid we use a tired buzzword, transparent at last? Do the do-gooders (and why does that sound like a pejorative) get to call up some nefarious sorts from Hades for the afternoon and give them a once-over?
How long is an afternoon in heaven? And, once and for all, is it Heaven or heaven? It’s kind of a complicated thing. If we capitalise Hades, and not heaven or, with more poetic gravitas, ‘the heavens’ – then one may feel a bit at loose ends with proper nouns and whatnot.
Ruth was a semi-lapsed Catholic, as was Auld Owny. When either of them felt like returning to the fold, they’d pray for themselves and weep, then find a new and accommodating church. Ruth beamed when she found hers. The priest annulled her marriage, which felt nice, and the weekly church bulletin contained a coupon for a free Egg McMuffin after Sunday service. “I like to split mine in half. The savoury part with the egg is eaten first, and the rest of it, the sweet part, is spread with butter and jam. You should come to mass with me.”
But when it came down to the countdown to heaven, Ruth was staunchly opposed. “Honey, there’s nothing after you die. There are no angels floating around on clouds, bowling when there’s a thunderstorm. There’s nothing. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. You die, your body is buried, and that’s it.”
However, in moments of piety, she argued her own point. “Honey, there’s no such thing as an afterlife, with people meeting up with their already-gone family and all that. Once you die, your body turns to dust – remind me to tell you why I think cremation is much more sanitary and less morbid – and God releases your soul to float freely around the universe. Me, I want my soul in the body of an eagle, soaring majestically over mountaintops.”
We don’t remember if she told us what a soul actually did with its time. We pictured a ghost hovering over Stonehenge in a mist, waiting for further instruction.
“Well, I like that idea,” says Stig. “I dig the idea of a soul wandering around until it gets the word from Mission Control to get its ethereal arse in gear and return to Planet Earth, but better-evolved for a’ that. Earth had better be in its tip-top form, as well. I can live with that.
Food is part of it. Am I a dog? Am I aware that I am a dog? If I did not live my best life as a dog, may I return to live that life again and again, each time better than the last – thinking of Bram and his peanut-butter cups here - but not in a sense of gluttony or consumerism? Are we all dogs in heaven? Is there differentiation between dog and human? I’ve never been the kind of dog to overeat with such abandon that I make myself sick and begin again. I am food-motivated, but the way a good dog is motivated by his dinner and has gratitude for it. I’m aware of the hand that feeds me and I do not bite it, at least not beyond puppyhood. We do not talk about coprophagia. Certainly, we will have worked that quirk out of our systems by the time we get to heaven.”
We issue a laugh.
“Why do you laugh,” asks Bram, without expression, as he walks into the room. “I haven’t given you anything to laugh about.”
“We were talking about heaven with someone.”
“That again,” says Bram.
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