Lest Levitation Come Upon Us Part 2

Who would have ever guessed that the Sin of Sins would not be something interesting like infant cannibalism, but simply pride? She shook her head, overwhelmed.

Pride. Pride! That was the one that wouldn't be tolerated and, from what Valeria read, it was a source of real difficulty for anybody fool enough to go out for sainthood, since the more good and pure and holy you were, the more likely you were to tumble into the pit of being proud of your own goodness. People might watch Valeria lie and cheat and fornicate (horrible prospect!) and learn nothing at all from that; the Almighty could afford to ignore that, what with everybody and his housecat doing it right and left all the day and all the night long. But pride, now! If Valeria were allowed to get away with pride-even to seem to get away with pride, especially now that they were trying to get her to go on television talk shows-that would set a precedent the Almighty wouldn't dare overlook.

Valeria slammed the book shut, chuckling to herself, and went straight home to call up the television pests and say she'd be delighted to appear on their fool show. Julian roared and swore she'd ruin him, and the children all threatened to run away, but Valeria was not to be budged.

"You just wait and see," she told them. "I know what I'm doing."

"You do not!" snapped Charlotte. "You absolutely do not."

"This time I do," said Valeria.

"Valeria, if you go on that television show and millions of people all over the country get a long look at your little bag of tricks-"

"Julian Cantrell," she said, thin-lipped and sounding almost snappish, "I said I know what I'm doing, and I do. Now, I don't want to hear any more about it, not one word. You just go on about your business, and I'll go on about mine. Daryl, I'm going to need your help."

"My help?" Daryl was bewildered.

"I need you to go shopping with me," she told him.

"Mother-"

"Valeria-"

"Mother-" That was Charlotte.

"Daryl will know where we should go," Valeria insisted, "he's the right age." And Julian threw up his arms in despair and went off to work.

"All right, Mother," sighed Daryl. "I don't understand, but then I haven't understood any of this yet. Sure, I'll go with you ... what are we going after?"

"b.u.mper stickers," she said. "And those little round b.u.t.tons with the pins on the back that make a hole in your clothes when you wear them. And maybe a T-s.h.i.+rt, though I'd rather not."

"Oh, I see," said Daryl.

"Well, I don't," Philip muttered, and Charlotte declared that her mother had gone over the hill at last and should be restrained instead of taken shopping, which obliged Valeria to explain the difference between joking and Taking Liberties.

"You will see," she said comfortingly. "I promise."

She knew she had gotten it right when she appeared on the talk show and nothing happened. They were very nice about it, considering; they explained that they were always getting people who could bend spoons just by staring at them hard at home and in their friendly neighborhood bars but then couldn't do it on television.

"It's the lights," they said. "And the stress. You're not used to all this confusion around you, you know." And they a.s.sured her that they firmly and truly did believe that when she wasn't on television she had showers of rose petals falling around her and doves flying over her head and that she glowed not only in the dark but even in daylight.

But they didn't. It was obvious that they didn't. They just felt sorry for her because she'd sat there in front of all those people and nothing had happened. Valeria was encouraged, and she tugged at the b.u.t.ton on her lapel to be sure everybody noticed it, and she threw a couple of handfuls of b.u.t.tons into the audience, and left a stack of her b.u.mper stickers in the studio for anybody who wanted them.

"I'm of the opinion," she said happily, "that it's over. I really think it's all been just ... an oversight."

And she was right. Valeria Carterhasty Cantrell is a saint no longer. The ma.s.ses don't even know she exists. She is a mere codicil to a footnote in the obscure histories of religious phenomena. But her family adores her.

Daryl has a scholars.h.i.+p to Cornell, and will be going into law as his father hoped he would; he has given his microscope and his white mice to the Boys Club. Philip has just become an Eagle Scout, and he is only thirteen dollars short of the money needed to pay for his half of the computer. Charlotte is dancing in everything she can get permission to dance in and saving every penny to set up a school of baton twirling in Tulsa, Oklahoma, the minute she turns eighteen. All three children refer to Valeria's little episode as, "when Mother was so nervous," and are especially gentle and tender with her lest it happen again.

For their anniversary, Julian gave Valeria a mink jacket and a pair of diamond earrings and promised never to change shaving lotions again; for Christmas he is giving her a small vacation cottage on an island off the coast of Maine. He wors.h.i.+ps her; their marriage is the envy of every couple who knows them; he has not slept anywhere but in her arms (except on business trips) for two years. And last year he made $350,000 after taxes.

Valeria, for her part, no longer feels obliged to wear the lapel b.u.t.ton, and never was forced to buy the T-s.h.i.+rt or go on to the skywriting that she had saved as a backup if her first plan failed her. But she keeps the b.u.mper sticker, and when it gets faded she has a new one made to replace it. Valeria does not intend to take any chances.

She doesn't drive the Mercedes anymore; she drives her own car. (After all, putting the b.u.mper sticker on Julian's Mercedes would have been a bit much to ask of him.) It's the bright red sports car-with the s.h.i.+ny wheels and the ooga-horn and the fur upholstery and the quad sound system-that costs more than an average person earns in a year or so.

It's the car you see on the freeway with Valeria at the wheel, driving along flat on the ground like everybody else, tangled up in the traffic jams like any other sinner.

It's the car with the b.u.mper sticker that reads, in giant Gothic letters: h.e.l.lO THERE! I AM A HOLY BLESSED SAINT! FOLLOW ME!.