Remembering Hell (4 page)

Dad and I are laughing at that
shared memory as we enter my apartment building.

The access point for each condo is
located in a common hallway shared by all condos in that building. Much like
Hell, I’m not bothered by my neighbors, but unlike Hell we all get along. I
have always believed my sanctuary to be unique, even though there are at least
twelve units in this building. Upon entering my tiny yet elegant space, I am
immediately put at rest with its interior painted in the softest of pale blues
and the deep plush wall to wall carpet. We enter into the living room where I
am greeted by the only wall within its protective boundaries. It is L-shaped,
made of mortar and stone providing a warmth like no simple wall I have ever
seen. Within its confines there is a glass fireplace that allows viewing from
the oversized sofa strategically placed in front of it or the overstuffed
grandmother’s bed that I slumber so peacefully in directly on the other side
where my bedroom is located. And this bedroom has ample walk-in closet space
graciously giving me several choices of fabulous outfits each day. The dining
area houses simply a large tabled booth, which gives it a sense of style as
well as some retro funkiness that always makes me feel super cool. Lastly, the
tiny white kitchen with its pristine tiled countertops and small appliances is
housed by a far wall made completely of glass. Standing in the kitchen I look
out to the most breathtaking view. We aren’t up terribly high, but we are high
enough that Hellions would be blinded before they ever caught a glimpse of me
through the wall. But when I look through it, it looks as if my apartment sits
on the top of a rainbow. This rainbow was not preceded by a storm, it never
disappears, its colors never fade. It stands eternal, just like Deedy’s promise
that there is room for everyone here, and everyone is coming home someday. I
offer my father a glass of water; pure, delicious, and ice cold straight from
the tap. He accepts and sits on the couch.

“Can I get you something else?
Something to eat?” I ask casually.

“How about information. What is up,
Lou?” His face is suddenly filled with that fatherly concern again.

I laugh out loud. “What are you
worried about, Dad?”

“What I have always worried about
when it comes to you.” He downs his glass of water in one long, breathless
draw. “That your mouth is writing checks that your ass can’t cash. And the fact
that I noticed Linda was not with Hank when he arrived today, I am thinking
that check was drawn from the National Bank of Hell.”

“Okay, yes…my new assignment is
back there,” I start slowly. “But it isn’t like I’m being sent back to eternal
damnation. This time I will be there as an employee.”

Dad stares at the bottom of his
empty glass. “Still, it feels a little like a demotion, doesn’t it, Louise?”

“But can you really call it a
demotion if I asked for the assignment?” I answer him quietly.

“I knew it!” he exclaims. “You
think you are going to save Linda!” He leaps off the sofa and for a split
second I honestly believe he is about to spank me like I am six years old again
with my hand stuck in the forbidden cookie jar.

Fortunately he stops short and
instead puts his hand on the side of my face, cupping my cheek. “Are you crazy,
baby girl?” he says.

“Maybe, but I’m delusional. I know
I can’t save her. I just feel better knowing that even though she’s there and I
am here we can share the same space sometimes. The chance of me even seeing her
is one in a million, and the chance of her seeing me is non-existent. It really
is more about me than it is her. Understand?”

“Nope. But what else is new.” He
sighs heavily. “Just promise me you will let me know if you get in over your
head? If you begin to feel overwhelmed?” His concern is palatable. My eyes
start to feel wet and my vision blurs. I blink quickly to stave off the tears.
My love for this man is the only thing overwhelming me right now.

“I love you, Daddy, but sometimes I
really feel like I need to introduce myself.” I laugh and give him a peck on
the cheek. “I’m lazy, I have been known to be a mooch, particularly off of you
and Mom back in the day, and I have been called a slacker more than once. But
have you ever known me to get in over my head? Well, at least for me to admit
it?”

Now he is laughing. “No. You have
always been the bravest person I know.”

“Then give me a little credit. It
is all going to be fine.” We embrace, and I rest my head on his chest. I
imagine feeling his heartbeat, even though I know that there isn’t one. I take
a deep breath and give him another squeeze. “Now I have to kick you out. Early
day tomorrow!” I say cheerily.

“Good night, sweetie. And good luck
tomorrow.” He walks out the door, and I close it behind him. There is no need
to lock it. We don’t even have locks on our doors up here. No peep holes
either. What threatening thing could be waiting outside a door in paradise?

I move to the bedroom and feel the
temperature drop. Even though the space is open, the temperature in the bedroom
is always freezing cold. I love to sleep in a cold room. Everything here is
exactly how you want it to be. I get into my pajamas, which are also my ideal.
Large and fleecy and soft. Then, almost out of habit I get on my knees by the
bed and fold my hands in front of me.

I sit there and think for just a
moment. Then I finally say, “Hello, Deedy. Not much too really say tonight.
Guess I will see you bright and early in the morning.” Then I laugh and crawl
into bed.

It’s funny, but in Heaven I rarely
dream. If I were ever to have a gun pointed at my head, with some crazy person
demanding that I must come up with one thing I miss about Hell, this would be
the only thing I could say. In Hell, dreams were all I had. In Heaven we have
everything we could possibly dream of, hence…no actual real dreams.

Except for tonight.

Tonight my peaceful slumber turns
into a confessional of my true motivation for asking Deedy for the new job. I
would be embarrassed if I were awake, but my subconscious apparently has no
shame. In my dream I appear in Hell as a fearless and respected warrior. I fly
through the streets on mighty wings. People scatter when they see me
approaching. Sinners fall to the ground and weep when they see me, calling my
name and turn to each other saying things like “She used to be one of us, but
look at her now!” But I don’t have time to stop and bask in their adoration.
I’m searching every face, looking for Linda. I call out to her as I swoop down
corner to corner, through alleys and shops. Finally, I see her walking toward
me. She’s young again, nineteen or twenty. She looks like she looked when we
first met at a party so many years ago. At first she seems confused, looking at
the people surrounding her with bewilderment. Then her eyes scan me, and
recognition lights up her face. “Lou?” she cries. “Lou, I don’t know what
happened. Please tell me you are here to save me!” she pleads.

“Of course I am,” I say in this
weird, amplified voice. I land next to her and take her hand. “Did you really
think I would let you stay here?” She smiles and gazes at me with pure
admiration and gratitude.

“Come on,” I say as we rise
together, my gorgeous wings strong enough to support us both. “Let’s go be
happier today than we were yesterday, and make all our tomorrows wonderful.”
And holding on to my best friend, I fly into the bright blue sky.

CHAPTER FOUR

Linda wakes to find herself in a
strange hotel-like room. There is even a neon sign outside flashing the words
NO VACANCY right outside her window, making the dark space seem like a slow
motion video of a disco from the 1970s. She shakes the cobwebs out of her head
and sits up. There is no TV, and she is not in her recliner. Then she
remembers. She is not at home, and she will never be there again. “I’m dead,”
she says aloud to the silent flashing. “And so is Hank.” She looks around,
almost panicky, but registers a bit of disappointment too when she realizes
she’s alone.

Everything in this room is gray. A
washed out, colorless, threadbare bedspread thrown over an ancient mattress.
Linda gets up and looks at it with disgust. This makes “Don’t let the bed bugs
bite” sound like an actual threat. There is a small table in the corner with a
dusty old monitor sitting on top. “Internet? Seriously?” There is also a chair,
but it looks like it would collapse under the weight of a newspaper, let alone
her. There is a closet and there seems to be something hanging in it. Linda
looks down and realizes she is currently naked. Not that it is uncomfortable,
since she has A) come to terms with her aged body and B) realizes that it has
to be one hundred and twelve degrees at least in this miserable room, but she
still pulls open the door and sees a dress made out of the same material as the
bedspread. It is fantastically horrid. She looks at the size and it is at least
four sizes too big. She stops to wonder what happen to Tara O’Fatass that she
left behind her dress that she made from an extra blanket, one could only
assume. Maybe her Clark Gable came and carried her away. Linda looks around one
more time. “Yeah, probably not.”

She decides to stay naked for now
and moves to the bathroom. The stench is so bad it is like an actual thing
inside the room. She can feel it. She gags and flushes the toilet, which also
had remnants of a former guest left behind inside of it. She searches for air
freshener or at least soap to cut into the lingering stench. There is
absolutely nothing in here. No little shampoos, no fancy soap, not even a free
shower cap or one of those shitty little sewing kits with four pieces of thread
and a single button too small to fit anything inside. “This place makes a roach
motel look like a fucking Hilton!” she exclaims. “And why is it so hot?” With
that she gets a flash of realization. She slides onto the floor and starts to
cry. “Fuck me. I am in Hell,” she cries.

After about fifteen minutes of
steady sobbing, she pulls herself together and gets up, walks over and rips a
thin strip off of the remaining bedspread, and uses it to tie up her hair. Then
she walks over to the closet, gets out the dress and pulls it over her head.
There are combat boots at the bottom of the closet that she pulls onto her
feet. For a brief moment she wonders where Hank is right now, and wishes he was
here to provide her with some comfort in his familiarity if nothing else. But
no, she is glad he isn’t here and hopes in her heart of hearts that he ended up
somewhere better. She wipes the remaining tears from her face and walks to the
door.

She flashes on some old movie she
watched one night when she couldn’t sleep and is afraid that she may not be
able to leave this room. But when she pulls open the door and enters the
hallway, nothing pulls her back in. So, she continues down two flights of
stairs and into the lobby.

Even through the dingy windows of
the lobby she can tell that the air outside is kind of orangey. She wonders if
that’s fire on the other side of the door. She stops at the front desk where a
man of about forty is on the computer behind the counter. He is beating the
side of it and cursing under his breath. She stands and waits patiently for a
few minutes, then with no sign of his personal battle ending any time soon, she
clears her throat.

He looks at her with disgust.
“What?”

She realizes she has no idea what
she’s about to say. She just opens her mouth and waits to see what comes out.
“I don’t know what to do now,” she whispers.

“You are the newbie in room
twenty-four, right?” he responds, with no less disdain.

“Guess so,” she answers.

“Well, I suggest you get your ass
out there and find a job. Because rent is due by the end of the week.”

“A job?” She is in wonder now. She
has not had a job in years. She’s in her 80s for fuck’s sake.

“Yeah, like what I’m doing right
now? You think I hang out behind the counter of a Hellion half-way house for
fun?” She is really not liking this kid at all.

“Where should I go?” she asks, not
really expecting any help at all.

“Anywhere but here, grandma,” he says
with his eyes on the computer again.

With that, her last shred of doubt
diminishes, and she knows this is it. It’s time to face her eternity. So she
turns and walks out the door into the streets of Hell.

CHAPTER FIVE

My first thought is why does eight
am come so damn early in the morning? Granted, I am not fully conscious at this
point. But then I become fully aware and much to my own surprise, a little
excited. Yes, I am headed to a scary new assignment. But it is also a new
adventure. And of course, after last night’s dream, I can secretly admit that I
am hoping to run into Linda once I get there.

There’s the rub. I can secretly
wish whatever I want, but I can never speak that wish aloud. Of course Deedy
and Gabby will know. Hell, they may have already known before I ever did. But
until it is spoken and made real, it belongs to me and me alone. That is how
things work both here and in the living world. Each of us is gifted with a
sacred chamber deep within our spirit where we can run free. Free of judgment,
free of criticism. No wish or thought can be held against a person while it is
kept there.

Once you say it, or worse, act on
it, do something to turn it into a thing instead of a concept, then and only
then is Karmic Debt incurred. In other words, you can wish your lying,
cheating, bitch of an ex-wife die a slow and painful death, but you ain’t
allowed to kill her.

I hop out of bed and move to the
bathroom where I take a moment to run a very hot shower. I like the way the
steam rises and clings to the glass and chrome fixtures, coating everything
with clean. I always enjoy this, but today in particular it is nice. Because
today I won’t see fresh or clean for many hours.

I stand in the shower and let the
hot water run over my body, my face, my hair. I enjoy the last real comfort of
the day before I step out and wrap myself in a large, incredibly fuzzy towel. I
make my way to my closet. In the last few years, me and my closet have
developed a love affair. Every day I not only get choices, but they are amazing
choices. Designer couture, long breezy maxi-dresses, full legged pantsuits in
soft linen, intricately embroidered jackets. Yes, I have my own signature style
in Heaven. And the shoes! The shoes alone are worth the price of admission.
Peep toe stilettos, adorable kitten heels, soft buttery leather flats, like
little pieces of art you can wear on your feet.

However, today our love affair
turns into an ‘I think we should see other people’ kind of relationship. To be
specific, I think my closet is fooling around with whatever supernatural power
runs the closets in Hell. I look in dismay at my only choice for the day. To be
fair, it is not as bad as the Hellions are finding in their closets right now,
but it will definitely blend in with their daily punishment.

It seems to be a sort of uniform.
Navy blue pants that are stiff with starch and have been creased to the point
of looking like they have seams sewn down them. There is a light blue cotton
shirt that looks worn at the collar and the bottom of the sleeves. While it is
faded, it is also soft and looks reasonably comfortable. Thankfully, there is
not a name patch above the front pocket. I put on the plain white underwear
supplied for me and then the uniform. I tuck in the shirt and find a belt in the
back that works well to separate the two blues if not to hold up the pants,
that seem to fit me perfectly. I also find a pair of white tube socks that I
put on, laughing because Bobby, the love of my life, would refuse to wear
anything but these ridiculous socks. I didn’t even have to match them up after
doing laundry. I would just open up a drawer and dump an entire basket of the
same sock into the drawer. He claimed it was easier to get dressed every
morning. I thought it was a fashion impediment. Today, however, I look at those
socks and want to kiss them. Finally, there is a pair of boots at the bottom of
the closet that are heavy and steel toed, but surprisingly supportive and even
kind of bouncy under my feet. Okay, so it’s no white Chanel suit with a high
neck and a pencil skirt, but it is still from Heaven after all. I run a brush
through my hair, pinch my cheeks, glance at my reflection in the mirror—yes,
mirrors work even though our bodies are kind of imaginary. I think the mirrors
might be too, but that is just my theory—blow myself a kiss and walk out the
door.

When I arrive at the Second Chance
Temp Agency Gabby is waiting, coffee in hand, with a huge smile plastered
across her face. It looks unnatural, like she is secretly Mrs. Potato Head and
she has just picked up that smile and crammed it into her face seconds before I
got there.

“Should I be frightened?” I ask.

“Why?” she answers sweetly. “I just
figured you wouldn’t have time to chat while coffee brewed, since you didn’t
arrive until two minutes to eight for an eight o’clock appointment.”

Good grief. I had forgotten about
Gabby’s almost compulsive need for punctuality. “So that’s it? You are worried
about my being on time?”

“Of course it is!” she says, and
that smile gets even wider, against all biological possibility. Gabby is not
being 100 percent honest.

Suddenly it strikes me. She saw my
dream. My arrogant, ambitious dream that pretty much proves I was lying my ass
off when I swore that was not why I wanted to go back to Hell.

“Gabby, I can explain my—”

“Inability to get up and moving on
time?” she interrupts me gently. “Too bad, you’ll have to save your excuses for
your next visit. You are officially out of time. The boss will be bellowing
down the hall any second now.” Her smile is now kind, but her eyes are
screaming at me. And I don’t need telepathic powers to get the message loud and
clear. Shut up, Louise. Shut up now. Keep your secrets safe.

“I understand,” I say with
gratitude. “Thanks for the coffee.” The delicious brew is halfway to my mouth
when Deedy’s voice intrudes into our unspoken conversation.

“Where is that darling girl? I tell
you something, Gabby, you are slipping. You used to be so much more on point,
keeping my appointments running on time!” I can hear laughter in his voice. I
think it is funny that Deedy has noticed her whole prompt issue too.

“Don’t let him get away with that,
Gabrielle!” I say loudly, but also with humor. Then I storm through the door
into his office and announce, “Honey, I’m home!”

Deedy laughs out loud. “My
goodness, Ms. Patterson, you are in an awfully good mood, considering what is
about to happen.”

“And what is about to happen?” I
say eagerly, pulling up a chair across from his desk.

Deedy strides over to his desk and
lets his long body fold into the chair. Then he reaches into a drawer and pulls
out a file. I used to hate that when I worked here. Those file folders house
every bit of information regarding a person’s life, death, afterlife, even
dreams. When I was still under the false impression that Deedy was a weird temp
agency owner, I was still very aware that he had some kind of access. He knew
all of my baggage, some of it that was lost to me, in my remorse ridden brain.
He now looks over the file in front of him, and I realize he is peering into
the very soul of some poor schmuck who is as clueless as I used to be.

Deedy looks up and smiles at me.
“You are assigned to be the guardian...” He pauses after saying the word
guardian and gives me a half beat to rise up and say that I’ve changed my mind.
I look at him defiantly to let him know that is not going to happen.

“...of a man named Joe Watkins,” he
continues. “Joe died tragically. He was very young. Thirty-five.”

“Wow, so this could be a cool
assignment after all. Got a picture of the kid?” I say flirtatiously.

“He is older than you, Louise. And
he has been in Hell for over seventy years. Believe me, he is not in the mood
for a blind date with an ambitious little sprite who thinks she can talk her
way through a keyhole.” He winks at me.

“You don’t mean that. You love me,”
I say teasingly.

“I mean every word, and of course I
love you,” he answers.

“So, thirty-five. What happened to
Joe?”

“Car accident. Unfortunately, it
was on a very bad day.”

“What happened?”

“Joe was a journalist, back in the
day when print was king, no one had heard of the internet yet, and tabloid
journalism was enjoying a certain amount of dubious prestige. Like a bastard
son of an emperor suddenly coming into his birthright,” Deedy says.

“So he worked for the National Enquirer?”
I ask and then tap on the lid of the curse jar expectantly, imitating the way
Deedy always does it when I use a curse word.

“Actually, he worked for a small
budget wanna-be tell all paper. And, Ms. Sassy Pants, I used the term bastard
in its original, Germanic context. Not as a curse.” Deedy loves words, all
words, even some of the worst ones. And he always knows where they came from
and what they are supposed to mean. “Anyway,” he continues, “do you remember an
actor named Tom Thomas?”

“Of course, everyone knew Tom
Thomas,” I exclaim. “He was like, every girl’s dream man when my mom and her
friends were teenagers.” I stop to reflect on when he died. “I was in my late
teens when he passed. For a minute I actually thought he may have been a long
lost relative, the way my mom reacted. And the phone was ringing off the hook
with all her cronies calling to cry and sob and beat their chests over his
death. Then I thought that maybe my mom had actually dated him, because my dad
got all irritated at Mom and her friends, and walked around the house muttering
stuff like ‘What kind of man has the same name two times, anyway.’ And ‘I hated
him in that movie with the dog. The dog had more talent.’ Once I found out that
he was just my mom’s favorite actor, I sort of thought she was being silly, but
I also remember thinking that that was the closest I ever got to seeing my
mother as a real person, not just a mom.” I smile now at that memory.

“Do you remember how he died?”
Deedy asks.

“Drug overdose. Big surprise,” I
say with sarcasm.

Deedy looks at me questioningly. So
I continue, “He was a celebrity. All celebrities die of a drug overdose,
murder, drowning in their own pool, or psoriasis of the liver,” I say
matter-of-factly, as though everyone in the universe has come to the same
conclusion.

“Wow, that’s a broad
generalization,” Deedy says, casually.

“So what does Tom Thomas have to do
with our Joe?” I ask.

“Joe was the reporter who scooped
the biggest exclusive of that year. Maybe even of that century.”

I reach into the deepest caverns of
my memory, searching for the old dusty jar marked “Useless pop culture facts
from when I was alive.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That Tom Thomas, my
mom’s generation’s biggest heartthrob since Elvis Presley, was as gay as a
picnic basket?” The memory came back suddenly.

“And unlike most of Joe’s stories,
he did not have to rely on his own imagination credited as a source close to
the star. He had a spurned lover with photographic evidence to out Mr. Thomas.
It was a glorious victory for him and his paper.” Deedy has just a touch of
edge in his voice.

“So he didn’t lie, and he did his
job. He did it well, so it would seem. How does that constitute a bad day?” I
realize I am literally sitting on the edge of my seat. I scoot back and wait
for an answer.

“Because it was the day after that
exclusive hit the streets that Tom went to visit his neighbor. The neighbor was
a somewhat famous drummer for an up and coming rock band. He was able to supply
enough heroin for Tom to end his life.” Deedy looks up and finishes the story
looking directly at me. “That was the first and only time Tom had ever done
heroin. While all the papers, legitimate and tabloid, reported it as another
celebrity doing too much of his favorite drug, most everyone in the inner circle
suspected suicide.”

“But why?” I ask incredulously.
“Why did he feel that was the only way out? By the time the story came to light
his career was long over, and the stigma regarding a gay actor playing straight
roles was a faded memory.”

“My darling girl, you too died
young, so you never knew the sensation of growing old. The world changes around
you, adopts new ideas and accepts new things, but people rarely do. Even though
the world could take Tom Thomas being gay, Tom couldn’t live in a world where he
was out. All he knew was his secrets, the compartmentalization of his private
and public lives.”

“So back to Joe,” I respond
quietly.

“Joe had cultivated some real
relationships during his career. That is what he was known for, having actual
sources. It didn’t take long before he realized the whispers about Tom and
suicide were true.”

“And he felt like he had single
handedly ruined a man’s life,” I finish with conviction.

“He felt like he had single
handedly ended a man’s life,” Deedy says. “He went to a local bar, planning to
drink until he felt better, or until he forgot altogether. When the bar closed
and he hadn’t accomplished either of those goals, he got into his car and drove
home.”

“That didn’t work out either,” I
say.

Deedy closes the file folder and
slips it back into the desk. He folds his hands under his chin, a move I’ve
seen so many times. “The thing is, Lou, if he had never written that story,
never had to endure the horrific consequences, his life would have gone so
differently. There was a path he could have taken that would have given him
prestige and fame. There was another one where he might have become a novelist
and won awards. There was one where he got married and lived in a small town
running a local paper that wrote about little league tournaments and pot luck
dinners.”

I can see the pain in his eyes. I
have never heard him talk this way. I never realized that the chess game he
plays in his head is seeing not just what was, what is, and what will be. He
can see everything that could have been. I can’t imagine how his heart breaks
every moment of every day as he watches us, his creations, make choices that
lead us away from him and into despair.