Empty Hand of God — Collected

The first thing Charley Overton noticed-other than his initial surprise at being in heaven-was how trim he looked.  As he stood before the great golden gates, flung wide open, he quickly ran his palms down the front of his body, noting his firm abdomen under the white, linen shirt.  His belly did not spill over the top of his linen khakis as it had when he was alive.

Only after this initial inspection did he turn his attention to the utopian vista spread out before him.  Immaculate golden gates rested easily on their golden hinges, leaving open a passage-about the length of ten men-between two great Corinthian marble columns.

From where Charley stood, in the passage, he saw a metropolis of grey, gold, and green.  Grey marble structures-architectural phenomena, really-gilded with gold, were separated by vast stretches of thick grass, the greenest he had ever seen.  The streets, narrow and clearly meant for pedestrian traffic, were marble as well.  Even narrower walkways led from the streets to the buildings, each lined with deciduous trees in full bloom.  The sweet, slightly pungent smell of lilacs and orchids and such-these lined the walkways as well-drifted about his nostrils, beckoning him to enter.

Charley stood, scratching the scalp under his brown curls, deciding what to do.  For quite some period of time, there Charley stood-scratching, squinting, thinking.  After a moment, he retreated from his position between the gates to a leafy, undulating shade tree that beckoned to him from a stone’s throw away.  He dropped down on his haunches, scratching his back against the tree’s trunk, which was the thickness of four drums of oil, bound together.

So many questions, he thought.  He tried to reason his way through the situation.  The first issue, whether this was actually heaven, or simply hell just disguised as heaven.  His reasoning came around in a circle on this point.  Since he had no way to prove heaven from hell, he had to move on.  Second, whether-granting that this was indeed heaven-that he should assume he was invited in just by virtue of his presence in that particular spot, or whether he should wait for somebody to tell him to come in.  Again, he found no solid answers.  He could not recollect how he got to his particular location.  He was not any more able to review his life and make a judgment about his inherent goodness.  Do I even know, he wondered, what I would have been judged on?  No, clearly not the province of a human, especially one as biased as me, he thought.

Only after reasoning in circles for the better part of an hour did Charley attempt to notice his surroundings.  He found that he was in something of a vast courtyard.  The tree he was squatting under was roughly halfway between the gates and the sheer stone face of a mountain.  The walls of the civilization arced toward the mountain face from both sides of gate, meaning that Charley was essentially in a vast courtyard-dotted with large and leafy trees, similar to the one casting its shade over Charley.

He wandered out from the tree to the mountain face, checking for hand or footholds, weighing the possibility of climbing the rock wall.  From end to end, he examined the stone face.  The rock was cool and smooth to the touch.  Charley rubbed his hand against the rock and it slid gracefully across.  The wall had the appearance and feel of polished marble.  He found no potential handholds, so he headed back to the tree, considering a climb in the other direction a long shot.

The tree’s shade slowly danced around Charley, gradually expanding until shadow encompassed the entire courtyard, when the sun began dipping around the mountains to the-apparent-west.  Movement from the gates, drew Charley’s gaze.  They slowly swung shut.  Despite an initial urge to leap up and run through, he decided that the prudent course was to wait.

Almost immediately, the curly-headed thinker regretted his decision.  Where the daytime temperature had been so comfortable as to not register as a thought at all, the night time was noticeably more frigid.  Charley drew his arms in from his sleeves and hunched his neck, like a defensive turtle, to preserve some warmth.  He sat under the tree, squinting and thinking, for most of the night-unable to sleep due to the sheer absurdity of his situation.

No answers did Charley have by the time the sun rose and the gates slowly swung open.  Again Charley waited, hoping for a guide of some type to materialize.  He was content to wait out the day, thinking, and go in by the evening if nobody came by that point to direct him.  But then he thought of his wife, his sweet Ness.  Despite initial hesitation, and the brief thought of this being a trick, he found that motivation enough to move forward.  Surely, if this is heaven, he thought, my wife will be waiting for me.  And if not, he speculated, then at least I’ll know that there is no heaven for me.

Inside the gate, he paused again.  He realized that he had no idea where to go.  In front of him, civilization sprawled out into a valley.  With his back to the gate, he could see a network of walk ways diverging in front of him.  In the distance in any direction, he could see the hazy outlines of mountains.  Dense forests and then wide grassy fields served as buffers between the civilization and the mountains.  The smell of lilacs filled the air, a scent that reminded him of his wife.  Timidly, he walked.

He turned right at the first walkway he came to.  The smell of lilac intensified but was not overpowering.  The walkway led to an enormous marble building that reminded him of his city’s courthouse, except that it was not dilapidated.  As he walked, he noticed for the first time fruit in the trees that lined the walkway.  It aroused an appetite in him, though he was not hungry.  I had better not, he thought.  And he kept walking.

He swiftly padded up several low steps and pushed through the great oak doors that guarded the palace.  They glided open smoothly and silently, revealing a reveling mass of people, writhing in pleasure to the sounds of a string quartet.  The people-beautiful, all of them-moved in rhythm, the men similarly attired to Charley, the women in white sundresses.  He was unnoticed as he swam through the crowd.  He glanced upon the faces of the dancers.  A man pursed his lips while pleasure forced his eyes closed.  A lady looked through him with lazy, unregistering eye-lids, as though she were high.

He saw no sign of his wife, nor of anyone familiar to him.  He felt stiff and jerky among the well-oiled dancers, so he left the building through a smaller oak door on the backside of the building.  Pressing on, he saw a young couple spread out on the grass feeding each other grapes.  He shuffled over to the couple and stood over them.  They did not notice him for a moment, and when they did, they were unaffected.  They looked up at him, neither in disgust nor expectation; they simply gazed upon him wordlessly.

I’m not sure what to do, he said

What do you want to do, they replied.

I want to know what I’m supposed to do and where I’m supposed to go.

You can do whatever and go wherever pleases you.

I don’t know where anything is.

You will find everything in time.

What is that building over there, he gestured toward the faux-courthouse.

That’s a lounge, they said.

Charley continued on, unsure of whether he had received any information of value.  He spied a path that veered away from the city, headed toward the foothills of a mountain, cloaked with trees.  His earthly instincts propelled him down the path and he soon found marble walkway giving way to a well-trodden dirt trail as he slipped under tree cover.  Squirrels, rabbits, and deer tumbled through the forest, some intimidated by his presence, others nonplussed.  The deciduous trees were fully in bloom and the conifers were stocked with cones.

Along the trail he saw a cluster of rustic cabins.  He circled around the first cabin, noting its sturdiness.  Slyly, he peeped in a window for signs of inhabitation.  Though fully furnished, he saw no sign of life inside.  He circumnavigated the cabin again, looking in each window as he went.  He noted a plush bed with a stark white comforter, a wooden stool, a guitar in stand, and a stone fireplace from one vantage point.  From another, he spotted a padded chair and a full bookshelf, four shelves running almost corner to corner.

When he found himself back at the front of the cabin, he tried the door, gently depressing the tongue above the handle.  The inside latch lifted smoothly and the door drifted open.  He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.  He wandered from one end of the bookshelf to another.  It was filled with great literature from every culture, all in English.  The Holy Bible sat inconspicuously on the second shelf.

Out of curiosity, he sat on the bed.  Immediately, pangs of warmth ran through his body, compelling him to lie down.  Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

When he awoke, his wife, a beautiful brunette was running his fingers through his curly hair.

Ness, is it really you, he cried.

Yes, my dear.  I have waited for you so long.

My love, I’m so sorry for letting you die.

There was nothing you could do, my sweet one, it couldn’t have been helped.

But if only I had been there, maybe he would have taken me instead.

Hush, my dear.  Don’t fret, I have been at peace for a long time now.

Charley buried his face in his wife’s lap and wept.  She stroked his head and cuckood him as he sobbed.  Eventually he looked up and saw that love still lived in her eyes, and he knew that everything would be all right.

***

The morning following, Charley awoke with his wife in his arms for the first time in eighteen years.  For more than an hour, he lay satisfied with inhaling and catching the scent of her hair.  He resisted the urge to pull her tightly to him, for fear of waking her.

It was only when he moved to get up that he became cognizant of where he was.  He slowly slipped his arm out from under her and quietly slipped on his clothing, which was still crisp and clean.  He padded outside into the early morning dusk.  The air was damp and pungent, but pleasant nonetheless.  To his left, the trail in front of his cabin headed back to the civilization; to his right, the trail meandered through the forest toward the mountains.

Charley allowed himself to go right.  Songbirds warbled their good mornings back and forth as he strode beneath them.  The trees began to thin out and then gave way altogether.  The land cut off severely, plummeting into a sparkling lake.  On the other side of the lake, the mountains began in earnest, soaring upward to jagged, white peaks.  The sky behind the mountains gradually brightened until the sun peeked over the rocky apices.  The sun glowed menacingly red with traces of pink, and it seemed more three-dimensional and certainly larger than it did on Earth-almost as though it were scratching its back against the mountain peaks.  Relief flooded the valley and Charley inhaled.

He startled when a hand rested his shoulder.  Spinning back he saw his Ness, who was wiping sleep from her eyes with her free hand.  She smiled at him, her lower lip jutting slightly and her eyebrows raised as if she had just asked a question.

He smiled back, Ain’t this something?

It is, husband.  This is heaven.

I know, but this is my first morning: the sun, the mountains, the lake-look at that lake!  I’ve never seen such water.

You should take a swim.

I’d love to, but that must be hundreds of yards down; it would take all morning to get there.

Just dive in.

From here, I’d be crushed.

You won’t, you couldn’t be.

On your word?

On my word.

On her word, Charley took a running start and hurled himself off the edge of the cliff.  Arms and legs wheeled and kicked as he fell, but before impact he pulled them straight to lessen the impact.  With a whoosh, he sliced through the surface.  With a slight adjustment of his legs, he was able to arc himself back toward the surface.  With only a few strokes he was able to emerge to the surface.

Laughing uncontrollably from the adrenaline, he called up to the top of the cliff, How do I get back up there.

The answer echoed faintly, Climb.

So Charley climbed.  He was surprised by the deftness of his hands and the strength in his entire body.  His hands sought out small crevices and ridges, and he would effortlessly hoist himself up: sometimes by his arms and legs, sometimes by little more than his fingers.  Before the sun had fully risen, he found himself at the top of the cliff.  More surprisingly, his clothes and hair were immaculate.  So, he thought, this is heaven.

Just as Charley had begun to wonder about what to do next, Ness spoke up, We should go see your parents.  Guilt forced its way through Charley’s body, flushing out the endorphins from the free fall and subsequent climb.  What a terrible son, he thought, I hadn’t even thought of them.  As he hung his head despairing, Ness laid her hand on his back, It’s ok, things are still new.  He picked his head up and looked at her and was reassured.

Hand in hand, they walked the trail toward civilization.  As soon as they exited the woods, they veered sharply right and crossed a grassy field toward a wood and brick lodge.  The grass grew variably, some of it as high as Charley’s shin, other of it didn’t clear the top of his shoe.  Looking behind him, Charley saw that he and Ness had left no kind of trail.

The lower half of the lodge was bright, red brick and smooth, gray mortar.  Neither had any pocks or other signs of weathering.  The upper half was plankwood, painted a fresh cream color.  The building, about as wide as three men laying head to toe, was accented by dark oak beams running from brick to roof at the corners and once per side.

The oak door swung inward gracefully, and Charley paused at the sight of his mother and father sharing a booth over two cups of coffee.  They looked as young as he remembered them in his mind-from when he was a young boy and his father was as vigorous and his mother was feisty.  His father had short, pointy hair that refused to be tamed, even in heaven-brown with a sprinkling of gray.  His father’s face was much like his own: hawkish nose, pointed chin, wide set eyes.  He was as trim and lean as ever, dressed identically to Charley.  His mother had a head full of irrepressible brunette springs.  Her round face and button nose gave her a girlish quality.  But her naturally thin lips gave her an air of severity, especially when disappointed by some misbehavior from her only boy.  However, when she looked up to Charley, her lips gave way to her broad, toothy smile.  She sprang to her feet, hair bouncing wildly as she threw her arms around him.  His father rose slowly, trying to mask his excitement as he drew near and put his arm around his son.

While his mother rubbed and doted, his father looked on proudly.  They finally all sat down at the table, a lacquered oaken number.  As they settled, a handsome man set a plate in front of each of them, each with modest portions of bacon, eggs, toast, hash, and fruit.

Before digging in, Charley mused that eating was probably not necessary.

His mother interjected, Now there, Charley.  You know a good meal nourishes more than just the body.  Though the body no longer needs it, that does not mean it’s pointless to eat.

He felt like a teenager as he nodded mutely, then shoved a forkful of hash into his mouth.  Crisp and savory.  The bacon, crisper and smoky.  Eggs, moist and buttery.  Toast, crisp and fluffy.  Fruit, fresh and moist.  Though he had not been hungry, he felt sated.

Let us walk into town, said Mother.

The family agreed and walked as a unit.  Though the sun did not oppress, the family made use of the shade from the leafy, street-lining trees.  Walkways joined and split from the path chosen by the family, as a river sheds and regains tributaries, more frequently as they neared civilization.  Soon, people were milling by them in all directions.

For an instant, Charley started as he spotted a familiar pair of dark, brooding eyes in the crowd.  He stood still as he scanned the crowd trying to find them again, but did so to no avail.

What is it, Ness murmured in his ear.

It was nothing at all.

His father secured an empty bench and beckoned to the rest.  Charley’s mother sat beneath his father’s resting arm.  Then Ness.  Then Charley on the end, intently scanning the crowd.  Ness and his mother gabbed, the ebb and flow of conversation slowly gaining momentum until words babbled out of the lips in a ferocious rush.  Charley listened to the rhythms of speech without hearing words.  Silence grabbed a foothold and all eyes went to Charley.

Mother spoke slowly, a clear indication that she was repeating something she had just said, Charley, would you like to see the rest of the family.

Sure thing, Mother.

The family rose together and headed through the heart of the city.  A few children tossed a ball back and forth, every three or four throws running backward a few paces until they had to coil their bodies and whip the ball with all of their strength to get it across the vast space between them.  A stocky blonde overthrew his companions and the ball caught a marble walkway that escorted it fifty yards before depositing it in front of a marble spire.  As Charley passed, he squatted to pick up the ball.  He planted his feet, coiled his hips, and let his arm be flung by the torque.  The ball sailed through the blue sky, true, finding its way to one of the smaller boys, who gave Charley a meek smile and a short wave before turning back to the game.

That was a nice toss, Charley, his wife cooed.

He always was a fine ball-player, Father asserted.

Charley craned his neck to see the top of the spire.  Due to its continuous-but slight-tapering, from its base, it seemed to disappear into the sky.  Charley could touch two corners by spreading his arms wide.  He pressed his face against the cool, smooth marble.

Father raised his ropy forearm slowly and extended a stubby finger.  He pointed at another courthouse-type building, once again marble gilded with gold, about a quarter of a mile away.  That is our destination, he said.  Shall we race.

Charley began sprinting without giving warning.  Father reacted instantly, furiously pumping his arms and legs.  Charley soon found his stride and felt himself slicing through the air effortlessly, slowly putting distance between him and his father, whose legs were wind-milling frantically.  Charley began to revel in the feel of a body in motion, functioning perfectly and efficiently, when he was nudged from the walkway by a giggling Ness.  By the time he recovered, Ness was bent over on the front steps, doubled with laughter.  She laughed so heartily that he could not help but join in.  Soon Father and Mother were afflicted, and the whole party laughed together.

They pushed through the door, still winded from laughter, and came upon an entire mass of people.

This many, Charley asked.

Yes, back many generations.

The men, handsome and straight, walked about from person to person, each paying or receiving deference from a family member.  A small nod or a blink, enough to signify the respect from one generation to another.

A man walked up to Charley that could have been Father’s doppelganger.  The same unruly hair, but somewhat squatter in stature.

Grandfather, Charley mumbled.

Hello, child, Grandfather tendered.

They embraced, and Charley saw his grandmother standing behind, gracefully waiting for her moment.  A hearty Welshwoman she, they embraced tightly while she ran her meaty fingers through his curls.

From some corner, tones from a guitar flew through the room.  The acoustics of the room added resonance to the tone.  Soon, a few people began singing, then most of the room joined.  The laughter and singing continued late into the night, when finally Charley and Ness slipped out so that they could lay together once again.

Reunited

Let us walk into town, said Mother.

The family agreed and walked as a unit.  Though the sun did not oppress, the family made use of the shade from the leafy, street-lining trees.  Walkways joined and split from the path chosen by the family, as a river sheds and regains tributaries, more frequently as they neared civilization.  Soon, people were milling by them in all directions.

For an instant, Charley started as he spotted a familiar pair of dark, brooding eyes in the crowd.  He stood still as he scanned the crowd trying to find them again, but did so to no avail.

What is it, Clytie murmured in his ear.

It was nothing at all.

His father secured an empty bench and beckoned to the rest.  Charley’s mother sat beneath his father’s resting arm.  Then Clytie.  Then Charley on the end, intently scanning the crowd.  Clytie and his mother gabbed, the ebb and flow of conversation slowly gaining momentum until words babbled out of the lips in a ferocious rush.  Charley listened to the rhythms of speech without hearing words.  Silence grabbed a foothold and all eyes went to Charley.

Mother spoke slowly, a clear indication that she was repeating something she had just said, Charley, would you like to see the rest of the family.

Sure thing, Mother.

The family rose together and headed through the heart of the city.  A few children tossed a ball back and forth, every three or four throws running backward a few paces until they had to coil their bodies and whip the ball with all of their strength to get it across the vast space between them.  A stocky blonde overthrew his companions and the ball caught a marble walkway that escorted it fifty yards before depositing it in front of a marble spire.  As Charley passed, he squatted to pick up the ball.  He planted his feet, coiled his hips, and let his arm be flung by the torque.  The ball sailed through the blue sky, true, finding its way to one of the smaller boys, who gave Charley a meek smile and a short wave before turning back to the game.

That was a nice toss, Charley, his wife cooed.

He always was a fine ball-player, Father asserted.

Charley craned his neck to see the top of the spire.  Due to its continuous-but slight-tapering, from its base, it seemed to disappear into the sky.  Charley could touch two corners by spreading his arms wide.  He pressed his face against the cool, smooth marble.

Father raised his ropy forearm slowly and extended a stubby finger.  He pointed at another courthouse-type building, once again marble gilded with gold, about a quarter of a mile away.  That is our destination, he said.  Shall we race.

Charley began sprinting without giving warning.  Father reacted instantly, furiously pumping his arms and legs.  Charley soon found his stride and felt himself slicing through the air effortlessly, slowly putting distance between him and his father, whose legs were wind-milling frantically.  Charley began to revel in the feel of a body in motion, functioning perfectly and efficiently, when he was nudged from the walkway by a giggling Clytie.  By the time he recovered, Clytie was bent over on the front steps, doubled with laughter.  She laughed so heartily that he could not help but join in.  Soon Father and Mother were afflicted, and the whole party laughed together.

They pushed through the door, still winded from laughter, and came upon an entire mass of people.

This many, Charley asked.

Yes, back many generations.

The men, handsome and straight, walked about from person to person, each paying or receiving deference from a family member.  A small nod or a blink, enough to signify the respect from one generation to another.

A man walked up to Charley that could have been Father’s doppelganger.  The same unruly hair, but somewhat squatter in stature.

Grandfather, Charley mumbled.

Hello, child, Grandfather tendered.

They embraced, and Charley saw his grandmother standing behind, gracefully waiting for her moment.  A hearty Welshwoman she, they embraced tightly while she ran her meaty fingers through his curls.

From some corner, tones from a guitar flew through the room.  The acoustics of the room added resonance to the tone.  Soon, a few people began singing, then most of the room joined.  The laughter and singing continued late into the night, when finally Charley and Clytie slipped out so that they could lay together once again.

First Breakfast

The morning following, Charley awoke with his wife in his arms for the first time in eighteen years.  For more than an hour, he lay satisfied with inhaling and catching the scent of her hair.  He resisted the urge to pull her tightly to him, for fear of waking her.

It was only when he moved to get up that he became cognizant of where he was.  He slowly slipped his arm out from under her and quietly slipped on his clothing, which was still crisp and clean.  He padded outside into the early morning dusk.  The air was damp and pungent, but pleasant nonetheless.  To his left, the trail in front of his cabin headed back to the civilization; to his right, the trail meandered through the forest toward the mountains.

Charley allowed himself to go right.  Songbirds warbled their good mornings back and forth as he strode beneath them.  The trees began to thin out and then gave way altogether.  The land cut off severely, plummeting into a sparkling lake.  On the other side of the lake, the mountains began in earnest, soaring upward to jagged, white peaks.  The sky behind the mountains gradually brightened until the sun peeked over the rocky apices.  The sun glowed menacingly red with traces of pink, and it seemed more three-dimensional and certainly larger than it did on Earth-almost as though it were scratching its back against the mountain peaks.  Relief flooded the valley and Charley inhaled.

He startled when a hand rested his shoulder.  Spinning back he saw his Clytie, who was wiping sleep from her eyes with her free hand.  She smiled at him, her lower lip jutting slightly and her eyebrows raised as if she had just asked a question.

He smiled back, Ain’t this something?

It is, husband.  This is heaven.

I know, but this is my first morning: the sun, the mountains, the lake-look at that lake!  I’ve never seen such water.

You should take a swim.

I’d love to, but that must be hundreds of yards down; it would take all morning to get there.

Just dive in.

From here, I’d be crushed.

You won’t, you couldn’t be.

On your word?

On my word.

On her word, Charley took a running start and hurled himself off the edge of the cliff.  Arms and legs wheeled and kicked as he fell, but before impact he pulled them straight to lessen the impact.  With a whoosh, he sliced through the surface.  With a slight adjustment of his legs, he was able to arc himself back toward the surface.  With only a few strokes he was able to emerge to the surface.

Laughing uncontrollably from the adrenaline, he called up to the top of the cliff, How do I get back up there.

The answer echoed faintly, Climb.

So Charley climbed.  He was surprised by the deftness of his hands and the strength in his entire body.  His hands sought out small crevices and ridges, and he would effortlessly hoist himself up: sometimes by his arms and legs, sometimes by little more than his fingers.  Before the sun had fully risen, he found himself at the top of the cliff.  More surprisingly, his clothes and hair were immaculate.  So, he thought, this is heaven.

Just as Charley had begun to wonder about what to do next, Clytie spoke up, We should go see your parents.  Guilt forced its way through Charley’s body, flushing out the endorphins from the free fall and subsequent climb.  What a terrible son, he thought, I hadn’t even thought of them.  As he hung his head despairing, Clytie laid her hand on his back, It’s ok, things are still new.  He picked his head up and looked at her and was reassured.

Hand in hand, they walked the trail toward civilization.  As soon as they exited the woods, they veered sharply right and crossed a grassy field toward a wood and brick lodge.  The grass grew variably, some of it as high as Charley’s shin, other of it didn’t clear the top of his shoe.  Looking behind him, Charley saw that he and Clytie had left no kind of trail.

The lower half of the lodge was bright, red brick and smooth, gray mortar.  Neither had any pocks or other signs of weathering.  The upper half was plankwood, painted a fresh cream color.  The building, about as wide as three men laying head to toe, was accented by dark oak beams running from brick to roof at the corners and once per side.

The oak door swung inward gracefully, and Charley paused at the sight of his mother and father sharing a booth over two cups of coffee.  They looked as young as he remembered them in his mind-from when he was a young boy and his father was as vigorous and his mother was feisty.  His father had short, pointy hair that refused to be tamed, even in heaven-brown with a sprinkling of gray.  His father’s face was much like his own: hawkish nose, pointed chin, wide set eyes.  He was as trim and lean as ever, dressed identically to Charley.  His mother had a head full of irrepressible brunette springs.  Her round face and button nose gave her a girlish quality.  But her naturally thin lips gave her an air of severity, especially when disappointed by some misbehavior from her only boy.  However, when she looked up to Charley, her lips gave way to her broad, toothy smile.  She sprang to her feet, hair bouncing wildly as she threw her arms around him.  His father rose slowly, trying to mask his excitement as he drew near and put his arm around his son.

While his mother rubbed and doted, his father looked on proudly.  They finally all sat down at the table, a lacquered oaken number.  As they settled, a handsome man set a plate in front of each of them, each with modest portions of bacon, eggs, toast, hash, and fruit.

Before digging in, Charley mused that eating was probably not necessary.

His mother interjected, Now there, Charley.  You know a good meal nourishes more than just the body.  Though the body no longer needs it, that does not mean it’s pointless to eat.

He felt like a teenager as he nodded mutely, then shoved a forkful of hash into his mouth.  Crisp and savory.  The bacon, crisper and smoky.  Eggs, moist and buttery.  Toast, crisp and fluffy.  Fruit, fresh and moist.  Though he had not been hungry, he felt sated.

Charley’s Arrival

The first thing Charley Overton noticed-other than his initial surprise at being in heaven-was how trim he looked.  As he stood before the great golden gates, flung wide open, he quickly ran his palms down the front of his body, noting his firm abdomen under the white, linen shirt.  His belly did not spill over the top of his linen khakis as it had when he was alive.

Only after this initial inspection did he turn his attention to the utopian vista spread out before him.  Immaculate golden gates rested easily on their golden hinges, leaving open a passage-about the length of ten men-between two great Corinthian marble columns.

From where Charley stood, in the passage, he saw a metropolis of grey, gold, and green.  Grey marble structures-architectural phenomena, really-gilded with gold, were separated by vast stretches of thick grass, the greenest he had ever seen.  The streets, narrow and clearly meant for pedestrian traffic, were marble as well.  Even narrower walkways led from the streets to the buildings, each lined with deciduous trees in full bloom.  The sweet, slightly pungent smell of lilacs and orchids and such-these lined the walkways as well-drifted about his nostrils, beckoning him to enter.

Charley stood for a moment, deciding what to do.  He had thought-if he had thought of going to heaven at all-that there would be some type of guide or drill sergeant or some such thing.  He thought that he would try to find his wife, although he was unsure how to go about doing that.  In an uncharacteristic decision, he strode forward.  Maybe if he just walked he would find her, he thought, being heaven and all.

He turned right at the first walkway he came to.  The smell of lilac intensified but was not overpowering.  The walkway led to an enormous marble building that reminded him of his city’s courthouse, except that it was not dilapidated.  As he walked, he noticed for the first time fruit in the trees that lined the walkway.  It aroused an appetite in him, though he was not hungry.  I had better not, he thought.  And he kept walking.

He swiftly padded up several low steps and pushed through the great oak doors that guarded the palace.  They glided open smoothly and silently, revealing a reveling mass of people, writhing in pleasure to the sounds of a string quartet.  The people-beautiful, all of them-moved in rhythm, the men similarly attired to Charley, the women in white sundresses.  He was unnoticed as he swam through the crowd.  He glanced upon the faces of the dancers.  A man pursed his lips while pleasure forced his eyes closed.  A lady looked through him with lazy, unregistering eye-lids, as though she were high.

He saw no sign of his wife, nor of anyone familiar to him.  He felt stiff and jerky among the well-oiled dancers, so he left the building through a smaller oak door on the backside of the building.  Pressing on, he saw a young couple spread out on the grass feeding each other grapes.  He shuffled over to the couple and stood over them.  They did not notice him for a moment, and when they did, they were unaffected.  They looked up at him, neither in disgust nor expectation; they simply gazed upon him wordlessly.

I’m not sure what to do, he said

What do you want to do, they replied.

I want to know what I’m supposed to do and where I’m supposed to go.

You can do whatever and go wherever pleases you.

I don’t know where anything is.

You will find everything in time.

What is that building over there, he gestured toward the faux-courthouse.

That’s a lounge, they said.

Charley continued on, unsure of whether he had received any information of value.  He spied a path that veered away from the city, headed toward the foothills of a mountain, cloaked with trees.  His earthly instincts propelled him down the path and he soon found marble walkway giving way to a well-trodden dirt trail as he slipped under tree cover.  Squirrels, rabbits, and deer tumbled through the forest, some intimidated by his presence, others nonplussed.  The deciduous trees were fully in bloom and the conifers were stocked with cones.

Along the trail he saw a cluster of rustic cabins.  He circled around the first cabin, noting its sturdiness.  Slyly, he peeped in a window for signs of inhabitation.  Though fully furnished, he saw no sign of life inside.  He circumnavigated the cabin again, looking in each window as he went.  He noted a plush bed with a stark white comforter, a wooden stool, a guitar in stand, and a stone fireplace from one vantage point.  From another, he spotted a padded chair and a full bookshelf, four shelves running almost corner to corner.

When he found himself back at the front of the cabin, he tried the door, gently depressing the tongue above the handle.  The inside latch lifted smoothly and the door drifted open.  He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.  He wandered from one end of the bookshelf to another.  It was filled with great literature from every culture, all in English.  The Holy Bible sat inconspicuously on the second shelf.

Out of curiosity, he sat on the bed.  Immediately, pangs of warmth ran through his body, compelling him to lie down.  Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

When he awoke, his wife, a beautiful brunette was running his fingers through his curly hair.

Clytie, is it really you, he cried.

Yes, my dear.  I have waited for you so long.

My love, I’m so sorry for letting you die.

There was nothing you could do, my sweet one, it couldn’t have been helped.

But if only I had been there, maybe he would have taken me instead.

Hush, my dear.  Don’t fret, I have been at peace for a long time now.

Charley buried his face in his wife’s lap and wept.  She stroked his head and cuckood him as he sobbed.  Eventually he looked up and saw that love still lived in her eyes, and he knew that everything would be all right.

Barn of Newly Sonless Man

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The barn’s gaping maw inhaled, setting bits of straw and dust to life-spinning them violently through the air for a few moments before once again laying them to rest on the dull concrete floor.  The behemoth’s door had settled into the dirt on account of a faulty hinge.  The isosceles alcove it had created was home to the odd piece of refuse that would otherwise drift through the country-side, disintegrating until it was no longer traceable.

The little space was a shop of curiosities for the twittering mice that skittered through the barn, enough so that they created a shortcut by meticulously gnawing out a wood-knot from the bottom of a cedar plank-just wide enough for them to squeeze through in the months of plenty.  Lately, the mice had been able to fit through without brushing against either side of the hole.

Two of the mice tumbled about in a light-hearted wrestling match, carefree despite the presence of all of the implements that had the potential to bring an end to a mouse’s useful life, some of them designed exclusively for that purpose.  The characteristic shared by these instruments-in addition to being metallic and either sharp or pointed-was the sheen of barn dust and mildew that had found a home on the surfaces, dulling them to the same opaquey glazed gray as the floor.

Occasionally a gust of wind would set a long piece of metal to song, allowing it to sustain a high-pitched vibration.  More haunting was when the wind would come through a corridor from the barn’s open maw to the smaller open window above the hayloft on the opposite wall, catching it in just such a way to create a low, gravelly hum, not unlike a groan.

Such wind was welcomed however.  It replaced the moist, stuffy air of the barn’s interior with a fresher variety of moist air.  The stuffiest air usually accumulated in the elevated hayloft, despite the presence of the window.  Largely unused, only a few errant strands of hay littered the planking.  Though the wind often struck the barn’s groaning chord, it was never able to generate sufficient force to blow up the layers of dust coating the loft’s planks.  A fall from the loft to the floor was insufficient to rob a man of his life, unless he calculated to land in just the right manner, but it could guarantee a couple of sprained ankles and most of the time would be satisfactory to cause a few breaks.

The fear of that type of fall may have been the deciding factor in the loft’s retirement.  A man would have a poor of a probability of loosing scream from the floor-no matter how bloodcurdling-and having it hit another set of ears as he would have hitting them with a thrown stone, so deeply was the barn set in its isolation.

The winch dangled, lonely, in the half-elevated position on one of two ropes strung from ceiling to floor.  The ropes were still smooth and oily, the individual twines still orderly and obedient.  The ropes were taut between two pulleys-one bolted to the floor, the other the ceiling-which, though hurting for an oiling, sat attentively and were fully functional.

Mice continued to skitter back and forth between various crevices leading to an unseen network of tubes and tunnels, their population unchecked by barn-cats.  Though a barn-cat would have had a mighty feast, he would have lamented the lack of cozy spaces against which to rest his heft as he languored during digestion.  Not so much as a burlap sack to use as a mat.  A barn full of sharp edges and empty corners, with only a few wisps of hay to remind of what was or could again be.

Bowling

A squat rectangular table, flanked by low-slung wooden chairs padded with leather on the backrest, seat, and armrests.  Joseph and Jess, the first year associate, manned one side of the table.  Winters and Salisbury helmed the other.  The more senior attorneys were joking about Winters’s experience working in a bowling ball factory for an undergraduate summer.

“That’s not the best part,” Winters said, “at the end of the summer, they offered to make me a personalized and engraved bowling ball!”  Winters cackled while Salisbury howled.  Salisbury’s face flushed and his eyes watered.

“You, must, have, been, so, . . . , embarrassed!” Salisbury sputtered as his breath allowed.  “A bowling ball!” the last two words swimming in disdain.  “You should bring your personalized bowling ball out to the lanes some time!”  The laughing boiled over again at this joke

The laughing tapered and Winters was earnest, “I just told them.  I had no use for it.”

The Case

Joseph leaned forward in his rolling chair, peering intently at his computer screen.  He had developed a squint-nearsightedness from his computer habits.  His complexion was also suffering, his skin milky and pale.  Even his forearms, which had always been robust enough to sustain a faint tan in the winter months, were nearly translucent.  He had also become significantly doughier.  Although his dimensions were roughly the same, his composition was changing drastically-it would only be another year or two before the paunch became readily apparent.

Winters materialized behind him-busting him in the middle of reading his legal tabloid.  “Got time for a project, Huck?”  The trim, angular attorney smiled, baring his prominent incisors, daring Joseph to say no.  Winters’ cast a sharp glance at the computer screen, prodding Joseph to acquiesce.

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Good, this is a big one.  Insurance defense.”

Winters dropped an expandable file on the cluttered desk-the file was the width of two phonebooks.

“Come by my office tomorrow, when you’ve read the file.  We’ll chat.”

***

Defendant-insuree drove a black Lamborghini south down Main Street at 2:15 A.M., travelling at approximately 45 miles per hour, 20 miles per hour over the stated speed limit.  Plaintiff was stopped at the Maple Street red light facing south on Main behind a semi-truck, driven by Evans.  Defendant-insuree collided with Plaintiff’s BMW from the rear, pushing the BMW under the semi, collapsing the front end.  Plaintiff was pinned at the waist between the steering column and the driver’s seat.  Evans, unharmed, attempted to remove Plaintiff from the crushed vehicle.  Plaintiff bled to death at the scene.  Plaintiff’s estate now sues Defendant-insuree.  Defendant-insuree is insured Defendant-insurer, covering personal injuries to third parties up to $1 million.  Defendant-insuree is current on all premiums.

***

Joseph, after two cups of black, stepped up to Winters’ door-slightly ajar-and knocked as he timidly pushed it open.  “Busy?”

“Of course I’m busy, douche-bag.  It’s 8:30, I’ve been busy for hours.”

“…”

“Don’t just stand there like a huckleberry, sit down.  Stop wasting my time.”

“…”

“Well?”

“The IBA case, I read it.  It’s interesting.”

“What’s so interesting about it?”

“…”

“Look, Huck, this is a big case.  We are not going to pay this.  At least, we are not going to pay most of it.”

“Who’s going to pay it?”

“That’s for you to figure out, champ.  How about the driver?”

“We could probably allege comparative fault as an affirmative defense.  That way the driver would have to pay his share.”

“Now you’re thinking.  Make it so.”

***

Joseph, ablaze with knowledge, began drafting the answer to the plaintiff’s complaint, placing in all of the boilerplate legalese.  The doughy lawyer relished typing the allegation of comparative fault.  Soon he would be able to begin the memorandum supporting the allegation, to be used when the claim was disputed.  He spent the morning polishing the answer, checking and re-checking for typographical errors-intending to begin research on the memorandum after lunch.

At 11:55, Winters appeared behind him.  “No tabloids this time?”

“No, sir.  Just finishing up this answer.”

“Feeling pretty good about it?”

“Looks good from here.  I think we’ve got a good chance here.”

“Why?”

“Well.  If the truck driver hadn’t tried to remove the plaintiff from the car, he probably wouldn’t have bled to death.  The steering column was preventing him from losing too much blood.  If he had been left there until the EMS had arrived, he may have survived.”

“That’s great, Huck.  But you’re fucked.”

“I don’t think-”

“Don’t think, Huck.  Trust me.  You’re fucked.”

“…”

“…”

“Why?”

“Because the truck driver can’t pay shit; he filed Chapter 11 yesterday.”

“What?”

“He’s bankrupt, Huck.  Broke.  Penniless.  Doesn’t have a pot to piss in.  That son-of-a-bitch is in discharge; his assets are protected.”

“Shit.”

“Shit is right.  You better figure something out.  It’s your ass, not mine.”

Five-thirty finally rolled around, and with it, Friday Bar-an open bar set up on the eighteenth floor.  Joseph locked his computer and scurried down.  At the bar, he quietly ordered a Maker’s Mark on the rocks and looked around for non-hostiles.  In the corner he saw two of the new first-years, looking wide-eyed, whispering behind their drinks.  Murphy, a mousy brunette, briefly met his eyes and looked away immediately.  It was enough.

Joseph shuffled over.  The women stopped talking and looked at him.  The mousy one offered first, “Hi, Jess Murphy.”

Her voice was disconcerting, too high pitched and windy.  Joseph reached to shake her extended hand, “Joseph Jacobson, we’ve met.  Several times, actually.”

“Oh my God!  I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be sorry, Jess.  He’s just a second-year in litigation.  He doesn’t mean anything to you.”

Jennifer Morrison, a powerful blonde-headed woman with a linebacker’s jaw and a ferret’s eyes, stared at him, arms crossed, seething aggressiveness.

“He doesn’t mean anything period.  Harry Winters,” Winters shook each of their hands briefly, “Ladies, let me do you a favor and get him out of here.”

Winters steered Joseph like a ventriloquist’s dummy, hand on the base of his neck-only squeezing lightly, but still squeezing.  Joseph allowed himself to be guided to a waspy old partner, J. Riley Salisbury.

“Jacobson, tell me about this case.  Winters tells me he put his crackerjack mentee on it, was gonna solve all our problems.”

Joseph looked solemnly at Winters, who was baring his smile.  “Well, what have you got?”

Joseph glanced at his cordovans before starting, “Well Mr. Salisbury, I think we’ve got a good chance of not having to pay.  I think we can allege comparative fault against the truck-driver.”

“The good Samaritan?” Salisbury’s sarcasm was potent and precise, “Winters already told me about him.  He’s broke.  What else have you got?”

“I know he’s broke, Mr. Salisbury.  But I don’t think that necessarily means that we can’t point the finger at him.”

Winters interjected, “There’s no money to collect.  There is no way that the judge will let the plaintiff recover from him: the bankruptcy statutes clearly protect him.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Joseph paused, noting that Winters’ tongue was flicking wildly around the point of his incisor.  He recanted a bit, “Not wrong about the bankruptcy statute, but … it’s just that I think we can still point the finger at him,” he paused looking to see if Winters was at all mollified-he was not.

“Go on, Jacobson,” Salisbury leaned forward hungrily.

“Well, the bankruptcy statute protects him from judgment,” emphasizing the last word, “not from fault.”

Winters with menace, “Where does the plaintiff get the money from?”

“He doesn’t get the money.  When the court adopted comparative fault, it inherently put the risk of insolvency on the plaintiff.”

Winters paused, “and you’ve got a case that says this?”

“No, not exactly.  But it’s pretty clear from the dicta in several cases.”

“Pretty clear?” Winters was laughing.  Short.  Distinct.  Monosyllabic.  “You are going to fall flat on your face, Huck.”

“Now, hold it there, Winters.  I think Jacobson might be on to something.  Run down this rabbit-trail, Jacobson.  Write up a brief in support of the defense.  Give it directly to me, Monday morning.”

Winters stiffly walked away, heading toward Morrison.  Jacobson moved on to more important people.  Joseph put down his half-finished drink, by now too watered down anyhow, and headed back up to his office to work on the brief.

***

“Jacobson, my boy!” Salisbury strode in to Joseph’s office to clap him on the shoulder, “brilliant work!”

“How’s that, sir?”

“Comparative fault, it’s a winner.  The judge heard the motion today.  He ruled in our favor.  The plaintiff was so scared that a jury would put the blame on the Samaritan, they settled for one hundred thousand dollars.  All your work, my boy.  I simply copied and pasted.  What are you doing tonight?  I’ll tell you what you’re doing tonight.  My house.  Dinner.  I’ll call my wife.  Bring a lady.  See you at seven.  You’re going places my boy, you’ll see.  You just earned your bonus this year.”

The Mentor

The mentor, Harry Winters, glided into the room-possibly riding the current of his own arrogance.  An I-dare-you smile graced his sharply pointed face: slightly biting his lip, as he raised one corner of his mouth, revealing a pointed canine tooth, he appeared distinctly wolfish.  His sharp features were further accented by the lustrous black hair thrown back and secured firmly with gel, revealing a sharp widow’s peak

The Decline and Fall

The father lay unconscious on a rust-colored pillow of blood and dust, having descended from demi-god to martyr.  The felled culprit lay beside, solemn and still.  The air was laden with musky diesel exhaust and the tangy smell of sap from freshly-hewn trees.  The mishap would strip him of many things-ultimately, his life-but his stubbornness could not be counted among them.  He would recount mistakes neither on the part of the cat operator nor the man who dismissed safety-caging as a needless expense-particularly since he was both of those men.

Though he would lose a taste for many things in his dwindling years, he would acquire a taste for painkillers, which he would seemingly never be able to keep in stock.  His power over the two boys was not diminished by his virtual confinement to his recliner-alternately tricking and intimidating them, particularly the youngest.  The oldest boy would stay out of range, but circle around him like a stray dog, both in admiration and hatred.  The youngest was unaware of the boundaries set out by the declining patriarch.  This transgression was forgiven: the father knew that the boy would have plenty of time to struggle with such issues.

The Day After

Rube slept through most of the next day.  When he finally stirred, he left the trailer wordlessly.  In the truck, Rube’s eyes kept glancing to the wallet and watch on the dash.  He turned on the radio, southern rock blared from the speakers.  Rube winced at the wailing guitars but made no adjustment.  The truck turned off the main drag onto a narrow gravel road that wound back through the woods, every fifty feet dotted with a trailer.

He pulled the truck over a patch of yellow grass in front a dingy unit, even by the neighbors’ standards.  Watch and wallet in hand, he walked up to the trailer and opened the flimsy door and let himself in.  The trailer was musky with the smell of faded cat urine and old food.  Jaymie was curled up on the couch under a pink blanket, embroidered with the word “Princess.”  She still had her make up on from the previous night and her hair was contorted from sleep and day-old hairspray.

Rube started, “You saw.  Last night.”

“Yeah, what the fuck was that?  Why’d you whup that guy so bad?”

“I don’t know.  I guess just bein’ laid off and hammered, I snapped at him.”

Jaymie looked at him softly, “What you gonna do?”

“I don’t know, maybe go back up north for a little while.  You know who that guy was last night?”

“No, but Burt knowed his brother, or somethin’ like that.”

Rube laid set the watch and wallet on the table, “Well, make sure he gets this back.  I don’t know what I meant by taking it.”

“All right.”

“I mean it.  You make sure he gets it back.  Don’t let nobody talk you into doin’ somethin’ different.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”