The First Phone Call From Heaven: A Novel

by Albom, Mitch

  “It’s not like that,” Jack interrupted. “Hearing someone you thought you lost . . . It just feels . . . like relief. Like the bad thing never happened. I mean, it’s strange at first, you look at the phone, you think it’s a joke. But you’d be amazed at how normal it is to talk to him again. . . .”

  He realized both men were staring at him.

  “Doreen told me that,” he said, quickly.

  “Your wife?” Sully asked.

  “Ex-wife.”

  For a moment, nobody said anything. Finally, Elwood flipped his notepad closed. He looked at Sully. “Well, you might have missed your calling.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You could have been a reporter.”

  “Why?” Sully half chuckled. “Because I got the story wrong?”

  Elwood chuckled back. They were all suddenly very tired. Jack looked at his watch and said, “Let’s get out of here.” He opened the office door to the outer area, where Elias got up from a desk and exchanged looks with two state troopers who were watching him.

  Moments later, they all drove off. Jack stopped at Tess’s house, and he smiled when she opened the door. Elwood stopped at Pickles and drank a beer. Elias headed to his brother’s place to sleep in the guest bedroom.

  Sully drove home in silence, staring out the window at the bright glow coming from the football field, and two massive spotlights that seemed to scrape against the heavens.

  The Day of the Broadcast

  NEWS REPORT

  ABC News

  ANCHOR: Good morning. It’s Friday, December twenty-second, and later today, the small town of Coldwater, Michigan, will be the focus of international attention as it wrestles with an attempt to contact heaven. Alan Jeremy is on-site. Alan?

  (Alan in snow.)

  ALAN: As you can see around me, Coldwater has already received one delivery from above, a lake-effect storm that came overnight and dumped five inches of snow on the ground. Plows can’t get through due to cars parked everywhere. School has been canceled. Many businesses are closed. The town is at a literal standstill as it waits, along with much of the world, for what one woman claims is the soul of her dead sister contacting her from heaven.

  ANCHOR: What do we know about this woman, Alan?

  (Images of Katherine.)

  ALAN: Her name is Katherine Yellin; she’s a forty-six-year-old real estate agent, divorced, mother of two. Apparently she and her sister were very close. Diane Yellin died from an aneurysm two years ago. Katherine says she has been talking to her sister regularly since September—through telephone calls that, she claims, are from the afterlife.

  ANCHOR: Others make that claim as well, right, Alan?

  (Images of the others.)

  ALAN: Yes. Six others, ranging from a day care director to a dentist. Most of them will also be part of the national TV broadcast today. But the focus will be on Yellin, her sister, and what a voice from the “other side” may sound like. Yellin will be monitored live, and any contact she gets will be broadcast in real time. Not since Alexander Graham Bell demonstrated the telephone for the Queen of England in 1878 has the world sat in such anticipation of a single phone call.

  ANCHOR: This one might have bigger ramifications.

  ALAN: Indeed. In Coldwater, I’m Alan Jeremy for ABC News.

  “Can’t we get more plows?” Lance yelled, over the din of blowers and industrial-size generators.

  “I’m trying!” Jeff yelled back. “I’ve called five different towns!”

  Lance shook his head in disgust. They were supposed to be prepping the broadcast. Instead, wherever he looked, people were clearing snow—volunteers brooming the stands or wiping down the set with towels. Jack Sellers was leading dozens of officers through deep drifts, stepping into and out of each other’s boot prints. Jeff Jacoby was trying to locate more plows.

  Of all the nights for a storm. Lance pressed the button on his walkie-talkie and said, “Clint, are the ambassadors on their way to the guests?”

  He heard static. Then, “We told them . . . zrrzylp . . .”

  “Again?”

  “We . . . mzyrrrp . . . o’clock.”

  “What?”

  “Zrrrrp . . . what?”

  “Are they on their way, Clint?”

  “—them ten o’clock.”

  “No. Not ten o’clock! Now! You see all this snow? Go get them early!”

  “Zmmzzpt . . . them now?”

  “Yes. Now. Now!”

  Static. “Copy th—”

  Lance hurled the device into a snowdrift. Are you kidding me? In four hours they were hoping to broadcast a call from another dimension, and they couldn’t even make their walkie-talkies work.

  Sully poured a bowl of cereal for his son. He splashed milk over the top.

  “Can I have some sugar, too?” Jules asked.

  “There’s enough sugar in it already,” Sully said.

  They sat by the window overlooking the ravine. The snowdrifts were like lumps of frozen cream, and the trees sagged with heavily frosted branches.

  Sully gulped his coffee, extra strong, trying to rally some energy. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt so tired. He’d chased his theory; his theory was wrong. He felt like a fool. An exhausted fool. Had it not been for Jules, he’d have slept all day.

  “Listen, school’s called off today, so I’m gonna take you to Grandma and Grandpa’s, OK?”

  “Can we play in the snow first? Can we make a Studley?”

  Sully smiled. That was Giselle’s nickname for a snowman—one with muscles. “Let’s make a Studley!” she would yell, bursting from the front door holding Jules’s hand, high-stepping in her winter boots. Sully looked at their son and felt a welling in his chest, as if he owed him a massive apology. All this time chasing Elwood, Maria, Elias, the obituaries, this whole obsession with disproving a miracle, and every day his son just kept on loving him, a small miracle in itself.

  “Sure,” Sully said. “We’ll make a Studley.”

  “Cool!” Jules said, and then he shoved a giant spoonful of cereal in his mouth, the milk dripping down his cheeks. Sully took a napkin and dotted his face as he chewed.

  “Daddy?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Don’t feel sad. Mommy is gonna call you.”

  Sully lowered the napkin.

  “Let’s just make a snowman, OK?”

  “A Studley,” his son corrected.

  An hour later they had a three-layered, muscle-bound snow sculpture near the front porch, with a stick for a nose and pretzel nuggets for a mouth and eyes. Sully’s father, Fred, pulled up in his truck and got out, smiling.

  “Is this your new security guard?”

  “Grandpa!” Jules said, clomping through the snow and hugging his legs.

  “Thanks for picking him up,” Sully said. “He wanted to do this first.”

  “No problem,” Fred said.

  Sully wiped the snow off his gloves and sniffed. “It took you a while. Lot of traffic?”

  “Ridiculous. They have troopers everywhere, don’t know what they’re doing. And there aren’t enough tow trucks in the world to clear the parking mess.”

  “Are you and Mom . . .”

  “What? Going to the show?”

  “Is that what they’re calling it?”

  “What would you call it?”

  “A show sounds right.”

  “Your mother wants to.”

  Sully sighed. He nodded toward Jules. “I don’t want him being a part of that, OK?”

  “I’ll keep him home with me,” Fred said. “If heaven wants to talk to us, I imagine we’ll hear it in our house.”

  Sully snorted, remembering where he had inherited his cynicism. He pushed his ski cap higher on his forehead.

  “I gotta get to work.”

  “Is anybody working today?”

  “Money collection. Gotta pick up a check from the funeral parlor.”

  “Davidson’s?”

  “Yeah.”
<
br />   “Cheery place.”

  “Tell me about it. That owner is a piece of work, huh? Like talking to Lurch the butler.”

  “Sam?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Sam Davidson? He’s kind of small and fat. Not much of a butler.”

  Sully paused.

  “Who’s Sam? I’m talking about Horace.”

  “Oh, that guy. Nah. He’s not the owner. He bought a share of the place so Sam could retire.”

  Sully stared at his father.

  “When was that?”

  “Maybe two years ago? He gives me the creeps. Who wants to run a funeral home?”

  “Horace isn’t from Coldwater?”

  “I think we’d remember a face like that. Nah. He came in from out of state. Why?”

  Sully looked at the chunky snowman, its pretzel eyes gazing back at him.

  “I gotta go,” he said.

  Katherine finished her morning prayers and did her makeup. She heard Amy in the kitchen and went to greet her in her bathrobe.

  “Good morning.”

  “Morning. How are you feeling?”

  “Nervous.”

  “Yeah.”

  Katherine had Diane’s phone in her right hand.

  “Can I make you some breakfast?” she asked Amy.

  “You don’t have to bother.”

  “They say breakfast—”

  “Is the most important meal of the day.”

  “Well, they do.”

  Amy smiled. “I can’t afford the calories. This business is not very nice to fat people.”

  “You could never be fat.”

  “Oh, give me a month.”

  They laughed.

  “You know, when—”

  The doorbell rang.

  Katherine looked at her watch. Her face fell. “They said they’d come at ten. It’s only nine twenty!”

  “Let me handle it.”

  “Really?”

  “Get dressed. Don’t pop out.”

  “Thank you!”

  She darted back to her bedroom. Amy went to the door.

  “Yes?” she said to the three men on the porch.

  “We’re with the show.”

  “Katherine’s not ready yet.”

  “We want to get her wired, get the phone hooked up.”

  “She’ll be ready at ten.”

  They looked at each other. All three were young, dark-haired, and wearing parkas with the network patch. Behind them, along Guningham Road, were news vans with painted logos—EYEWITNESS 7, LOCAL 4, ACTION 6. A small band of cameramen was on the sidewalk, pointing lenses at the house like a firing squad. Amy suddenly felt a million miles from her old life.

  “Could we just get her wired up now?” one of the young men asked. “The sooner the better. All this snow.”

  Amy crossed her arms. “You told her ten, she’ll be ready at ten. You can’t keep pushing her. She’s a human being.”

  The men made funny shapes with their mouths, different ways of biting their tongues.

  “Wait, didn’t you do some of the original reports?” one asked.

  “Yeah, yeah,” another continued. “Amy Penn, Nine Action News. I’ve watched all of your stuff.”

  “Katherine’s not supposed to be doing other media—”

  “We had her exclusive—”

  “Did you run this through Lance?”

  “You know how much money they’re spendi—”

  “This is a violation—”

  “You better not—”

  Amy shut the door.

  Sully inched the Buick through traffic. He had never seen the streets of Coldwater so congested. No one had. Cars crawled. Many blocks remained unplowed, with drifted snow as high as your knees. Vans and buses, their exhaust pipes blowing dirty smoke, slowly shuttled several thousand passengers on their pilgrimage to the football field.

  By the time Sully reached Davidson & Sons, it was eleven thirty. The broadcast would begin in ninety minutes. He hurried from the car, took two steps, and slipped clumsily on an icy patch, falling forward into a snowbank, his face impacting the cold and wet. He pushed himself back up awkwardly, wiping the dripping snow from his nose and cheeks, and stumbled to the front door.

  Inside the hallways were empty, the soft music playing. Sully’s pants and jacket were soaked. He moved around the corner and saw Maria in her office. She had her coat on.

  “Mr. Harding,” she said, looking at him. “What happened?”

  “Slipped in the snow.”

  “Oh, my. You’re all red. Here.”

  She pulled tissues from a box.

  “Thank you. Maria, where’s Horace?”

  “Oh, dear, you missed him again.”

  “Ahhh.”

  “Well, at least he’s not at lunch.”

  “Is he over at the broadcast?”

  “That’s where I’m headed. I don’t really know where he is, to be honest.”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “He never does on Fridays.”

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t work on Fridays.”

  Sully swallowed so hard, it felt as if an egg were passing down his throat.

  “Since when?”

  “Oh, for a while now. Since the summer, anyhow.”

  Fridays. All those calls on Fridays.

  “Maria, I need to ask you something. It may seem weird.”

  “All right,” she said, cautiously.

  “When did Horace start working here?”

  “Oh, I remember that. It was a year ago last April. My granddaughter’s birthday.”

  A year ago last April? A month after Sully’s crash?

  “Where did he come from?”

  “Someplace in Virginia. He’s always been pretty quiet about it because, well . . . you would know.”

  “Why would I know?”

  “That’s how military people are, right?”

  Sully bit his lip.

  “And what did Horace do . . . in the military?”

  “I’m not sure. He and Mr. Davidson talked about it. Virginia. Fort something in Virginia.”

  “Fort Belvoir?”

  “Yes. Goodness. How did you know that?”

  Sully clenched his fists. Fort Belvoir was the army’s command center for military intelligence. Wiretaps. Phone intercepts.

  Maria looked at her watch. “Ooh. I’m late.”

  “Wait. One more thing.”

  “All right.”

  “Those transcripts you do of the families, for the obituaries?”

  “Yes?”

  “Does Horace see them?”

  She seemed perplexed. “Why would you ask—”

  “Does he see them?”

  His tone made her draw back.

  “I . . . I guess he can. It wouldn’t make much sense.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he sits in on all those meetings.”

  “What?”

  “That’s his policy. He sits in on everything. He talks to everybody. He gets copies of all papers.”

  Sully’s eyes went far away. He remembered the first time he met Horace. It was a lovely ceremony. Horace attended everything. He read everything. He knew about everyone who had a funeral in Coldwater—Nick Joseph, Ruth Rafferty, Robbie Sellers.

  Giselle.

  He knew about Giselle.

  Sully stepped in toward Maria.

  “Where does he live?” he whispered.

  “Mr. Harding, you’re frightening me.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Why—”

  “Please,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Just tell me where he lives.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “I don’t know. He never told me.”

  By noon, every seat in the stands was occupied. Generators cranked up heat blowers. The bright lights made the stage warm enough to keep a coat unbuttoned.

  Jack had already briefed the police force, met with the state troopers, and distribute
d walkie-talkies to dozens of auxiliary officers. Now he escorted Tess through the high school doors and down to the teachers’ lounge, which served as the holding area for the show’s guests. Tess gripped her purse, which held a new cell phone to which her home phone had been forwarded—Samantha’s idea—in case her mother should make contact while she was out of the house.

  “You still don’t have to do this,” Jack whispered.

  “It’s all right,” Tess said. “I’m not afraid of questions.”

  Jack knew that was true. He had watched her many mornings with the followers who sat in her living room, answering anything they wanted to know.

  “I’ll be on the stage the whole time,” he said.

  “Good,” Tess said, smiling.

  He had gone by her house last night after the whole ordeal with Harding, Jupes, and Elias Rowe. He needed to unwind. When he told her the story, she listened attentively, occasionally pushing her long, blond hair back behind her ears.

  “So there was no conspiracy,” she said when he finished.

  “Just two guys suspicious of each other,” he said.

  She seemed happy. In a way, he was too. The heavenly calls had withstood a challenge. That somehow made them more believable.

  After that, Tess made him hot chocolate with real milk and they sat on the couch and talked for a while about the broadcast and the hysteria and what to expect today. At some point Jack must have dozed off; when he opened his eyes, he was still on the couch, but with a blanket over him. The house was dark. He felt like sleeping there until morning, seeing Tess come down the stairs, feeling that old sense of starting the day like a couple, but he knew that with everything going on, that was unwise. He folded the blanket, left it on the couch, drove home, took a shower, and went out to the high school, where he’d been ever since.

  He escorted Tess now to the VIP zone, and she approached a woman with a clipboard. “Hi, I’m Tess Rafferty.”

  “Great,” the woman said, putting a check next to her name. “There’s coffee and snacks back there if you like. And we have some paperwork.”

  She handed her the clipboard. A man’s voice suddenly bellowed.

  “Good morning, Tess.”

  Tess turned to see Father Carroll, wearing a heavy wool coat over his clerical outfit. Next to him was Bishop Hibbing.

  “Father,” she said, taken aback. “Good morning. Good morning, Bishop.”

  She shot Jack a glance. He introduced himself, then stepped back and dug his hands into his police parka. “So. I’ve got a million things to do. You’re good to go?”