Hell Can Wait

by Theodore Judson

  “Agreed,” said the demon. “You see, Worthy, the ape man himself thinks he hasn’t accomplished anything.”

  “We are speaking of thirteen year olds,” pointed out Mr. Worthy. “Not much has to happen to them to create a great effect. Their ‘courtship,’ if I may call it that, their courtship is not a destination for either Edith or Abdul; it is but a passage on their lifelong journeys. Edith has gained confidence, and Abdul security. They are both feeling as comfortable with themselves as fish in the ocean.”

  “For whatever good it will do me, I am tossing a yellow flag upon the field,” protested Banewill. “A yellow flag, I say. I’m certain you cheated, Worthy.”

  “How could I have done anything amiss?” asked the angel in an uncharacteristic huff.

  “When soldier boy here got the inspired notion to tell the round lump of pudding that Edith would protect him once he was her beau — that was obviously something you put into his head,” said Banewill. “A soldier from nearly two millennia ago would not think that way. He would consider seeking protection from a female profoundly dishonorable. You put a bug in his ear, or in his mind, as it were.”

  “He had, as you say, an inspired notion,” reasoned Mr. Worthy. “Who is to say whether inspiration is divine or an expression of human ingenuity? We would need a theologian to settle the question.”

  “I’ll ask one of them the next time I’m down home,” said Banewill.

  “What will happen to the boy and girl, sir?” asked Maternus.

  “You see how concerned for them he is?!” Worthy asked the demon. “Only a good soul would care for others as he does. He needs no inspiration from me.” The angel sat on the end of the bed and lovingly patted the soldier’s calloused feet. “The children will grow to become married,” he told Maternus, “but not to each other. Edith will wed a retired professional wrestler and have six children. Seventeen years from now she will become the first female instructor at the U.S. Army’s sniper school.”

  “That is a strange destiny,” said Maternus.

  “My friend,” said the angel, “this is America in the twenty-first century. Here any strange thing can happen, and once it does it is no longer considered strange.”

  “And Abdul?” asked Maternus.

  “He goes on to become a highly successful hairdresser,” said Mr. Worthy.

  The demon behind the angel smirked at this and made an extravagant flip of his right hand.

  “Stop that!” said Mr. Worthy, who had not turned about but was nonetheless angered by the gesture. “The world will always need good hairdressers! What is more, no matter how popular stereotypes are in Hell, Abdul will marry a lovely young woman and have two children of his own … although he won’t do so until later in life … after he has recovered from a bad experience he had with a woman when he was younger.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Maternus.

  The angel spoke his next words sotto voce and with a hand to his mouth, as though he were covering a cough.

  “He has a bad experience at nineteen,” he said, “when he breaks up with Edith and she beats him senseless.”

  Banewill laughed at this revelation with his usual enthusiasm. He threw back his head to show off all of his expertly capped teeth and brayed with the malevolent pleasure of a hyena over a downed impala.

  “Yet everything works out for the best in the end,” asserted Mr. Worthy, resentful of the demon’s laugher. “Everyone is fulfilled, lives a positive life, goes on to paradise, and Old Nick is confounded yet again. So there. Now if someone would stop laughing like the jackass he is, I will give our friend his next assignment.”

  Mr. Worthy took the list of three tasks from a fold in his robe and smiled at the anxious Roman.

  VI

  We Gaze at the Stars, but They Don’t Gaze at Us

  “Margaret Lambkin,” announced the angel. “You are to make her happy in this, her eighty-seventh and final year of life.”

  “This is someone at the school?” asked Maternus.

  “Not at age eighty-seven,” said Mr. Worthy.

  “My chum Marty, he runs a Catherine’s Wheel for the wrathful on Level Five,” remarked the demon Banewill, “he was twenty-four and still in school before they kicked him to the curb. Small wonder he ended up toiling where he is. Eighty-seven would be a world record.”

  “Our friend had in mind one of the teachers at his school,” said Mr. Worthy. “Not one of the students.”

  “He didn’t say ‘teacher,’” said Banewill. “I’m not in your club anymore, Worthy; remember, I can’t read his thoughts.”

  “Margaret resides in the Shady Grove Rest Home here in Aurora,” said the angel to the Roman.

  “Which is a veritable escalator to the hereafter,” added the demon, becoming more expansive as he spoke. “In there, the geezers are each one bad day from eternity. A chill from an open window, one slip in the bathtub, a touch of E. coli in the salad bar, and they’ve played their last hand of canasta. They fall, and they can’t get up. Forever.”

  “Death is fascinating to Banewill’s sort,” the angel whispered to Maternus. “They consider it the ultimate excursion, the last great Dionysian moment; something like snowboarding down the Himalayas, only better.

  “Now, this Mrs. Lambkin is an interesting woman,” Worthy said to Maternus in a normal voice. “She has been a widow for forty-four years, never had any children, and worked thirty-six straight years for a medical insurance company, where she gained a certain reputation that has followed her into her final stage of life.”

  “In other words, old Maggie is a terrifying battle-ax who could scare the nihilism out of a Swedish graduate student,” inserted Banewill. “She’s as violent as … well … as hell. Dying young was the best career move her husband ever made. The two thousand years in purgatory the Big Man slapped on him seemed like nothing after being married to Maggie for only fifteen.”

  “She’s a little opinionated, a little forceful, sometimes a little too angry,” conceded Mr. Worthy, putting forth the gentle spin he placed upon every subject. “Those who know her love her.”

  “Name one,” said the demon.

  “One who loved her?” said the angel and, divine though he was, he had to check his memory. “Margaret had a dog, a poodle-terrier mix, between 1962 and 1975. The dear thing had a bad front leg and rarely left its basket; it dearly loved her.”

  “That wasn’t a human,” protested the demon. “You know I meant humans, Mr. Mind Reader. Anyway, she fed the beast smoked whitefish roe. Small wonder it loved her. If she had upgraded to a decent caviar, I might have loved her. Or would have pretended to.”

  “I can picture you on all fours, lapping up the beluga, Banewill,” said Mr. Worthy, not turning to speak directly to the demon. “Come to think of it, didn’t you once do something similar on the floor of the Kremlin back in your time in Lenin’s administration?”

  “That was a complicated situation, W,” said the demon and wore a melancholy smile as he recalled a cherished memory. “There was a spiked collar and several leather whips involved. We were in the first blush of the free love moment, you see, back when the world was younger and idealistic folk still could believe in big ideas. Big Russian girls really believed in big ideas.”

  “If I may ask, sir,” said Maternus, “from where does your present outfit come? I have not seen another in similar garb, not in my natural lifetime or in this city.”

  The demon held his arms out at his sides so Maternus could see there was a type of cape attached to Banewill’s sequined back, which was fastened onto him as snugly as wings on a bat. This cape, unlike bat’s wings, was colored as white as the jumpsuit.

  “I’m the King today,” said Banewill. “Tomorrow someone else. Never the same river twice, I say. Never the same man more than once.”

  “The king of what, sir?” asked Maternus. “There are many kings in the world.”

  “You see,” said Mr. Worthy, speaking to the demon, but still not turning in B
anewill’s direction. “He doesn’t know. He lived too long ago and has come back too late. See how quickly the insignificant froth of this world is forgotten.”

  “The soldier might ask why you, on your side of the moral divide, hate the insignificant froth of this world so much,” replied the demon. “It harms no one. I can see why you might have it in for heroin or the Nazi Party. A little entertainment, on the other hand, hardly seems worth your holy hatred. How can a little diversion harm anyone?”

  “In the first place, we on our side don’t hate anything,” said the angel. “That’s not in our nature. Secondly, if you examine your records you will find that anyone with a genuine interest in a pastime or activity that harms no one is, in our books, well on the way to salvation, never mind how ridiculous the interest may be. I recall one client of mine, a woman in New Jersey who was eventually saved by her habit of collecting bottle caps. The poor, lonely dear had thousands of them stored in her kitchen flour bins. Each day she went behind every bar and restaurant in her town to get more of them. Amassing her precious piles of junk made her appreciate how the manufacturing process worked, and soon she was admiring the skill of those who designed her silly bottle caps, and before she knew it she was pleased she shared her humanity with those other skillful people. Every night this admittedly foolish woman would gaze up at the stars and wonder how this massive creation, made as it is from a single hydrogen atom, could eventually produce the bottle caps that so pleased her. What else could she believe but that there were larger forces at play in the universe? At that point she became ours. No, we don’t disparage trivialities, Banewill. We are worried only when the trivialities come to dominate a person’s life, when the nugatory things make people forget their own aspirations, their own unique space, which is what happens when people are constantly entertained, as regrettably happens more and more often these days.”

  “That’s just show biz, chief,” said Banewill.

  “Nothing wrong with show business, either,” said Mr. Worthy. “but occasionally one has to have a respite from it and be alone with one’s own thoughts.”

  “Only bad can come of thinking,” said Banewill. “Or good, I suppose, depending on your perspective.”

  “To return to your question, my friend,” said the angel to Maternus, “Banewill is dressed like a famous singer, specifically as the singer was dressed during his time of decline.”

  “Decline?” asked the demon. “E was still taking care of business in his Vegas days.”

  He struck a pose with his legs splayed and stuck out his left hand, the middle fingers of which bore an enormous ring carrying the letters TCB.

  “Before you start singing, Banewill, you should remember that one has to be intelligent to be effectively evil,” said Mr. Worthy. “Sometimes I suspect you forget that. If you would but pretend to be so, now and then you might actually mislead someone into believing you are. Now, Matt, to meet Margaret Lambkin you merely have to volunteer to help at Shady Grove. Lots of people already do the same — not to meet her, mind you — but to help out with this and that at the rest home. The administration there accepts new volunteers every week. As a bonus, you will make the acquaintances of lots of interesting older folks while you’re scouting out Margaret. The greatest joy one can know in this world, my boy, is found when we come to know the minds of others.”

  “How will I make her happy?” asked the Roman.

  “Ah, therein lies the rub,” said the demon.

  “‘Lies the rub?’” asked the angel, turning about to look at Banewill for the one and only time during the conversation. “Rubs don’t lie anywhere in particular.”

  “Then there lies the onion,” said the demon.

  “No one ever said that,” objected Mr. Worthy. “Onions don’t lie either, unless they’ve been dug out of the ground. Whom do you think you are quoting? That doesn’t mean anything. You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you?”

  “‘An onion will do for such a slight,’” said Banewill. “Anyway, I think the Romans had an adage about finding the onion. Or was it the Chinese? We forget much in Hell. Whoever said it, it’s something one says whenever someone asks the hard question. You know whatever the right thing is that I should be saying. You’re the one who never needs a Bartlett’s to find a good quote.”

  “While he’s babbling nonsense,” said the angel to Maternus, “we will take our leave of you, my friend. I can tell you no more. Finding how you will make Margaret Lambkin happy is precisely what you must discover in this, your second assignment. Good night, my friend. We know the way out. I do, at least.”

  The angel stood and, as he had done on the day he and Maternus met, he delineated an arc with his right hand in the air above his head. The room grew brighter briefly, then Maternus awoke refreshed as after a full night’s sleep. The sun was up, and a stream of automobiles was rushing past the apartment complex on the adjoining street.

  Looking at himself in the mirror as he prepared to shave that morning, the Roman observed that the two largest scars on his forehead had vanished during the night. The ridge above his eyes, where the front of his helmet had sat for twenty-two years and to give Maternus the thick brow of a Neanderthal, was as smooth as it had been when he was nineteen and had not yet bloodied his hands. From a certain angle of view, if the light struck him exactly right and if he held himself in such a way, the veteran could see he was almost handsome, or was until he moved his head.

  “Give me some more hair and remove a few scars on my lower face,” he said to himself, “and Maria might fall for me without the angel’s assistance. That is, she will if women really do find men attractive.”

  Maternus had previously felt so little pride — save for that he had taken in his legion and in his personal martial prowess — he did not know he was being vain during the five minutes he lingered in front of the mirror. He took extra time to make a sharp part in his hair that morning, and he brushed his teeth — his surprisingly straight teeth — till they were whiter than they had ever been. Before he went to the public library that day he stopped at the mall and purchased a pair of pleated chinos like those he had seen Mr. Hamburg wear. He also bought a black T-shirt that bore the words ‘BIG DOG.’ Maternus did not understand the reference to large canines, but he was aware that wearing the shirt and the tan slacks made him feel a tad dangerous, perhaps even a little alluring to the young women he strutted past in the busy mall. More than one of them gasped at him when he nearly ran them over.

  Something good was happening to him. He felt it, but could not give a name to it. The good thing sounded inside him like a pleasing melody as it governed the bounce in his steps and the swing of his heavy shoulders. A more experienced man might have recognized the feeling as an awakening sensuality and would have known why images of Maria were running through his head, and why in these images the wind was playing with her long hair and pushing her loose clothing against the curves of her body as she stood in a wheat field, offering him a peaceful yet alluring smile. Maternus had never been allowed to feel anything more than hunger in his stomach he could ease with food and lust he could sate with a bag of money, and thus he could not have guessed what was happening to him.

  At the library he found the address of the Shady Grove Rest Home in a phone book. Before going to work that afternoon, he strolled the 11 blocks to the site, accompanied by Shen and Stephen who, as had become their habit, pedaled slowly on their bicycles on the sleepy suburban streets while Maternus remained on the sidewalk. Upon arriving at their destination, the Roman’s first impression of the place holding Margaret Lambkin was that it resembled an abandoned forest dwelling the local flora had been allowed to overwhelm. The building’s red brick walls and glass-block windows were covered by climbing vines and screened by a high, untrimmed hedge. Two rows of cottonwood trees — presumably the shady grove the name referred to — towered over the unkept scene. At first glance Maternus wondered if anyone still lived there. Two steps inside the front entrance, the three
friends could smell the powerful aroma of rubbing alcohol and antiseptic soap, and winced under the glare of phosphorescent lights illuminating the home’s long hallways. When their eyes adjusted they could see they were inside a modern medical facility. Elderly folk in wheelchairs were lined against the walls, waiting for adult children who somehow never had the time to visit, and nurses in multicolored uniforms were rushing from room to room. At regular intervals in the walls were glass windows shielding world-weary administrators, each of whom apparently had recently had a savage argument with a loved one, and were now living for the moment they could vent their rage upon whoever next entered their territories.

  “Damn!” said Stephen and wrinkled his long nose. “You took us to a hospital, Matt, a hospital for old people.”

  “You have a problem with hospitals?” asked Shen. “We all need them now and then.”

  “They’re good enough at doing what they’re made to do,” said Stephen, who was not going to take a third step inside the building and was making a peculiar smacking sound in his mouth while he spoke, as if he were suddenly running short of saliva. “The thing is, someday I’m going to die in one of them. Could we get out of here now, Matt?”

  “Whoa, buddy,” said the unruffled Shen. “That’s a little dark for you. A building’s only a building. This is no different than a place full of offices. You could clear out the rooms and sell insurance here. No one would know the difference.”

  “They’d never get rid of the smell,” said Stephen, and he retreated against the front door, pushing it partly open with his back so he could breathe the fresh air. “Why don’t we go?” he asked.

  “We’ll look around for a little bit,” said Shen and carelessly scanned the scene. “Old people can be a good audience. They love poetry.”

  Despite the cool breeze from outdoors and the still cooler blast from the rest home’s air conditioners, Stephen had broken into a heavy sweat. One of his feet had already escaped the doorway and was on the front step.