by Tim Greaton
I crossed the immaculate Under-Heaven grass and knocked on the door of the newest house. Standing there, I felt like one of the women who showed up at our house the first day we moved to Coldwell, Maine. I remembered they gave us lobster salad, egg salad, and three pies. Cynically, I wondered if the husbands of those same women had been the ones who killed my family.
“Hello,” the boy said as he opened his door. He looked to be in his late-teens and had longer hair than any boy I’d ever seen. My eyes quickly fell, however, to the two angry red stains, one on his shoulder and another on his stomach, that marred his otherwise sparkling white clothing.
“I was going to come talk to you,” he said, “but my great, great something or other told me you preferred to keep to yourself.” He shook his head. “So now angels lie. This place just gets weirder and weirder.”
“Normally, I don’t talk to the—”
I paused because I had been about to say “the dead,” a term I used to describe anyone who had been in Under-Heaven for less than two weeks, which meant basically everyone. Other than Ricky and myself, I had never seen anyone stay for more than a month, and most souls only lasted less than a week. Anyway, I didn’t think a newcomer would appreciate being called dead.
“I keep to myself a lot,” I said.
“You’re the one who’s been here so long, huh?” he said, his expression neutral.
“Yeah,” I said, “guess I am.”
He gave me a small, crooked smile.
“How do you like it here?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“I haven’t decided. Guess that’s why I’m still here.”
“’Don’t know whether to go up or down, huh?” The crooked smile came out again.
“It depends on which down you mean,” I answered. “I’m not inclined to join the barbecued bunch. I know that much.”
That earned me a full-fledged grin.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You don’t know whether to take use of your reincarnation card or to move on to Heaven.”
“I guess that’s pretty much it.”
“You hoping I can help you decide?”
“Not exactly,” I answered. I shuffled my white sneakers across his porch.
“I’m going back,” he told me. “I want another shot at getting old.”
“Can you?” I asked.
“I’m not entirely clear on all the rules up here,” he answered, “but my great, great angel thinks it would be okay for me to do it again. I think anyone can go back. I suspect even the angels could if they wanted to.”
“Even the angels?”
He nodded. “It’s just a guess, but one of the angels hinted at it the last time I was here. Apparently, they would never want to, though. I guess it’s only newcomers that want to go back, and mostly it’s just the kids.”
“Why kids?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it’s hard to grow up in the heavens. There isn’t enough stimulus, I suspect.”
I thought how mostly uneventful my last year had been and knew he was right.
“Do you remember both lives?” I asked. I didn’t want to be rude, but that was the main reason I’d decided to talk with him. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it, though.”
“No, it’s fine. I don’t mind. My first life is the one that I remember most right now, which seems strange since I died that first time over fifteen years ago. The second life feels more like a dream. It’s almost like I was sitting inside the head of another person. I have my memories, but then I have his, too. They seem completely separate.”
“So, you feel like two different people?”
“Not exactly. It feels like the second person was added on. It’s almost like I borrowed that second body, but the first one was mine.”
I shook my head. “I can’t believe you’re willing to go back and do it again.”
“I know it sounds crazy,” he said, “but I love Earth and I love life. Someday, I might be ready for Heaven, but right now I feel like I have things to finish down there.”
“Aren’t you worried ‘it’ could happen again?” I pointed at his two stains. Consciously or otherwise, I had just identified my own single-largest fear.
“Obviously, it could happen again.” He grabbed his shirt with two fingers and pulled it out so that he could see both red stains. “I’m hoping it won’t, though.”
“I don’t think I could go through that again,” I told him somberly. “I’ve had a long time to think about it, and I just don’t think I could.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “Go on to Heaven. You’ve got the color for it.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I will.”
“Want to play a quick game of tag?”
I laughed.
“You bet.” It had been quite a while since I’d had anyone to play tag with. “My name’s, Nate.”
“Nate, I’m Jeremy and YOU’RE IT!” He tagged me and raced off.
I never thought to ask him if Jeremy was the name from his first life or his second. I’ll never know because by the next morning he was gone.
Though all houses in Under-Heaven look pretty much the same, it turns out that under certain circumstances, a house can be expanded—downward, to be exact. I learned that the day my Uncle Finneus arrived. At first I thought I had imagined it, but then I heard knocking sounds a second time. It wasn’t coming from either my front or back door.
“Grandma?” I said.
We were sitting across from each other in the living room. For a moment, she looked as baffled as I felt but then nodded and pursed her lips.
“This should be interesting,” she said.
Mystified, both by the knocking that seemed to be coming from my kitchen and by her comment, I got up to investigate. She followed.
“Open your basement door, Nate,” she said. “Whoever is down there can’t come up unless you allow it.”
“But I don’t have a basement door.”
“You do now,” she said.
The pounding had grown louder and more insistent. Together, my grandmother and I crept more than walked into the kitchen. A wood grain door now adorned what used to be a blank hallway wall.
“Go ahead,” Grandma Clara said. “Let’s see which member of the family has managed this little feat.” She motioned with her chin.
Hesitantly, I turned the knob and eased the door open.
A smartly dressed man with a curled mustache and a formal suit stepped energetically into my kitchen. He was tall and, all the way from his shoes to his top hat, was garbed entirely in black. Maybe I had been in Under-Heaven too long, but that much black nearly hurt my eyes. His shoes were polished to a brilliant sheen, and his suit looked so neatly pressed that I imagined he must never dare to sit down. His hat had a flat top like I remembered seeing on a circus poster once. He was what my mother might have referred to as a “dandy.” He removed his hat and bowed, revealing immaculately combed and greased-back dark hair with a perfect part running down the center. His mustache was trim and looked to be curled with wax at the edges.
“You must be, Nathaniel,” he said popping his hat back atop his head and extending a hand. I glanced to my grandmother. She nodded. I shook his hand.
“I’m Finneus T. Buckland, previous of Earth-fame, known as the inventor and distributor of Buckland’s Amazing Bottled Tonic, the finest medicine known to man—up until that time, of course.” He tipped his hat and bowed again with a flourish.
“Still haven’t got that foolishness out of your head, have you, Finneus?” Grandma Clara said.
“Well, well,” he said. He eyed her up and down. “It certainly is less than pleasant to see you here, Clara.”
She gave him one of my favorite warm smiles.
“Pleasant or not, you old cur, get over here and give me a hug.”
He did as instructed but made a face toward me as he dramatically extricated himself from her grip.
“I came to meet my nephew, not to frolic with ha
ggard old angels,” he said, turning his attention back toward me.
“How are you, young fellow?”
“Fine,” I said. I could sense there was something very different about him, at least very different from anyone else here in my Under-Heaven. “Are you from Hell?” I asked. It was an uncharacteristically bold statement for me, but something I would find happening more and more as my exposure to my uncle grew.
He laughed a deep and cheerful belly laugh.
“We like to think of it as the other heaven,” he said.
Grandma Clara was grinning like a young girl. I wondered at the connection. Did angels fraternize with the damned?
“You know each other?” I asked.
“He’s my grandfather,” answered Grandma Clara.
“Correction,” Uncle Finneus said. “I was your favorite grandfather.”
“Since my other grandfather was dead before I was born, you were my only grandfather.”
“That, notwithstanding,” Uncle Finneus said, raising his chin in mock indignity, “I was still your favorite grandfather, was I not?”
“You haven’t changed an ounce,” she said to him. “I’m going to go now, but don’t you warp my grandson too much, you hear.”
“Now, Clara. You know all the warping comes from above. We folk down below keep things in a much better perspective.”
For a brief moment, I was terrified. Even if it weren’t for the man’s dark color and origin, how could she leave me with a complete stranger like that? I opened my mouth to object, but she spoke first.
“You’ll be okay with him,” she said, “but keep your eyes open, Nate.” Grandma Clara winked at Uncle Finneus. “He’s a slippery old coot, and a bit more dangerous than most, given that he’s so likeable.” She flashed a goodbye smile at Uncle Finneus, and then faded away. I was a little shocked. Other than the one time when I had been sick, she had always used the back door.
My surprise at her exit must have shown because Uncle Finneus said, “Don’t fret that none, young fella. She was likely just showing off a bit for my benefit.”
“Can you fade, too?” I asked.
“Doesn’t matter much,” he said. “Crawl and skulk is what they’ll tell you I do best, and they wouldn’t be entirely untrue about that, either.”
“Why do you say you’re my Uncle if you’re Grandma Clara’s grandfather? Wouldn’t that make you my great, great—”
“Save all the greats, young man,” he interrupted. “I prefer the term Uncle and that’s what we’ll be sticking with. Grandfathers are old and withered fellows—two things I am not. I’m currently in the youth of my death, and I shall not have you labeling me otherwise. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, Uncle Finneus,” I said with a grin. How could anyone not have liked this man?
It appeared that, through some unknown-to-me challenges, Uncle Finneus had fought his way up to my Under-Heaven. Grandma Clara explained later that, just like the angels, the damned had access to their family members in the under-heavens. But, over the last few hundred years, Hell had grown so violent that none of its residents had actually succeeded in getting past the other souls in a lineage. As a result, it had been centuries since any of the fallen had actually been to an under-heaven. Grandma Clara thought it was a combination of my lengthy stay and Uncle Finneus’ cunning that made his unusual visit possible. She made it clear, though, that he was in Under-Heaven by my sufferance alone. I could banish him back to Hell at any time I chose.
That was a bit of knowledge I would one day find quite handy.
Where Grandma Clara had seemed amused by Uncle Finneus’ presence, my other relatives ranged somewhere between shocked and scandalized. My Aunt Alice was solidly in the scandalized camp. She wanted no part of him and would have preferred that I had no part of him either. I allowed them to be in the same room only twice, but both times color shot into my shoes and halfway up my pants before I was able to separate them. Uncle Finneus must have realized how important my consent was to his status in Under-Heaven, because with only a simple discussion he readily promised to stay in the basement when any of the angels were upstairs—the only exceptions being unless I called or unless it was Grandma Clara.
I found it especially fun when both Grandma Clara and Uncle Finneus were together. They were like a couple of bantering old friends. They would talk and tell stories together for hours. Most of the time I was there during the conversations, but sometimes they spent time alone. Grandma Clara once said, “If an angel can’t be safe with someone like Uncle Finneus, who can?”
That’s what made it all the more confusing when, a few months later, Grandma Clara said she would be away for a while and that Aunt Alice would be taking over her teaching duties. A few days later, Uncle Albert assured me that everything was all right, but he admitted that Grandma Clara was feeling troubled about her interactions with Uncle Finneus.
Grandma Clara remained aloof for almost a year. I considered sending Uncle Finneus back to Hell several times during those twelve months, but each time he would charm me into believing that I needed him right where he was. By the time I realized he was manipulating me, I found myself wanting his company as much as I wanted to be with any of the angels. My color remained pure when I thought this, so it seemed my decision was a good one. Still, I missed my Grandma Clara.
At least once and sometimes several times a day, I would visit the fountain and spend time with my sister. It had been nearly three years since we had been separated. Though I suspected she no longer had any recollection of our parents or me, she was constantly in my thoughts and in my sight for at least a few minutes every day.
One particular morning, I smoothed the water and saw the familiar lights that represented the life forces of thousands of people. As always, my sister’s light sparkled for me like a diamond among marbles. I zoomed in on the scene to find her in the middle of an argument with a blond boy who looked to be about five or six years old. He wore brown knickers buttoned at the knee and a plaid, short-sleeved shirt with buttons fastened only about halfway up, revealing a white undershirt in the wide V of his collar. His face was an angry shade of red as he stood on the brick walkway at the bottom of my aunt and uncle’s front stairs.
I watched him shake one fist at Vicky, a motion that might have been more threatening if it hadn’t been for the Lone Ranger doll he held tightly in that same fist. In his other hand he held a second doll, this one dressed in buckskins. I guessed that doll to be Tonto. The boy looked ready to charge up the stairs at her, but he didn’t.
Curious to know what was going on, I let myself settle into Vicky’s mind, something that I had only become comfortable with during the previous year. Suddenly, I could see and hear through her eyes and ears. I had become her unseen and unfelt passenger.
Vicky was sitting on the porch, her feet flat on the top step. A dozen paper dolls with colorful outfits stood all around her, supported by their paper stands. She picked up one curly-haired, blond doll by two fingers and held it out so that the boy could see.
“Shirley Temple doesn’t play with boys,” Vicky said. “She’s a doll, and dolls are only for girls!”
Though settling into someone’s mind doesn’t allow you to read their thoughts, you are able to sense their feelings. Right then, Vicky’s mood was one of disgust. She seemed to have very strong opinions about this young man and the fact that he wanted to play dolls with her.
“My parents let me play with them,” the boy said. “They gave me these for Christmas.” He held up both of his dolls.
“No, Carl. I’ll play tag or hopscotch with you. But not dolls!”
I sensed a satisfaction in her mind as she made the last statement. I wondered where she might have found such strong sentiments about the issue. Vicky carefully stood Shirley Temple back on her stand.
“I don’t want to play with you anymore!” Carl said, and with that he pressed both of his western dolls into one hand and pointed fiercely at Vicky with the other. Then he m
arched back out onto the sidewalk and into the neighboring yard.
“I don’t like sissy boys anyway!” Vicky yelled as she watched him stomp up the stone steps of the house next door.
For his part, Carl never looked back as he went inside and slammed the door.
I was stunned. I’d never seen Vicky react so strongly or angrily before. What made it worse was that I felt she was wrong. I used to play with plastic soldiers, which were just like dolls. And I remember desperately wanting a Flash Gordon doll, which my parents had never been able to afford. Whiskey and I had even used Vicky’s dolls on a few occasions to have outdoor adventures. Though I knew kids tended to get over things easily, it pained me to think my sister could have ruined a friendship with her neighbor over something so trivial. I didn’t know it at the time, but that event was just an early sign of Vicky’s strong attraction to aggressive men, a preference that would one day have terrible consequences.
I stayed with her for a while longer as she played alone with her paper dolls, but her mood seemed somber and unhappy. Saddened by the visit, I backed away until only the light of her life force was visible. I paused for a moment…but then tapped the water and even that view disappeared.
To reincarnate or not to reincarnate, that was the question I faced every day in my Under-Heaven. I had been there for nearly five years by the time my sister turned seven back on Earth. In her features I could see my mother, and in the related memories I could envision my dog Whiskey running through the woods, and my father sailing the Miss Kane out through the morning harbor. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to put myself through that kind of loss again, but a part of me longed to try.