But Hubert shook his head vehemently. “That there is temptation and nothing but,” he said, his finger ticking off every part of Bartholomew’s body Hubert would have liked to discover.
“Hubert.” Bartholomew smiled understanding and took two steps closer to the bed. “It’s only ‘temptation’ if you resist it.”
“Oh, I’m resisting it. My mind I couldn’t help it, but I didn’t keep my body pure for twenty-nine years so’s I could die and blow my shot at Paradise with Satan’s finest temptation in the line for the Pearly Gates. You can just put them shorts back on and take that…that…that sinner’s Sunday supper you call a body right on out of here.”
Bartholomew couldn’t help but let out a laugh. He didn’t suppose “Satan’s finest temptation” was the worst thing a guy could get called, even if Hubert had seized hold of the wrong end of the stick. Naturally shirts were quite out of the question after an aspiring angel was awarded his wings, but he considered Hubert’s modesty and willed his lower body into a pair of jeans. Bartholomew himself unburdened by such earthly constructs, they were rather exceptionally butt-hugging and snug, but that was up to Hubert to notice or not. Bartholomew backed away from the bed.
Hubert stayed on alert. With a dangerously overcrowded planet worth of tormented souls to choose from, Bartholomew had lobbied for this particular gig because he knew he could love Hubert, but if he was really staring down the barrel of an eternity of nothing but ham sandwiches, he wondered if he might not want to keep one eye on the list of transfer opportunities.
“You’re probably tired,” he said. “Dying can sometimes take it out of you. It’s the Bed of your Dreams, Hubert; why don’t you rest in it for a while? I won’t pester you—I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable; I thought that was what you wanted. But I am your angel—if you need anything, please ask for it. Otherwise I’ll see you later, huh?”
“Okay,” Hubert squeaked with a nod. He stayed up on his haunches while Bartholomew backed away again, and when the angel closed the door behind him, Hubert kicked off his shoes and wriggled under the whipped cream covers. Obviously he’d wanted Bartholomew in the bed with him; he’d ached for his arms ever since he’d been turned loose from them when they landed. But his grandad didn’t raise no fool: Hubert knew his wants were evil. He knew he brought shame on The Lord by being scrawny and ugly and queer. He knew—for Reverend Jarvis and Grandad told him all the time—that he’d be lucky to warrant the scraps of God’s Grace. He was worried enough that this “Heaven” might be nothing more than a fancified waiting room while they cleared him a place close to the fire downstairs—how could he risk a kiss with Bartholomew and make that a guarantee?
If he wasn’t in Heaven, though, he couldn’t imagine what their beds must be like—this one felt like floating and flying and feathers, and he drifted into the safety of dreamland almost at once.
Whether he only slept for five seconds, or whether he slept so deeply the hours—days?—simply evaporated, Hubert couldn’t be sure. He didn’t remembering dreaming, had neither tossed nor turned, but he awoke feeling so revitalized he wondered if he might not twinkle a tiny bit in his newness. He was alone in the bed, but with a niggling fragment of a memory. Hadn’t there been a boy? A gorgeous blonde in tight jeans? Had Hubert ministered to him? Oh God, was “ministered” suddenly a euphemism? Had he thrown away his chance at Heaven…? Wait—this was Heaven. Hence the three million-dollar house and this glamorous bed. The blond was an angel. Hubert’s very own angel, even. He must actually be dead, Hubert told himself, for the memory of a hot guy hitting on him to even formulate; in life his imagination would have failed him way before jeans that fit like that came along.
But Hubert had resisted temptation, he now remembered. Passed his first test. He knew his desires were sinful, but he also understood that piously mastering them showed strength of will. Big Jimmy wrestled daily with his gluttonous urges; Reverend Jarvis preached of false prophets driven by greed; Hubert’s own mother had driven the twin stakes of adultery and high-heeled shoes right through his grandad’s horrified heart—Satan had seen to a struggle for everyone. The Lord knew this as well as Hubert did, and made room in Paradise for the penitent. Murderers, thieves, even idolaters would be forgiven if they carried true humility in their hearts. The Lord had unlimited love for all His children, and would one day rejoice in welcoming each one home. As long as a man donated regularly to the Church and his slate was clean of homosexual acts—”Every rule needs an exception, Hubert. Even the rule of God’s forgiveness,” Reverend Jarvis tirelessly reminded him—a place would be made for him. “No matter how lowly,” Reverend Jarvis encouraged.
So Hubert was proud of himself. He’d made it as far as the part of Heaven where you get an angel and sandwiches on-demand, and shown The Lord—or Bartholomew, at least, which is who The Lord would presumably ask—he had the fortitude to withstand even the most exquisite enticement. This eternity thing was going to go just fine. As long as Bartholomew quit getting naked. But Hubert couldn’t see that becoming a problem; what kind of angel would work against him?
Hubert got out of the bed. Thinking about Bartholomew and his apparent ability to summon snacks, he padded back along the little hallway to the front room. Bartholomew sat on the couch, and the scene was so familiar and exciting to Hubert he was halfway across the room before he could gather the wits to recoil. This wasn’t any Heaven he’d heard about. His whole life had been a daily slog to sublimate his needs and wants, but who in the world had warped the definition of “Paradise” until it included an onslaught of itches it was a sin to scratch?
The handful of times Hubert had sinned against his own body had all involved the Demon Satan foisting the same intoxicating image on his mind’s eye. Big Jimmy always sat on a couch, darn near naked. He always spilled over the waistband of an old jock strap; more so in recent months, although he was no less tantalizing for it. He was always aware of Hubert, but always riveted to the television; always as if he didn’t even realize he was fiddling with himself. On the very rare occasion Hubert allowed his imaginary self to keep watching, Big Jimmy’s other hand would rove both the slumps and the padded muscles of his torso, always mirroring the path Hubert’s hand traced over his own concave, meatless carcass. Almost always, Hubert was able to tear himself away at this point; reorient his mind with scripture, his body with a cold shower. He wasn’t looking forward to having to account for them, but there had been times—so few lapses; so few seconds of humiliating weakness compared to the hours and days and weeks he’d flagellate himself in hopes of forgiveness—when Hubert’s right hand had simply failed him. Failed to stop teasing the length of him stiffer; failed to loosen its grip; failed to dominate the need to match Big Jimmy stroke for stroke. Failed to protect his seed from erupting—onto his stomach, some days onto his face, one time he’d swear onto the ceiling—while Big Jimmy contorted on the couch, at last calling his name.
Hubert was not proud of the times he’d messed himself with his manhood. He fought mightily to render his imagination inhospitable to this vision. And Bartholomew had recreated it in the home’s front room down to the bow-legged slouch on the couch and the same brand of jockstrap. He didn’t spill out over the top of it the way Big Jimmy would, but he had one hand under the waistband, and seemed way more excited about it than Big Jimmy ever did. Either that or he’d been cucumber shopping.
“Hi, Hubert.”
Hubert felt like he’d walked into the Worship Center or a Church member’s living room to find his deepest, sweatiest, secretest fantasy being projected onto the wall; he was at once insanely aroused and flushed with mortification. He nodded a distracted Yeah, hi, but didn’t approach the angel or the couch he sat on. “What’s going on?”
Bartholomew smiled. He did really seem to enjoy the heck out of playing with himself—he certainly didn’t stop while he offered Hubert an explanation. “I was afraid maybe I came on too strong earlier,” he said. “I thought maybe something more familiar, m
ore exciting, would help you feel more comfortable.” He patted couch next to him. “Come on over.”
Hubert opened his mouth to reply, but his throat was suddenly dusty. His lips were dry, his feet were frozen in place. He cleared his throat once, then again. “Comfortable? But this…this is my…no one’s supposed to know about this,” he managed to squeak.
“No one does,” Bartholomew soothed. “It’s just you and me, Hubert, and we have no secrets.”
“No secrets? I know your name and kind of what you look like.”
Bartholomew shrugged. “All right, true. They teach us to use ‘we,’ it’s a balance of power thing. You have no secrets from me, how’s that?”
“I ain’t lovin’ it.”
Bartholomew’s smile slipped. “It’s the looks thing, huh? It’s okay, Hubert, we can deal with that.”
Ain’t a thing wrong with your looks, Hubert thought but didn’t dare say. If that mattered to a mind-reader. But Bartholomew was gone. Plopped in his place, in all his formerly fit glory, was Big Jimmy. Hubert began to perspire quite freely. When his manhood plumped to attention, his right hand began to itch; he didn’t touch himself, but his elbow ached from the strain. “Is this better?” Big Jimmy asked in Bartholomew’s voice.
“Definitely not.”
Big Jimmy pulled a pouty face. Before Hubert’s eyes, the layer of French fry fat on him firmed up into muscles, his fish belly and pasty legs coming over golden like maybe he was sitting under a broiler, until Bartholomew shook his curls out of his face. “What’s wrong, Hubert? At least come sit by me.”
“No, thank you. Could you please put some clothes on?”
“Ya know, angels aren’t real big on clothes,” Bartholomew said.
“It’s kinda…distracting.”
Bartholomew stood and crossed the room. By the time he was next to Hubert, the jeans were back. If anything, lifting his butt as they did, they were more distracting, but what was Hubert gonna say, Could you please put on a muumuu? Besides, Bartholomew’s body was only part of the problem.
“What’s wrong, Hubert? I thought you’d enjoy this.”
“Enjoy? This? The thing I’m ashamed of most put on like a play with God as the audience? You’re trying to entice me.”
Bartholomew nodded. “And frankly I didn’t expect it to be this hard. Are you getting a load of these jeans?” The angel turned to admire his own ass, fluffing his feathers with pride.
“You’re nothing but a temptation.”
“Well, maybe not ‘nothing,’” Bartholomew scolded. “I can fly. I can speak every language on Earth. Last I heard I make a pretty mean ham sandwich. Being tempting isn’t my only skill.” He gave his golden curls a shake and winked. “It’s just my favorite one.”
“Ain’t no way this here’s Heaven.”
“See, that kind of hurts my feelings. This is my life’s work you’re talking about. You think abs like these just happen? Not in a world with chocolate waterfalls, they don’t, Hubert!”
“And I have to spend eternity trying not to touch you?”
“I certainly hope not.”
“That right there’s Hell if I ever heard of it.” Hubert began to cry. “I tried so hard. I fought Satan every day. I stayed on the path and I tried to get others on the path, too. All I ever wanted was for The Lord to love me, and where do I end up?”
“Hey!” Bartholomew reached to hug Hubert. He stiffened, but he did not withdraw, so Bartholomew held him. “Hubert, honey, of course the Creator loves you. I mean look at you, you’re your very own little miracle. A loving heart, a healthy body—you know, not counting the whole ‘dead’ thing. That wacky hair.” He tousled Hubert’s cowlick. “And now you have an angel at your beck and call. I don’t know what they teach you about Hell down there, but…it ain’t this.”
“Of course you say that,” Hubert sniffled. “You’re trying to tempt me into throwing it all away. Please, at least tell me, how long does this trial endure?”
“I mean…me and you together for eternity is kind of the plan.”
Hubert wailed.
Bartholomew untangled himself from what had become an awkward embrace; Hubert cried harder.
Bartholomew went back to the couch. Perched himself on one of the arms, one foot on the couch, one on the floor, his wings furled loosely behind him. “Look, it’s like I said: I’m not on the Realization side. They didn’t get Heaven exactly right for you. It happens. Not very often, I gotta say, but here we are, so apparently it happens. But it’s your Heaven, Hubert, so let’s fix this. What is Heaven to you?”
Hubert was still sniffling, but his open weeping had subsided. Bartholomew summoned a handkerchief, and Hubert took a second to collect himself, curling, red-faced and forlorn, into the opposite corner of the couch.
“Reverend Jarvis says it’s our eternal reward,” Hubert said. His eyes were puffy and red, but Bartholomew knew the twinkle of earnest hope when he saw it. “He says The Lord welcomes us to His banquet and we’re filled with a bright and quiet joy. He says everyone is pure and everyone knows his place. He says this to me mostly ‘cause he knows my place won’t be very special. But I don’t care. I know I won’t get a throne, I just want in.”
“‘Cause I could make you a throne…”
Hubert shook his head. “Reverend Jarvis says I got to be humble. He says Heaven needs people like me ‘cause somebody’s gotta serve the great men like him. He says he’ll be at The Lord’s right hand ‘cause he preached The Holy Unbreakable Truth when most other preachers didn’t have the guts. He says The Lord will consider me even though I’m dirty ‘cause I had the sense to follow His chosen messenger.”
“Uh huh…”
“But He hates queers. And no offense or nothin’, but I don’t see how I’m ever gonna get in if I’m around you all the time.”
“I see.” Bartholomew considered this. “So you want to go to Reverend Jarvis’s Heaven?”
Hubert nodded eagerly.
“You get there’s no hate here, right? Nobody hates you. Not for being queer, or for liking purple. Not for anything.”
Hubert beamed. “You mean He forgives me?”
“Something like that.”
“So I can get in?”
“To Reverend Jarvis’s Heaven?”
Again with the nodding.
“It might take some arranging,” Bartholomew said. “But let me see what I can do.”
Relief washed over Hubert. Bartholomew thought he was worthy! He knew Grandad and Reverend Jarvis thought he only had a slim chance of being saved, and he’d expected many more years on Earth to deny his baser urges, and to minister to other hapless homosexuals to do the same, but here he was, in The Lord’s waiting room. And wouldn’t Reverend Jarvis be pleased to see Hubert such an old hat at this Heaven thing by the time he arrived?
Bartholomew told Hubert to expect him to be gone for a while, and he made sure the kitchen was bursting with the items on Hubert’s unadorned grocery list. Then, while Hubert watched from the home’s expansive oceanfront deck, he jumped out of his jeans, ran headlong down the grassy front hill, and flung himself into the air. He hovered for just a flash, supported on the wind by his magnificent wings, his halo of curls aglow with the pastels of the pre-sunset sky. He waved goodbye to Hubert with a grin, then looked to the sky. He extended his wings just until the tips touched high above his head, then dropped them with a snap and shot into the sky like a rocket.
A rocket with a really nice butt, Hubert tried not to think. If you wanted to know the truth, Hubert was beginning to wonder if there weren’t worse ways to spend eternity. But he knew too there was a better way, and he wasn’t going to take a pass on Paradise just for a pretty face.
Alone with little aside from the ceaseless susurrations of the sea and a supply of sandwiches, Hubert found time a little tricky. It could take the ruby crown of the sunset hours to sink into the waves, but in the blink of an eye he’d eaten the last of the immeasurable, endless stash of sweet pickles
. Had Bartholomew been gone five days, five years, or five seconds? In eternity, did it matter?
Desperate as he was to behold the Glory, it mattered to Hubert, and when one day a speck on the blue horizon flapped steadily closer and revealed itself to be Bartholomew, Hubert ran down the hill to greet him. “Hi!”
Bartholomew alit on an elegant foot and folded his wings with a fluid series of tucks. Once he was firmly on the ground, the jeans reappeared, and he gave Hubert a hearty handshake. “Hi.”
Hubert tried to read the angel’s face. There was no grin of triumph, but no bowed head of bad news. Bartholomew pursed his lips in what Hubert pegged, after he started talking, as a look of, You asked for it, you got it.
“We don’t really do this,” Bartholomew said, “but your Reverend Jarvis’s angel Karnchana is a friend of mine. We talked to the Creator, I explained your position, how important it is to you to see Heaven as your Reverend will see it.” Hubert nodded eagerly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’d guessed where this was going, but if he didn’t hear it in plain English soon, he worried his head would explode. “It’s all but unheard of, you understand. But I like you, and the Creator likes me. This is a very special favor the Creator’s willing to do for you.”
The anticipation was more than Hubert’s humble heart could contain. He wept. “You mean…?”
Bartholomew shrugged. “You’re in. We can leave whenever you’re ready.”
“Oh, Bartholomew!” Hubert flung himself into the angel’s arms. He cried and sniffled and laughed and choked out a hundred thank yous. He kissed Bartholomew smack on his little bow-shaped mouth, then his eyes bulged in horror.
“Oh no!”
Bartholomew chuckled and gave Hubert a patient smile. “It’s all arranged, Hubert. Don’t worry about it. You’re in. You, alright? Please don’t worry yourself trying to ‘act right’ or be something you’re not. You can kiss me all you want.”
Sin to Get Saved Page 3