Copyright James J. Doyle, Jr., a.k.a. Grandpa Jim
“Don’t step on my toe!”
“I can’t. You don’t have a toe.”
Person 1 looks down. “It sure seems like I do. But I don’t see one exactly.”
“Correct,” Person 2 agrees. “You have a body as such, but not your new body. That comes later.”
“You have a great house,” Person 1 observes. He glances back at his own house. “Even nicer than mine. But that doesn’t bother me. I feel good about it, even grateful. Is that odd?”
“Not at all. You’ve moved beyond Things and Comparison, the first two levels of happiness”
“Levels?”
“Oh, you didn’t read ‘The Four Levels of Happiness.’ No worries. Can you see it now?”
“I can.” Person 1 is excited. “It just popped into my thoughts. How can that be?”
“You are new. When something’s mentioned, or you think about something, the information is there for you. Let’s try this.” Person 2 pauses and says loudly, “Are you ready for lunch?”
“Wow, when you said ‘lunch,’ I was hungry. Do we eat here?”
“Even Milton was surprised by that one. Oh, there is intimation of feasting in ‘Paradise Lost,’ but not the quiet joy of eating you’ll find here.”
“Milton?”
“Two streets over. In the older section. We’ll pass his house. It’s close to the restaurant.”
“Okay, to lunch, I mean. But, before we go, what about the other two levels? I can see the names, Empathy and the Transcendent?”
“These things will become clearer to you. I can help for now. Empathy is willing the good of the other, which is all we do here, so that one’s perfected. Transcendent, well, that goes without saying, you’re here.”
“And here is heaven?”
“You’re here.”
“Why?”
“You made the choice to believe in heaven. It was your choice. Pascal’s wager. You can wager there is a heaven. If you’re wrong, nothing lost, no worse off. If you’re right, you’re here, a real gain. You only win big by betting for heaven.”
“What about the other way?”
“You wager there isn’t a heaven. If you’re right, nothing lost, no worse off. If you’re wrong, you’re not here, a real loss. You can only lose big by betting against heaven.”
Person 1 has a furrowing-the-brow look, without the brow, of course.
“Are you searching for the numbers?” Person 2 asks. “Relax and focus. Are they clearer now?”
“The numbers are,” Person 1 responds sadly, “but where are they, the ones who bet against heaven?”
“We can’t see them from here. There’s a great perpendicular drop. A very large space.”
“Like ‘King Lear,’ when Shakespeare writes of the cliffs of Dover.” Person 1 looks around in his head. “Shakespeare, is he here?”
“On the way up.”
“Like Dante’s ‘Purgatorio.’”
“Not quite as the poet wrote it, but William will make the climb in his good time.”
“Hey. The mountain. Is Dante here?”
“Mr. Alighieri’s journey was particularly long and arduous, but, in the end, most rewarding.”
“I can see it now. He is here, and he does have a very different and oddly attractive house.”
“He does, but it is a bit far. There are tours, on a most unusual bus. You’ll see that and much more. For now, follow me. If we’re lucky, John will be sitting in his rocker on the front porch. We can ask him to join us.”
“John?”
“John Milton, of course. Be prepared though. He can be a bit long-winded. Even for here.”
They walk down the street, the mist parting between their almost-feet.
* * *
“What are you looking up for?” his friend asks. The two are standing beside the bed where his niece rests, her eyes closed, straight lines showing on the monitors, which are beeping. A nurse reaches to turn off the equipment.
“The studies,” the uncle says, “document that the person who has died is sometimes here, in the room, above us, watching. Sometimes they come back.”
* * *
“Am I coming back? I see myself, my body. But they can’t see me, can they?”
A gentle hand rests on her shoulder. “We need to be going,” the voice is calm. “It’s time.”
She turns. “I know you.”
“Yes.” A peace surrounds them. “Let’s review your life. Walk with me.” He takes her hand and leads their steps.
“I see it, I see it all, my whole life. There’s Uncle Louie and Grandpa P.J. — I know him from the pictures, and so many other friends and relatives. Oh, I am so sorry about that and that, all those times and things. I truly am.”
“I know you are. One question.” He stops. “How well did you learn to love?”
“Some before, not enough then, but enough now. I hope. Have I?”
He smiles. “You have.” They step through a light mist, onto a street.
She looks around. “This place is beautiful, oh so beautiful. I love the houses. Oh, I don’t want to leave.”
She turns to her companion. “Where? Where are you?”
“I’m always with you.” The words enter her. “Now turn and walk. You have persons to meet.”
* * *
Person 1 and Person 2 approach and stop before Person 3.
“Well, this is a surprise and a treat.” Person 2 says and bows to Person 3. “I take it you’ve just arrived?”
“Yes.” Person 3 smiles.
Person 2 turns to Person 1. “I’d like you to meet another new arrival. And, if I have this right,” he nods to Person 3, “Ms. Flannery O’Connor, the most extraordinary writer of the most unusual stories.”
Person 1 exclaims. “It is you. I can see you and all your works. Many I never read or even knew of. This is marvelous. Welcome. Welcome. I am a fan.”
Person 2 winks at Flannery. “This is a fortuitous occurrence. We like to match up newbies, so they can learn the ropes together. There’s always plenty to do, and help is needed. Well, more of that later. Now, would you like to join us for lunch?”
“As soon as you said it.” Flannery laughs. “I am hungry. Yes, I would like to join you.”
“Excellent. It’s just this way. We’ll stop to pick up a friend, John Milton. I believe you’re familiar with his work.”
“Oh, my. I was so critical of him before.” Flannery pauses and looks up. “But now I see the questions and answers we’re going to have, and how everything fits so well together. Yes, yes, this will be fun.”
“Fun and fellowship are much of what we do here. Often over a good meal, of course. And, speaking of food, I believe you’ll like the place where we’re going. Their fried shrimp and roast beef are notable.”
“My favorite dishes. Are we going to my old Tearoom in Milledgeville?”
“Flannery, this is not Georgia.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry, I know that.”
“Not a concern. It happens when you’re new and first getting to know us.”
“Us. . . . And you are?”
“Sorry, that takes some time to see,” Person 2 answers. “Please, allow me to introduce myself. You know me as Peter.”
“Peter, the Apostle.” Flannery speaks the words slowly, knowingly, with a soft smile.
“Saint Peter!” Person 1 interjects excitedly.
“Yes, to both of you, although we’re all saints here. So, you can call me simply Peter. Now, here’s John’s house, and there he is waiting for us on the porch. And, Flannery, we may not be going to your old tearoom, but I know you’ll the find the lunch more than acceptable.”
“More than acceptable?” Flannery quips shyly.
“Wait, see and enjoy, at your leisure, Ms. O’Connor.” Peter keeps speaking as he climbs the front steps and reaches to shake John Milton’s hand. “You’ll find there’s never a rush here. In truth, there’s no time at all here. Never was and never will be. You might say we’re always on time.”
“T. S. Eliot’s ‘still point,’” Flannery speaks staringly, “where ‘all time is eternally present’ and ‘all manner of things shall be well’.”
“Very good. Burnt Norton and Little Gidding from ‘The Four Quartets’. You are a quick study, young lady. You’ll find things even more interesting than the poem.”
They all gather below and begin toward the restaurant, following Peter’s direction. “I believe the author, Thomas Stearns Eliot, is heading your orientation session.”
“Old Possum!” Flannery is excited. “Are there cats here, Peter?”
“That, Ms. O’Connor, is a question better reserved for the author of ‘Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats’. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
The group continues, Flannery skipping girlishly ahead, laughing and scattering streamers and flashes of golden mist, to the delight of all.
End Note #1: I am sorry. Person 1 was not formally introduced. Well, no problem, when you arrive, I’m sure you’ll know each other. Perhaps the two of you can go for lunch at that restaurant, the one two streets over, the one that will have all your favorite foods. And, you never know, Old Possum may join you, and you can ask the poet about the cats. You may even learn about you know who — I can only whisper the word — the dogs.
End Note #2: Oh, and about time, and that other place, I didn’t want to interrupt Flannery’s excellent comment on T.S. Eliot’s ‘still point’, but you should know that there is time in that other place. It is a curious thing. There, in that place, there’s either not enough time or too much time; in either case, the result is quite unbearable and best to be avoided.