Autumn Chill

   Just south of town, the city purchased an old homestead, unoccupied for at least a century.  Once they had removed the crumbling house and barn, the funding was exhausted and neither trails nor comfort facilities were ever built.  As a result, the site is rarely visited and it has become my favored natural getaway.  Using deer and fox trails, I established my personal route through the refuge and, over the years, I cannot recall encountering another human being.  As one who values solitude, that has been the most appealing trait of that secluded plot of land.

   So, on a mild, sunny October morning, I was surprised and a bit dismayed to find a family picnicking in the lower meadow.  Since I had parked my pickup along the only access road, it was a mystery how they reached the site but I assumed they had walked in from a nearby neighborhood. 

   They were an unusual family, indeed.  The father, wearing overalls, a work shirt and a broad-rimmed hat sat on the blanket, sharing lunch with his wife who, despite their hike, was clothed in a full-length sun-dress and a straw bonnet.  Two young boys, perhaps aged five and seven, chased one another across the meadow, giggling and calling to their parents.  Like their father, the boys wore overalls and buttoned shirts and both were barefoot.  Despite my friendly wave, they ignored my presence.

   Moving on, I climbed to a wooded ridge above Jake’s Creek and ate my own lunch atop a rocky overlook.  A red-tailed hawk circled lazily overhead while a mixed flock of juncos and finches foraged in the thickets just below my perch.  Other than the distant calls of blue jays and crows, all was silent and I nearly dozed off as I lounged in the sun.  Since my wife was out of town and I had no personal commitments that day, I was in no hurry to leave my little piece of heaven.

   Nevertheless, I decided to depart a bit early and introduce myself to the family who now shared my beloved refuge.  Besides, I imagined they might want a ride back to their home, especially considering the nature of their dress and footwear.  But, as I approached the meadow, I found that they had already left and was angered to see that they had littered the pristine site.  As I walked over to pick up the debris, cursing their selfish behavior, it became evident that the white plates and cups were, in fact, stones, not paper.

   To my surprise, they were weathered headstones.  One was for “John Marshall, beloved husband and father,” who was born in 1810 and died in 1848.  The other was for his wife, Sarah Marshall, 1813-1848.  A chill ran down my spine as I pushed aside the tall grass to find two smaller markers.  One was for Jacob Marshall and the other for Thomas Marshall.  The dates had long since eroded from the stones.

A Letter from Paul

Jenna, Charlie, Mom and Friends:

     The last thing I remembered was texting a message to my boss from the Interstate and, suddenly, I found myself standing in a long line of strangers, young and old, stretching down a darkened hallway toward a backlit door.  Everyone was dressed in the same drab tunic and sandals and all, including myself, were perfectly content to wait in the slow moving line. 

     When I finally stepped through the door, I encountered a well-dressed older gentleman with closely cropped gray hair and a neatly trimmed goatee.  Frankly, he looked a bit like Sean Connery.  He was sitting behind a computer and on his desk was a gold-plated plaque with the words St. Peter, PC.  Needless to say, a chill ran down my spine as I suddenly realized that the Evangelical Christians had been right and that I was in big trouble.

     “You look a bit surprised, young man.  What did you expect, a long beard and flowing robes?  For Christ’s sake, this is the Twenty First Century.  No pearly gates around here either, just that stairway to your right.”

     He asked me to take a seat next to his desk.  Squinting at the screen and raising what appeared to be rather stylish bifocals, St. Peter seemed to be reading a capsulized summary of my life.  An occasional “hmm” and one brief gasp caused me to break out in a cold sweat.

     “Mr. Paul Davis, date of birth 8-10-71, correct?”

     “Yes sir,” I said with some trepidation.

     “It appears that you were not a religious man, Mr. Davis.  Is that correct?”

     “Well, sir, I tried to live my life as Jesus would.”  I prayed that my shaky voice did not suggest insincerity.

     “I guess that explains the sandals and tunic,” he said, chuckling to himself.  “It seems that you were actually an agnostic. Is that a fair assessment, Mr. Davis?”

     “With all due respect, St. Peter, I think one’s actions say more about an individual than his professed beliefs.”

     “Perhaps so.  But we can’ t accept you into Heaven until you demonstrate a clear and honest faith in God the Father and his Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

     “You’re not saying I deserve to go to Hell, are you sir?”  I was near collapse at that point.

     “No, Mr. Davis.  You haven’t exactly earned that assignment either.  You’ll be sent to Purgatory.”

     “Purgatory?  What…where is that, sir? “  I envisioned some sort of prison with forced labor and evening Bible study.

     “There you go again,” he said.  “More confirmation of your secular lifestyle.”

     “Could you fill me in on what to expect, St. Peter?” I asked, starting to hyperventilate.

     “You’ll be sent back to Earth for another life and that cycle will continue until you earn a place in Heaven or, God forbid, Hell.  In fact, looking at my calendar here, you are set to be born to a young couple in New Zealand nine months from today.”

     “Wow, “ I said a bit too enthusiastically.  I immediately thought of Shirley MacLaine. In a way, she was right and my fear of Purgatory quickly evaporated.  Sensing that St. Peter was about to send me on my way, I decided to seek more information.

     “May I assume, sir, that I have had other lives before this last one?”

     “Well, since you’re neither in Heaven nor Hell, that’s a reasonable conclusion.” 

     “Would it be out of bounds to ask for the details?” I asked, shifting in my chair.

     “Yes it would, Mr. Davis.  Besides, that information is in our paper files and could take ages to track down.  As I’m sure you know, these computers haven’t been available for very long.  I have assistants but this is Heaven and they only work when they feel like it.”

     “Of course, “ I said but decided to push my luck.  “Sir.  Could you tell me what goes on in Heaven?  Is it some kind of endless orgy?  You know, great food, booze, sex, rock music, the works?”

     “Spoken like a true Purgatorian, bordering on Hellian.”  St. Peter gave a sigh and continued.  “We have no need for food or sex or sports or any other Earthly delight in Heaven.  If you had listened to Christian music during your self-centered life you would know that our only desire is to sing endless praise to Our Lord.  Except for me, of course.  I’m stuck at this desk most of the time.”

     “And Hell, sir.  Is it really fire and brimstone down there?  Endless suffering?”

     “That image is a bit dramatic to be honest,” he said.  "But it’s kept a lot of Christians on the straight and narrow.” 

     He stopped for a minute to collect his thoughts.  “No, Mr. Davis.  It’s more like that movie.  What was it called?  That weatherman, the guy from Saturday Night Live, gets stuck in an endless cycle of boring days.  Oh, what is his name?  Bill…..Bill Murphy, that’s it.”

     “Murray, sir.  Bill Murray.”  I was reluctant to correct him, fearing a sudden change in assignment.

     “Whatever.  How can anyone expect me to remember names with the crowd that I face everyday? Well, anyway, Hell is pretty much like that.  An endless chain of bad days…everything goes wrong, the car won’t start, the weather’s crappy, you hate your job, your spouse is a nag.  You get my drift?”

     “Sounds like a hell of a way to go, sir.”

     One final request was to use his computer to send this email.  St. Peter was glad to take a break and wished me well in New Zealand.  I’m thinking Purgatory is something the rest of you might want to consider.  See you in the next life!

            Love, Paul

A Simple Request

   My cell phone rang as I stepped from the taxi.

   “Hello.”

   “Jack?”

   “Speaking.”

   “This is Maggie.” 

   A chubby face below a sixties beehive came into focus.

   “Maggie Thompson?”

   The only Maggie I knew was one of my neighbors back in Omaha.

   “Of course, Jack.  No need to be formal.  Where are you?”

   “I’m in New York.”

   “New York City?”

   “Yes.  I’m here on business.”

   “My goodness.  I had no idea your business took you to such exotic places.  I’m very impressed.”

   Not knowing how to take that comment, I waited for her to continue.  I could almost smell her flowery perfume.

   “How long will you be there?”

   “A few days, as usual.”

   “I’m sorry to hear that, Jack.  I was hoping you might drop by this afternoon.”

   Another confusing comment.  To my recollection, I had never set foot in her home, a modest brick ranch at the end of our block guarded by a pair of pink flamingos.

   “When will you get back in town?” she asked in her husky smoker’s voice.

   “I fly back on Tuesday.  Should be in Omaha about seven or so.”

   “Can you come over Wednesday evening then?” she asked.

   “Sure.  I guess so.”

   “Great.  I’ll have dinner ready.  Say about six thirty?”

   “That should work,” I said, glancing at my watch.

   I had no idea what prompted such an invitation but I didn’t want to be rude by asking for an explanation.  Perhaps she was just being nice since my wife and I had split.  Then again, that was six months ago.

   “I’ll fix my tuna casserole.  I know how much you like it.”

   Stumped again.  Had I offered a comment at some neighborhood party in the past?  To be honest, I’m not very fond of tuna.

   “That sounds great,” I lied.

   “Can I ask you a favor, Jack?”

   “Sure, Maggie.”

   “Could you dress up like a plumber this time?”

   “Did I hear you correctly, Maggie? A plumber?” 

   Could this be a dream?  I gave myself a mild pinch on the cheek.

   “Yeah, you know.  A flannel work shirt, overalls, rubber boots.”

   Did she have a psychotic break?  Perhaps a brain tumor?   Maybe a head injury?  I thought she might need to see a doctor.

   “I’m not sure I have any overalls or rubber boots.”

   “Could you get some cheap ones then?  Like at K-Mart or someplace?”

   “I suppose I could try,” I said, checking the time once again.

   “And bring one of those gadgets that plumbers use.  You know, the pole with that rubber cup on the bottom.”

   “A plunger?”

   “That’s it.  And remember, like last time, nothing under those overalls!”

   “Nothing what?”  Now I knew she had lost it.

   “Who knows what might happen after dinner and wine, lover boy!” she giggled. 

   “Lover boy?  Is this Maggie Thompson on Clark Lane?”

   “Yes.  And you’re Jack Wilson on Taylor Hill Road.”

   “No, Maggie.  This is Jack Walters.”

   “Oh, no.  I’m so sorry, Jack.  I must have pushed the wrong bar on my I-phone.  Just forget I called.”