Any Road Out of Heaven

1.

Is there a way out of heaven?

I’m willing to find out. This place holds nothing for me, not now. This perfection that has been sold to me my entire life is a scam. A clever ruse to get my money and make me think an eternity would be worth waiting for. I have the urge to grab all the priests, bishops, popes, altar servers and choirboys I have ever known in my life and squeeze my hands around their throats. Hands big enough to encompass every one of them and small enough to effectively cut off their lying breaths at the same time.

I had been told not to bite the hand that feeds—yes, they do use clichés even in heaven. Isn’t heaven a cliché itself? Nirvana, perfection, and all that bullshit we’re fed throughout our lives in church, in Sunday school, on our parents’ laps? I had been told that the hell I’d be sent to was infinitely worse than the one I perceived myself to be living in right now. I disagreed. I spat in the face of an angel. I refused their idea of perfection. It wasn’t my idea; it wasn’t anywhere near mine. I’ll let them keep it and give it to the gullible. To the ones that needed the opiate and still need it post-mortem.

They deserve it.

2.

I had loved my wife more than anything. It was a love I had never experienced before—the kind where you’re more concerned about someone else’s happiness and wellbeing than you are your own. I felt the same way about her kids—children that weren’t even mine that I prayed every night would start to call me “dad” in the morning.

Her first husband, their father, had died. I had seen him die. I had shot the man who killed him. Steven and I were partners—two cops who wanted nothing more than to keep the streets safe for his kids. They used to call me “Uncle Chris”. Steven was closer to me than either of my brothers and his family was my family.

It seems natural that I would have inherited his family after the funeral, but the thought had never crossed either of our minds. I was there as protector and confidant only. Sarah was there as grieving widow only. I played catch with the kids, worked the grill at their birthday parties. As she grieved less, Sarah tried to hook me up with single friends and would go to dinner with me on weekends when nothing had been set up. We still cried together over Steven on particularly difficult nights. We took the kids to church. When I was on patrol, I’d pick the kids up from grade school in my cruiser—they loved to show off to their friends like that.

3.

They had asked me to stay in my house here, painted my favorite shade of blue in a cookie-cutter Edward Scissorhands neighborhood where the only difference in the homes was the color. The lawns were perfect and the gardens had everyone’s favorite flowers, even the ones that might never survive in the perfect climate. It all required no upkeep, unless that’s what made you happy. I had spent the night in the house, had eaten breakfast the next morning and that was all.

I had gone to the offices after eating. My favorite breakfast—southern eggs benedict with fried green tomatoes—had done nothing to cheer me. I had hardly tasted any of it, eating and downing coffee simply to sustain. I didn’t know if I needed to do that here, but I did it anyway. Maybe a part of me wanted to try to enjoy everything, to try to take part in the bliss. Or maybe it was just force of habit.

I had been to the offices the previous night. They looked the same during the day, albeit whiter and a tad more perfect. Flowers lined everything—beautiful flowers I had never seen and never would have appreciated had I seen them. I walked to the building behind one man in a suit carrying a briefcase and another man wearing shorts, a t-shirt and carrying a messenger bag. Whatever makes you happy here. Whatever you want.

I stepped into the elevator with these gentlemen, never looking at them. They greeted me, but I ignored them. It seemed to confuse the two and that made me smile on the inside. Just on the inside.

I took the elevator to the eleventh floor, the same place we had gone last night. The waiting room we sat in was full. Families waited together. Singles sat confused by themselves, no one yet for them to share their time with. Maybe no one ever.

The receptionist, wearing all white with wings flapping behind her, greeted me with a smile that said she had forgotten the embarrassment and indignation of my saliva dripping down one side of her face.

“Good morning, Mr. Wallace! How are you today?”

I ignored her cheerful twang and walked down the hall to the door marked “Admissions”. I grabbed the handle, but the door wouldn’t move. I shook it—nothing. As steadfast as the righteous that created it.

The receptionist’s voice startled me. I hadn’t heard her come up behind me; she was close. Anywhere else I would have smelled the person’s breath. Here, I couldn’t even feel the breeze from her slowly flapping wings.

“Mr. Wallace, Mr. Peters is going through the admissions process with a new resident. If you will be very patient, he will be done in a moment.”

“I don’t want to be patient,” I said. “I want to be in that office. Now.” The door opened. You really do get what you want here.

From behind a desk that could not be seen from the hallway: “Come in, Mr. Wallace.” The receptionist smiled at me as I walked in and in my mind I glanced through all the terrible things I would like to do to her, starting with the wings. I smiled back and walked in.

Mr. Peters sat behind his desk watching me enter the room. I didn’t wait for him to ask me to sit; I had a feeling he might not. Peters, thus far, was the only person I’d seen here who could manage a scowl. I started to speak, be he held up a hand to silence me. Everything in me pushed me to yell at him, to let go an outburst that would shake the very pillars this place was built on. But I held back and let him speak.

“Mr. Wallace, what’s done is done. Nothing will change. You have an eternity ahead of you and I suggest you take advantage of it in a way that wastes neither your time nor mine.”

“I’m supposed to be happy here!” I couldn’t hold back my rage anymore. I let it all out with that quick statement and immediately felt better. It captured everything I felt about this god-awful place.

“You will be happy here, once you learn to let go of the things you had. Heaven is what you make it.”

“I never wanted to make it like this.” Was that defeat creeping into my voice? No.

“Of course you did. This is your fantasy. Your dream. You pictured us all to wear white, for everyone here to have wings, for thinly veiled metaphors. The name ‘Mr. Peters’ is your way of turning St. Peter into a real person in an office behind a desk. Isn’t that a bit ridiculous for heaven, Mr. Wallace? A hundred other things you’ve seen in the little time you’ve been here have all been realizations of your imagination. Do you believe heaven is the same for everyone?”

“None of this is real?” I asked.

He knocked on his desk. “Isn’t it? What may be real or not isn’t of consequence. You felt guilty about your relationship with Sarah, didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?” The anger started to creep back into me, starting in my stomach and making its way up my throat. It would be coming out of my mouth soon enough.

He smiled at me and shook his head. “You know what I’m talking about, Mr. Wallace. Accept it and move on. Or don’t—this whole situation is what’s making you happy. You get the best of both worlds: at once you give up Sarah but can still fight for her. This is what you’ve always wanted but were afraid to admit to yourself.”

4.

Everything can be traced back to the night Steven died. How could it have started before then? I thought of Sarah as a sister before that night. Steven was the closest person to a brother I had, so it would be obvious for his wife to by my sister. It kept on like that even for months after the funeral. I’d come over to do yard work on the weekends, play catch with the kids, man the grill, have a few beers, go home. Always go home. Always go home. Until the Fourth of July.

There had been a big party. All her friends, all the kids’ friends. A lot of beer. We had all played games, talked, played more games. Drank the entire time. People thanked me for helping Sarah so much and complemented me for being such a good friend.

Most of the guys at the party had wives to drive them home. I wasn’t that lucky. Sarah let me spend the night in the guest room.

We started the night trying to cool down with coffee and some of the leftover food from the cookout. We watched television, absently switching through channels, neither of us tired yet. At one point she laid her head on my chest. I thought nothing of it, until she began to stroke my leg. I tried to ignore her but she wouldn’t let me. I wouldn’t let me.

Her rubbing became more persistent and the alcohol wouldn’t let me resist. Was it the alcohol? I began to stroke her side and she looked up at me.

“Is this right?”

No. No, it’s not right. It’s not even close. You’re the wife of my best friend and you’re family to me. You’re like my sister. I always thought of you as my sister.

“Yes.”

We went upstairs.

5.

I don’t remember if I was thinking those things at the time, but I’m thinking them now. Thinking about how this all could’ve been different had I said them. How much happier I’d be. Would I be happier? I certainly wouldn’t be in this godforsaken place they call heaven. Not yet.

I sat across from Peters and looked at him. Watched his unmoving face stare back at me. No emotions. He wasn’t going to break under my gaze as so many wannabe criminals had in my past life as a cop.

I couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. I had to get out of his office, out of this building, out of this heaven. I stood up, knocking over my chair as I did so. He still showed no emotion as I once again pushed open his door, slamming it loud against the wall. Everyone in the waiting room looked up as I walked from the hall, staring at me as I pushed the down button on the elevator. It opened immediately, sparing me the indignation of waiting for it while I had to feel everyone’s eyes on my back. I stepped in and pushed 1.

I left the building and walked in the direction of my little cookie-cutter house. Was this what I had to look forward to? Would they keep me here if I was unhappy the entire time? I wondered if it was even possible to find a hole in this place, some kind of tear that would provide enough space to crawl through to some other kind of “happiness.” Happiness I could bear.

I asked myself, is there a way out of heaven?

6.

A few months after that Fourth of July night, Sarah and I had been married. Some people were happy the two of us could finally be happy ourselves in the wake of Steven’s death. Some gave us sideways glances, wondering how we could tarnish such a beautiful bond as what the two of us had. The unspoken bond whose name was no longer mentioned: Steven.

Pictures of Sarah and Steven changed over time to pictures of her and me. It started in the bedroom and crept along the upstairs, bathroom to bathroom, until it spread to the downstairs of the house as well, infecting the living room and family room last. Steven’s den, which I had taken over but never much used, retained his pictures. All the pictures of Sarah and Steven ended up here, in a kind of quarantine, which is most likely why I didn’t use the room very often.

A year and a half after we’d been married, the boys started to finally be comfortable with me living in the house. They hadn’t taken to well at first; it had taken me that long to convince them I wasn’t trying to take over as Steven. Sarah knew it right away, but kids are more sensitive to that kind of thing. They see so much more easily than we do.

Almost as if I was in high school again, I had gone through great lengths to gain acceptance. I did whatever I could. I’d rent them R-rated movies when Sarah wasn’t around and I’d let them stay up late. The movies may not have been the best idea for 12- and 10-year-old boys, but it sped along the process of becoming one of their own. I didn’t think twice about it. I even coached their little league baseball team.

That last day was a game day. We had all gotten ready as we usually do: the kids in their uniforms, Sarah packing the cooler, myself loading the team equipment into the back of the minivan. I left the hatch open to go in to get the cooler from Sarah—she packed drinks for the entire team and couldn’t carry it out to the car.

With everything loaded, Steven, Jr. and Toby got into the middle row of seats; Sarah took the passenger seat and I drove. The same thing every game. It was a bright summer day, warm but not hot. I was looking forward to standing outside all day rather than spending it driving around town in a cruiser.

Halfway to the field, it started, as it usually always does. Steven, Jr. started to pick on Toby. Taunting him, touching him, the usual stuff kids do to annoy each other. I looked to Sarah—I still felt uncomfortable about disciplining the boys—and she turned around in her seat.

“Steve, cut it out.” He stopped long enough for his mother to turn around before picking up again.

Toby complained mercilessly. “Mom! Steve won’t leave me alone! Tell him to leave me alone!”

“Steven,” I said. “Leave your brother alone.”

“But dad,” he said. “He stuck his tongue out at me.”

It took me by surprise. I turned around to look at him and his brother. Dad. This was the first. I smiled at both of them and they smiled back. Dad. I couldn’t stop smiling, and I couldn’t stop looking at them. They were so beautiful, even though they weren’t mine and never would be. But they considered me theirs’.

“CHRIS!” Sarah screamed. I began to turn around as I felt the beginning of the impact. That was it.

7.

In the waiting room for the first time. I don’t remember how we had gotten here, or if we even had gotten here. Perhaps we just appeared. Maybe that’s why everyone else looked so confused. I looked around. Sarah sat next to me, her two boys in chairs next to her. All three looked around much like I did. We didn’t know what was going on, so we waited.

After a few minutes, the lady behind the front desk walked around and stood in front of us, her wings flaring out behind her. “Mrs. Roberts, Mr. Peters will see you and your sons.” She turned to me. “You’ll have to wait out here for a moment, Mr. Wallace. He’ll be right with you. Just a formality.”

I nodded but said nothing. I didn’t know what to say. This is the way things go here, I suppose. Who am I to change anything?

I waited longer in the room, looking around at all the people here. Couples, singles, families. A lot of old people. I looked at the table next to me, but there were no magazines. Not even an old Highlights. It wasn’t much of a waiting room.

Fifteen minutes later and the lady behind the desk was walking toward me. I stood up when it was obvious she was coming my way and she told me Mr. Peters would see me now. I followed her down the hall to the door marked with his name. She opened it for me and I walked in.

Peters was sitting behind his desk, putting a file into a drawer while I walked in. He pulled another one out and opened it, motioning for me to sit down. He looked through the papers for a few minutes before looking up at me.

“Mr. Wallace. Welcome.”

“Thanks,” was all I could say.

“I’m going to be as straightforward as possible, Mr. Wallace. It should be obvious by now that you’re in heaven. The angel at the front desk, everything is white, you died in a car accident. You lived a good life, you had a respectable job, you went to church every Sunday. It is obvious you’re in heaven, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. Now, while this is eternal bliss and all that, we like to go above and beyond. What else would you expect? But, while we’re pretty sure we already know it—we have that kind of power, you see—we let you tell us your greatest desire and we’ll fulfill it for you. That’s what heaven is all about, after all. Understood?”

I nodded. He went on.

“Now, you can choose from virtually anything. But, like most places, we don’t allow the usual unallowables—anything that interferes with someone else’s happiness, anything involving pornography, bestiality, pedophilia—basically anything the church would frown upon. I’m sure you realize what is acceptable and what is not.”

“Of course,” I told him.

“Splendid. So, do you have anything in mind, Mr. Wallace?”

I thought for a quick moment before answering. “Yes. It’s easy. I want to spend the rest of my time—however long that may be here—”

“Eternity.”

“Yes, eternity. I want to spend it with Sarah and the kids.”

Peters looked through his papers before pulling out the file he had already put away. He ruffled through it as if to double check a few things. He put the file away and looked at me.

“And this is what would make you most happy for the rest of eternity, Mr. Wallace?”

I immediately agreed and he looked at me for a long time.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Wallace, that we can’t do that.”

“Excuse me?”

“You see, Mr. Wallace, Sarah and the boys chose to live with Steven—her husband and their father, as I’m sure you know. Steven has chosen to be with them. We can’t break our promise to four people just for one person. Are you sure there isn’t anything else you’d like?”

My heart sank into my stomach. It took me a minute to process this information before realizing I have been left out. After all I did for her and the kids—all in Steven’s name—I was being left behind now that my job as placeholder was over.

“N-No,” I said. “No, not at all. This is all I want.”

“Well, we’re terribly sorry, Mr. Wallace, but it cannot be done.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve already told you, Mr. Wallace. We cannot usurp the happiness of four people for your sake. What’s done is done. But I know that in cases like this we are allowed to bend the rules for you, if you would like to pick something else that may be on the list of things not allowed. I have a list right here in my drawer of what can be done for you—”

“I don’t need to see your list,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Peters looked tired; tired, or bored. He shuffled some papers and took a moment to think.

“Mr. Wallace, if I could just ask you to wait in the reception area for a few moments…”

Beginning to feel tired myself, I accepted what he’d told me. For the moment, anyway. I pushed myself to my feet and contemplated saying something else, arguing about leaving until I’m happy. I let it go, though, thinking he wouldn’t want to humor me anyway. I left the office and placed myself in the reception room, smiled at the receptionist and looked around. After a few minutes, she picked up the phone, agreed a few times, and returned it to its cradle. She looked at me.

“Mr. Wallace?”

I began to stand, ready to return to the office and get all of this taken care of.

“Mr. Peters has asked that you return to your home for the night and come back to see us in the morning so we can get this all straightened out.”

I stopped, half-standing, my hand still on the arm rest of the chair. I looked around, but no one seemed to notice me. I looked back at the receptionist, and she was smiling at me, most likely oblivious to what was going on. I sighed and pulled myself together, forcing myself to behave, telling myself I would give them another chance tomorrow if I could hold out that long. I nodded at her and turned, slowly walking to the elevator. I told myself everything would be okay.

8.

As I write this, I constantly have to go back to double-check Sarah’s name. It’s already slipping away from me. Perhaps I will be happy here after all; they’ll force me into happiness if they have to. Or maybe Peters was right, maybe that whole thing was my way of being happy and continuing to be a loyal friend. Who knows if they’re idea of heaven is anything like this, with the houses and the yards. They could be swimming in a primordial big bang for all I know, or turned into dolphins. Or maybe Sarah’s heaven has both Steven and myself next to her somewhere.

Was his name Steven? I had to go back and check what I’d already written again, the ink already beginning to fade from the first paragraphs. I’m sure it’s all for the better, letting me forget all of that and move on towards a greater happiness, letting the four of them be happy as well.

For now, I’m tired of writing. I’ve said my piece and now it’s time to forget everything and move on. Maybe go do some work in the yard or clean my new car. Maybe I’ll just go read a book in the backyard, taking advantage of this perfect weather and the delicious beer—brewed by Trappist monks—that always seems to be in my refrigerator. I think that’s what I’ll do now. That’s what will make me happy.