Deadline

  Jake thought of showing the note to Clarence, it related so closely to their discussion. He decided against it for the moment. He reread the note. Not a religion column? Of course it wasn’t. Did he say anything about religion in the column? He called it back up and reread it on his screen. No, it was just facts and common sense conclusions. What was religious about that—unless religion was also facts and common sense, a supposition he knew was not widely held at the Trib. And Jess was right—they had always given him latitude in the past.

  Until now.

  Jake had crossed a line. The line was not obscenity or inaccuracy or vengeance or damaging the reputation of an innocent person. The line was certain moral beliefs and their overt or implied criticism of popular institutions. Ironically, Jake pondered, these same moral beliefs were once widely accepted by the culture. Now they were so alien as to constitute a major threat. In the open-minded world of some of his journalistic superiors and peers, they were met with all the fear and distrust and sense of mortal danger as an alien invasion in a sci-fi flick.

  Jake pressed the button on his recording machine. Two positive and three negative calls concerning his column. The next message was direct and to the point.

  “Jake Woods? Barbara Betcher, NEA. The executive committee met this morning. We’re formally withdrawing our invitation for you to speak at our spring banquet. Your columns have been attacking some of the very things we stand for. There are plenty of speakers sympathetic to education and to our children—we don’t need someone who’s not. I hope this is just a phase you’re going through. For your sake and everybody else’s, we all hope you shake it soon. Real soon.”

  “Merry Christmas to you too, Barbara,” Jake said aloud. He shook his head, marveling at the short memories of those who had only a few months ago appeared so loyal to him. Why did they feel so betrayed? Maybe it was his own fault for serving as their mouthpiece, rehashing their propaganda when he’d thought of himself as truly independent. Had he been willing to obscure the truth to serve what he considered a good cause, and unwilling to tell the truth when it served what he considered a bad cause?

  It wasn’t the responses of Planned Parenthood and Barbara Betcher that bothered him most. It was the responses of some of his colleagues, including those on the multiculturalism committee. They confirmed all too clearly that the religion of political correctness, of which he had been a dutiful if unthinking priest, had come to truly dominate the mainstream of his profession. Unbelievers, such as syndicated conservatives who had never been part of this religion, were scorned but given a begrudging respect. The greatest scorn was reserved for someone who had been on the inside and now dared to betray the religion, to defect from its sacred creeds and violate its dogmas. Jake had become a heretic. The rising smoke from his terminal, message machine, and mailbox promised he would face the fires all heretics must face.

  At 6:06 A.M. on October 28, Gregory Victor Lowell had exited his temporary residence. He’d been unconscious his last hours, but on leaving his body his faculties immediately sharpened. Time had passed, if time still was. The time or day on earth was unknown and irrelevant here. Wherever here was.

  For the first moments Doc thought he was dreaming. This was the only possible explanation for his conscious appraisal of his body lying on a hospital bed. He felt free, liberated, relieved, as one who had escaped from the confinement of the body. But this changed almost instantly as he sized up the situation.

  He was out of his body, which meant he was dead. He realized in a flash of insight he had been wrong all those years in thinking that life ended with death. He had said there was no soul, but a soul is exactly what he was and had been all along. He had not ceased to exist. Indeed, the very idea of a person ceasing to exist was ludicrous. People did not die, they merely relocated from one place to another. Such an exit could never be mistaken for a move from existence to nonexistence except by shortsighted, egocentric people in one room who thought that whenever someone went into another they must no longer exist.

  This new world, if indeed he had arrived there—and he desperately hoped he had not—did not seem unreal but much more real than the old world. A sickening feeling of foreboding gripped him; he was unprepared for this realm. And it was now too late to prepare.

  Doc knew instinctively that whatever lay ahead of him would never end. This truth was self-evident. He felt embarrassed and foolish he had ever thought otherwise.

  How could I have been so deceived?

  Yet even as he asked the question, he knew he had been willingly deceived because of how he wanted to live and what he wanted to believe—and because of how he did not want to live and what he did not want to believe.

  What had Finney told him? “The reason you don’t want to believe in a Creator is because then you’d have to believe in a Judge—and you don’t want to think you’ll be held accountable for how you’ve lived. But there is, and you will be.”

  This irritated him before, and it irritated him now. Who was Finney to preach to him?

  Doc looked around uneasily, trying to get his bearings. Where were the others? He could see or hear no one. A flood of proud and confident words from the past rushed over him. The party where he said, “I’d rather be in hell with intelligent people than in heaven with a bunch of Christians.” The times he’d quoted Mark Twain—“It’s heaven for atmosphere and hell for company.” His retort to Finney—“I’d rather be anywhere with anyone than to be with a herd of narrow-minded fundamentalists and their narrow-minded God.”

  Finney’s life and words haunted Doc now even more than they had on earth. His mind flashed back to a conversation two years earlier. It was more than a memory with the fuzzy edges memories have. It was like a videotape, vivid and complete to the detail. Doc could remember every word, every sound, every feeling. It was relived in his mind, moment by moment, as if it were happening right now. And that made it all the more painful.

  While looking for a pen on Finney’s desk at his house, Doc’s eyes fell on a receipt. It showed Finney had recently given a large sum of money to feed the hungry in an African country. Doc was irritated, and he let Finney know it, waving the receipt in front of his face as if it were incriminating evidence.

  “Don’t you know that money isn’t going to solve the problem? Those people are going to die anyway. You’re just prolonging their agony. It’s a foolish waste of hard-earned money.”

  “Well, Doc,” Finney came back, “I’m sure those people think their lives and the lives of their children are just as important as ours. All that I am and all that I have belongs to someone else. It’s his money, not mine, and I think that’s where he wanted me to put it. You call it foolish. I think it’s wise. I guess some day we’ll both find out who was right.”

  “Think about your own family,” Doc responded. “You could have given them a terrific vacation with that money. Or invested in a mutual fund that would help pay their way through college. And what about Little Finn? His condition is permanent—he might have some big expenses down the line. And what about your retirement—are you going to have enough for you and Sue? Look, buddy, I appreciate generosity as much as the next guy, but let’s get real. You can’t save the whole world. Think ahead, for crying out loud.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing, Doc. You’re thinking thirty years ahead. I’m trying to think thirty million years ahead.”

  Doc’s familiar Twilight Zone whistle had filled the air. He looked at Finney with a combination of pity and scorn.

  “I’m serious, Doc.”

  “That’s what scares me. There’s a place in our psych ward reserved in your name. They’re all serious, too. Have you considered therapy?”

  Finney’s look of concern for him bothered Doc as much as anything. It seemed so arrogant and condescending.

  “You talk about foolish,” Finney said. “Foolish is not planning for your eternal future. Jesus told about a rich man who stored up treasures on earth but didn’t prepare for eternity. And
God said to him, ’You fool, this night your life is required of you. Now who will get all you’ve laid up for yourself?”’

  “Not the church, if I can help it!”

  “Come on, Doc. Leave the church out of it. This isn’t about the church, it’s about you and God. I admire your accomplishments. You’ve worked hard, earned a lot of respect, a lot of influence, and a whole lot of money. I’ve been in your cheering section, you know that. But there’s a lot more to life than all that.”

  “Like what? Here and now is all there is, old buddy.”

  “Do you really believe that, Doc? Come on. You’re more than an animal. You’re an eternal human being. You’re going to live forever. And what you do now has bearing on eternity.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute. I reject it. So what do you say to that?”

  “Your rejection doesn’t change reality. You are who you are, and God is who he is. And he did what he did for you on the cross. Nothing you think or say will ever change any of that.”

  “I didn’t ask for anyone to go to the cross for me—I pay my own way. I don’t want your religion; it’s a pacifier for fools. And I don’t want any part of your God.”

  “I’d rather be judged a fool by you for the moment, than be judged a fool by God for eternity.” Finney eyes pleaded with him. “Doc, don’t say you’d rather pay your own way. You may get your wish. It’s called hell. God not being there is what will make it hell.”

  Doc shivered as the scenario played itself out in his mind. It was so real, as if he had actually gone back and relived it. “A fool for eternity.” Finney’s words haunted him.

  Where was everybody? Doc had never felt so utterly alone. He was waiting for someone to come, a citizen of this realm to orient him, to explain the ground rules, the boundaries and opportunities of this world. There was an invisible fence. He could sense it. A limiting wall that could not be penetrated. An iron curtain locking him in, preventing any escape. This was confinement. Much worse, it was solitary confinement. He kept hoping it was only temporary.

  The more he thought, the angrier Doc became. How could God do this to me? If God was a God of love, he would offer me a way out.

  He would not allow himself to realize God’s love had indeed made a way out, and at immense cost to himself. Or to realize this way had been explained to him many times, by one of his best friends and others as well. He had rejected the way. He wanted another way, a way that would not force him to confess to wrongdoing. A way that would recognize and reward his goodness, those he had helped, his contribution to humanity. A way that didn’t require him to crawl on his knees like a sniveling beggar. He would find his own way. He always had before.

  Yet even as he said this to himself, he sensed the ropes slipping through his hands. Verses of the Bible he had tried to ignore, thrust upon him by Finney, flashed back into his mind. Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth and the life—no man comes to the Father but by me.” No other way. “Neither is there any other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.” No other way. It was God’s way or none.

  Very well Doc thought. Then none it will be.

  He would have to make the best of this world. Anything would be better than the alternative. At least there would be no rules and church services and hypocrite evangelists and pansy angels and interminable do-gooder boredom.

  The aloneness was becoming stifling. He could hear nothing, feel nothing, see nothing, sense nothing. He had only himself. He considered the unthinkable—that this was not a phase, a part of a transition, but the final destination. That this was hell. Or at least the beginning of hell.

  He felt a burning. A fury welled up inside him. Anger and bitterness, unfocused hostility, frustration leading him to lash out. But there was no one to lash out at. No incompetent nurse, no demented patient, no Christian bigot, no wife, no children. And there was no audience to convince he was being treated unjustly. No one to cower in fear at the power of the great athlete, the scholar, the renowned doctor, the skilled surgeon. No one to admire the champion of women’s rights who courageously provided them abortions.

  Abortion—there was no longer a lack of clarity, no longer a pretense. It was killing children. He had known all along that’s exactly what it was. What else could it be? The images of mutilated babies consumed his mind.

  The pain began to sink in deeper, creating a desperate desire for relief. It was a pain far worse than any he had ever felt before. Doc thought of all the times he had loosely used the word hell. “I had a hell of a day in surgery.” “Jake and I raised hell that weekend in Miami.” Even “War is hell.”

  No, this was hell; all else paled in comparison. And this was only the first hour of hell, and there was no calendar to check off the days until the sentence was finished. How could he endure even a day, much less an eternal night? How long would tomorrow be? He could not bear the thought of it.

  But if he could escape, what was the alternative? Heaven? The thought of being there sickened him. To be under those rules, that constant self-righteous oppression, would be intolerable. More intolerable, even, than this place. Yes, the doors of hell were locked all right, but they were locked from the inside. If God attempted to enter this world, Doc would double bolt the door and put his shoulder against it. This was his place, his world. God had no right to intrude.

  Doc thirsted for help, but not redemption. He hungered for hope, but not righteousness. He longed for friendship, but not with those who followed God. He could see in his mind’s eye Dante’s sign that hung over the entrance to hell’s inferno. “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

  Already his last shred of hope was fleeing from him. He panicked. He had lived by goals and aspirations and hopes. But here there was room for none of these. He had lived by the pursuit of excellence. Here there was no excellence to pursue. Here there was nothing.

  Where were the great people Twain said would inhabit hell? There were no great people here. No people at all. No company of the damned with whom to commiserate and strategize an escape, like in all the prison movies. Commiseration is the one desirable element of suffering, and hell had nothing desirable to offer. No camaraderie. No family. No sports, no music, no movies. Not even a television to watch a sitcom or laugh at those phony preachers.

  Doc had fantasized that if there was a hell, it would be like a pirate ship where the most shrewd and powerful would rise to the top. Better to be a captain in hell than a harp strumming eunuch in heaven. If there were Hiders and child murderers here, which he doubted, he would just stay away from them. He would find the great men of hell, join their fraternity, work his way to the top. Yet even as he thought this, he sensed it was not true. He would never again see another human being. Except one day there would be a long and terrible line leading to judgment.

  The God he insisted did not exist, and he did not want or need, had granted him his wish—to have him once and for all out of his life. He realized now there was no life without the Creator and Sustainer of Life. This was existence, not life. This was eternal death. For a moment Doc was filled with grief, but it was quickly replaced with anger and outrage, much deeper than before. How dare God do this to him?

  Suddenly he heard a sound, a terrible sound, so awful it proved him wrong when he’d thought that any sound would be welcome. It was an almost human sound, but more like an animal writhing in agony. A sound of moaning building to a horrible scream. It went on and on, torturing him, its only consolation the fact that someone or something else must be here with him.

  Suddenly he realized the terrible truth—the scream was his. He was still alone, and there could be no comfort in this hideous scream. The animal nature of it shocked him. He had once put his hope in the thought that he was but an animal, a higher one, but he’d always known he was something more. Now he felt he was becoming something less.

  He had rejected heavens call to selflessness for hell’s call to selfishness. And why not? What could matter more than self? He wo
uld not let go of himself, entrust himself to the will of another. He wanted to set the ground rules, for himself and others. He wanted control. But now he felt out of control. No one was reporting to him. When he still had opportunity to choose, he had chosen a path he could not turn back from now.

  He would gladly spit in the face of God, if only he could do it without looking at him. To look at that face would be hell itself. He could not imagine even a moment in his presence. He longed for relief, yet said to himself, “If the door to heaven were opened I would run from it. No hell could be worse than the hell of hearing narrow-minded Christians say ’I told you so.”’

  In his mind’s eye, from what source he did not know, he could now see that coming day of change from the state he now found himself in. He saw a great kingdom, a thousand year reign of unparalleled peace on earth. But the one who ruled was … no, it could not be. The carpenter from Nazareth? The self-proclaimed God of the Christians? And with him, ruling with him, were none other than the Christian bigots themselves. How could this be? What gave them the right to control and oppress the inhabitants of the world?

  And at the end of that thousand years, he could see a great parade. No, not a parade. A march. A march of criminals, prisoners of an oppressive government, champions of freedom unjustly accused, going one by one in front of a great white throne. He could see himself marching along with many others, each to stand before a terrible judge, a tyrant, a despot. They were no doubt to be punished for their progressive ideas.

  Doc saw many ordinary people. No one seemed to recognize him. He did not stand out from the crowd. He was just another person. No one else cared. Every mind was directed inward at itself and its plan to deny or escape or accuse or blame others for its choices.

  But no denial would work, for Doc could see great books being opened, books that had accurately logged every thought and word and deed. These books were what would determine his future, and he realized they contained adulteries, lies, and betrayals of his wife and children, as well as neglect and failure to guide them into truth and integrity. But he had given them plenty of material things that should more than compensate, he was sure, if the Judge was fair. Doc would defend himself before the court of heaven. He would appeal to the jury, a jury of his peers, and they would be won over by his eloquence. They would let him off.