Divine Intervention

Message from Hell

My dead brother-in-law Howard came to me in a dream and said, “Hi, Tom, long time no see; I’ve missed you, buddy, how you been?”

I trusted him no more dead than when he was alive. He had always been against Tracy and me. The first time we met, when Tracy brought me to her home and introduced me as the young man she had met in the writing program at NYU, her parents weren’t exactly ecstatic about me, but Howard’s reaction had been somewhat colder than frigid. He made it clear that he didn’t want a down-at-heels writer marrying his one, his only, his beloved kid sister, Tracy.

But to Hell with that, right? Tracy and I got married and took a little apartment in Coconut Grove. I can’t prove it, but I know it was Howard who tipped the cops that I was a big dope dealer masquerading as a bohemian. They came in with guns drawn and that wild who-do-I-shoot-first look in their eyes, expecting to find a laboratory in my closet or under my bed, where I turned paste into top grade cocaine. Ironic that they should expect this of me—a man who had flunked elementary science in college and whose idea of a chemical reaction was dropping an Alka-Seltzer into a glass of water.

They didn’t find a thing, and the half ounce of mediocre weed under my socks finally was ruled inadmissible evidence. But it put a strain on our relationship all the same.

Lots of people marry without the approval of their family. Tracy and I did. We figured Howard would cool off after a while.

That year I sold my fifth short story and got my first novel contract, despite Howard spreading it around that I was a no-talent plagiarist and that Tracy wrote all my stuff for me.

Steady waves of hatred emanated from his stucco house in Coral Gables, permeating our little jungle apartment in the Grove. Things weren’t going so well for Tracy and me. I won’t say it was his fault, but he sure didn’t help.

She had a nervous breakdown, left me, went to Houston, lived with a girlfriend for a while, divorced me, and married somebody else. This was during the time I was finishing my second novel. I’m pretty sure Howard paid off somebody at the Miami Herald to give my book the worst review in the history of southern Florida.

So, in light of all this, perhaps you can understand why I didn’t exactly mourn when, two years later, a rusted-out ‘73 Buick coupe driven by a drunk skindiving instructor from Marathon Shores screeched over the curb on Oceanside Boulevard like a bumper-toothed monster seeking its prey, and sieved Howard through the iron mesh fence at the foot of South Beach.

It was unworthy of me to feel so good about his getting killed, but I did. I couldn’t have planned it better myself. I liked it so much I wished I’d thought of it first. I must also confess that attending Howard’s funeral was the best day I had all year. I’m not proud of this, but there it is. I was miserable and I was glad he was dead and I wondered where he came off now stepping into my dream like this.

“Look, Howard,” I said, “just what in the Hell are you doing in my dream, anyhow?”

“Funny you should mention Hell,” Howard said, with that quick nervous laugh of his. “That’s where I live these days.”

“I could have figured that out for myself,” I said.

“Come on, lighten up, Tom,” Howard said, with a flash of irritation. “I’m not in Hell because I was bad. Everybody’s here—everybody I’ve ever known, and most of the people I’ve ever heard of. I mean this is the place people go to after they die. Nobody even calls it Hell. I call it that because nobody ever smiles around here and I figure this has got to be the place. But it’s not bad. There’s a guy who runs things. He tells us to just call him Mr. Smith. But I figure he’s the Devil. He doesn’t seem to be a bad fellow and he’s very cultured.”

“I always figured the Devil would be a businessman,” I said. “Or possibly a scientist.”

“There you go with that cynicism, Tom,” Howard said. “As a matter of fact, the Devil is an art critic and an expert on contemporary culture.”

“Did he tell you that himself?”

“It’s the only way I can explain how all the best jobs down here go to artists, writers, sculptors, musicians, painters, dancers… And they get the best housing, too, and the new cars.”

I was interested. As I have mentioned, I’m a writer, not wildly successful, but not entirely unknown, either. My mother had always told me that my reward would come in Heaven, or wherever I happened to land. And here was proof of sorts.

“Tell me more,” I said.

“A person’s status down here depends entirely on how well known he was on Earth. The Supreme Court is run by guys like Tolstoi, Melville, Nijinsky, Beethoven. Even a loser like Poe has been given the directorship of a large interlocking conglomerate and he gets paid whether he works or not.”

“I really like the sound of this,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Oh, it’s fine for guys like you,” Howard said, with some bitterness. “For the rest of us it’s not so great.”

My brother-in-law told me that he lived in a one-room semidetached house in a small suburb on the outskirts of Hell. His work—the only work available—was sorting gravel according to size and number of facets. All the unknowns did that.

“Doesn’t sound too tough,” I said.

“It’s not. The real punishment is boredom. They did give me a television, but the reception is lousy and the only program I can get is I Love Lucy reruns. We also get to see a baseball game once a week, but it’s always the same one, Phillies and Red Sox, Fenway Park, 1982. I could recite it for you play by play.”

“Well, Howard,” I said, “it’s all pretty dreary, but there’s nothing I can do about it. So take care of yourself and lots of luck in your new home.”

“Wait!” Howard said. “Don’t go wake up yet. I used up ten years’ worth of cigarette rations to get into your dream. You could help me, Tom, and it would help you, too.”

“What are you talking about, Howard?”

“You could write up this story for a magazine. They’d pay you for it. Just mention my name in the story. Even being mentioned by a published writer is worth something in Hell. I think it would give me enough status to get out of this suburb, take the next step, move into a cottage in a place that looks like Cape May in the rain, and I’d get to sort semiprecious stones instead of gravel, and get two channels on the television with an NFL football game every Sunday as well as the baseball game. It’s not much, but from where I’m sitting it looks like Heaven. Tom, say you’ll do it!”

He looked at me imploringly. His time in Hell hadn’t done much for his looks. He was drawn, haggard, strained, nervous, apathetic, anxious, and tired. I suppose that’s how people on the lowest social rungs of Hell always look.

“All right, Howard, I’ll do it. Now, please go back to Hell and have a good trip.”

His face lighted up. “You’ll do it? May Satan smile upon your reviews!” he cried. And then he was gone.

And so I sat down and wrote this story. My original intention was to use it to complete my revenge against Howard. You see, I have written this whole thing without using my brother-in-law’s real name. As far as I’m concerned he can sort gravel in his semidetached house in Hell forever.

That was my first intention. But then I relented. It was a fine revenge, but I couldn’t let myself take it. I think it’s all right to pursue vengeance to the grave, but not beyond. And you may laugh at this, but it’s also my conviction that we living have a duty to do whatever we can to help out the dead.

So this one’s for you, Howard, whose real name is Paul W. Whitman, late of 2244 Seacactus Drive, Miami Beach, Florida. I forgive you for all the bad stuff about Tracy. Maybe she and I would have split up anyway, even without your help. May this mention get you safely to your hotel room and your football game once a week.

And if you happen to see my old high school buddies, Manny Klein, killed in Vietnam, 1969; Sam Taylor, heart attack, Manhattan, 1971; and Ed Moscowitz, mugged in Morningside Heights, 1978, tell them I was asking after them and thus ensuring, I hope, their move to more pleasing surroundings.