Flesh For Fantasy. Joan Elizabeth Lloyd
get on with it, Angela,” Lucy snapped. “Oh, never mind. Look, honey,” she said, staring at Maggie, “you’re dead.”
“I’m what?” Maggie shrieked, jumping up from her seat.
“Lucy, don’t do that,” Angela said. “It just scares people unnecessarily. You have to break these things to them gently. How many times have I told you?”
“If you had it your way,” Lucy said, “we’d be here for hours, breaking the news so gently that I’d starve.”
“Ladies!” Maggie yelled. “Could you please stop arguing and just tell me what’s going on.”
“Of course, dear,” Angela said. “Now sit back down and try to open your mind to new experiences.”
Maggie dropped into the chair, her wobbly legs suddenly unable to hold her weight.
“Actually,” Angela said, “although she said it crudely, Lucy is right. You are dead. You died quietly in your sleep of a massive heart attack.”
Maggie tried to grasp what she was being told. “I did what?”
“It’s always hardest to understand,” Angela continued, “when you’ve had no warning. The chronically ill. They understand. They’ve been expecting it. But you. You appeared to be in perfect health.”
“But your coronary arteries,” Lucy said. “Shot. Too many french fries and rare steaks.” She gazed at the ceiling. “Actually, right now, a thick sirloin with a baked stuffed potato….”
“Dead?” Maggie whispered, unable to make any louder sound come out of her mouth. “I’m dead? Really, truly forever dead?”
“I’m afraid so, dear,” Angela said. “Remember that pain right here?” She pointed to her breastbone. “Just before you went to bed that night?”
Numbly, Maggie nodded.
“Well,” Lucy said, then snapped her fingers loudly. “That was the beginning of the end.”
“But,” Angela said, “being dead is not bad. Really.”
“Dead,” Maggie muttered. “And what is this place?”
“We call it the computer room. It’s kind of a decision station,” Angela said. “You know, up or down.” She motioned with her thumb.
“You mean heaven, hell, that sort of thing?”
“Exactly,” Lucy said.
“I’m finding all this a bit hard to believe,” Maggie said.
“I can understand that,” Angela said. “But I think we can convince you.” Angela stood up and turned her back to Maggie. Two glittering white wings extended from her shoulderblades through an opening in her gown. “Angela, angel, you get it. Right?” The wings quivered and Angela rose about five feet, then gracefully settled back down.
Lucy stood up and turned. The tight black catsuit had a small opening just above her buttocks, through which a long sinuous black tail extended. “Lucy, Lucifer. Okay?” She extended her index finger and a narrow shaft of flame shot out, then, as quickly, was extinguished.
“Shit,” Maggie hissed.
“Don’t curse,” Angela said.
“Let her say what she wants,” Lucy snapped. “After all, it’s her life, or death, as it were.”
Slowly, Maggie was starting to accept the unacceptable. “Does everyone come through here? And what happens now? Do I meet someone like Mr. Jordan in that movie with Warren Beatty?”
“Ah, yes, Heaven Can Wait. That movie has led to more misunderstandings than anything in the last fifty years,” Lucy said. “People expect some kindly old gentleman, a mixture of God, Santa Claus, and James Mason. Nope. No one like that. Just us.”
“Actually,” Angela said, “very few people get to see us at all.” She clicked a few keys on her computer keyboard, then continued. “It’s usually very easy. People die and the decision’s already made. Good, bad, up, down. It’s usually pretty straightforward.”
“But, as we told you before,” Lucy said, “you are a problem.”
“Really,” Maggie said dryly, staring at the two women clicking away at their terminals.
“We have a decision to make here that will affect you for all eternity,” the women said in unison. “Heaven,” Angela said. “Or hell,” Lucy added.
“And what’s it like,” Maggie asked, looking into Lucy’s deep black eyes, “down there? Is it like the movies, all fire and brimstone?”
“Nah,” Lucy said, “actually it’s been air-conditioned. The staff couldn’t bear the heat any longer. It’s not pleasant, however. Everyone has tedious tasks to perform, like the rock up the side of the mountain thing or cleaning up after the trolls or collating a thousand copies of my daily, hundred-page report.
“Or reading it,” Angela said dryly.
Lucy glared at her, “Yes, lots of hard work and constant, blaring rock music.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “And recently, we’ve added some rap. But you have the evenings off and the food’s not half bad. Very hot, of course, vindalu curry and four-alarm chili at every meal.” Lucy hesitated, then added, “What I wouldn’t give for a steak, medium rare.” She shook her head and grew silent.
“I see.” Maggie turned to Angela expectantly.
“Oh, heaven’s wonderful,” she said, beaming beatifically. “There’s sensational organ and harp music all the time, and we have little to do but relax on fluffy clouds and think wonderful thoughts. There is a constant supply of ambrosia to eat and nectar to drink and wonderful intellectual people to talk to.” She sighed. “Ah, the talks we’ve had about the meaning of life and the future of mankind.”
Maggie thought that hell sounded much more like her type of place, but she hesitated to say so in front of Angela. There was a lot at stake here. She waited for the two silent women to continue, but when long minutes passed, Maggie brought them back to the present. “And I’m a problem for you.”
“Yes, yes, of course you are,” Lucy said, her head snapping back to her console. “You’re a prostitute, a hooker. You have sex with men for money. And you’re unrepentant.”
“I guess that’s true,” Maggie admitted. “I don’t apologize for what I do.” Suddenly a bit uneasy, she said, “Does that mean…” She made a thumbs-down signal with her right hand.
“It should,” Lucy said. “It certainly should.”
“But,” Angela jumped in, “you’re a truly nice person. Kind, considerate, loving. We checked your record.” She turned the monitor on her computer toward Maggie and clicked a few more keys. “Remember Jake? It was just a month or so before you, er, died.”
On the screen, Maggie could see a view of her apartment. Jake. She remembered that evening well as the scene played out.
The doorbell rang. Maggie rose gracefully from her chair, slid the crossword puzzle she had been working on under the seat cushion, straightened her simple yellow tennis sweater and rubbed her hands down the thighs of her jeans. “Coming,” she called. She crossed the large living room and opened the door. “You must be Jake,” she said, careful not to touch the young man who stood awkwardly before her. “Please come in.”
She backed up and motioned for Jake to come inside, but the young man didn’t budge. She looked him over quickly, noting his carefully combed sandy-brown hair and his gray tweed sport jacket and black slacks. She knew from his father that he was seventeen, but at that moment he looked about twelve, with large ears and skin deeply scarred from childhood acne. She tried not to smile at the nervous twining and retwining of his fingers and his deer-in-the-headlights expression.