Lucifer's Lottery

the times: SORRY, WORDEN’S IS NO LONGER IN BUSINESS. THANK YOU FOR FIFTY YEARS OF SUPPORT.

Gerold had specifically come here for something, but now he’d have to bus to Home Depot. Shit.

He’d come here to buy about twenty feet of decent gauge rope so that he could hang himself. “Not today,” he mumbled and wheeled off. He wasn’t up for the extra bus to Home Depot right now. Looks like I’ll have to go to work tomorrow after all . . . ’cos I won’t be dead yet.

He’d already figured how he would do it, but it would have to be late. Gerold’s apartment was on the third floor (the only inexpensive apartment building in town with an elevator). He’d wait till two, three in the morning, tie one end of the rope to the balcony rail, then fling himself off. If anybody even woke up in the apartment below, Gerold felt sure he’d be dead before they could do anything, and he didn’t like those people anyway—a snitty retired couple who always ignored him and frowned when he was doing his laundry. He guessed they thought a paraplegic’s dirty laundry was grosser than theirs.

Maybe when I hang myself, I’ll do it naked, with my catheter bag hanging. When those assholes come out in the morning for their coffee—surprise! The idea made Gerold smile.

Months ago he printed a how-to sheet off the Internet: the precise way to make a hangman’s noose.

The sun’s heat drummed into him, but in the time it would take the next bus to come, he could be home anyway. Several rednecks in a dented hot rod grinned at him when the WALK light came on. “It says walk, not roll!” one of them laughed. Gerold said nothing; he was used to it. His rolling trek continued, down the main road. Eventually, though, he stopped, and he didn’t know what caused him to do so. He sat there for several minutes, staring.

His eyes had fixated on a looming crucifix . . .

The church, he realized after several more moments. Why had he wheeled a block past his apartment? Subconscious, probably. The dying Catholic in him knew the never- changing rule: If you kill yourself, you go to Hell. No matter what. No exceptions.

It seemed like a ridiculous rule.

Shit, I don’t even know if I believe in Heaven or Hell . . . Still, without much forethought, he wheeled toward the high-ceilinged church, the same church he attended every Sunday. What am I doing? If I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell, then that means I don’t believe in God, and if I don’t believe in God, why am I rolling this FUCKIN’ chair toward the CHURCH?

A slim, dark-haired man in his midtwenties came out of the rectory/school building. He was toting a garbage bag. “How’s it going? Is there anything I can help you with?”

Gerold felt silly. “Well, um . . .” That’s when he recognized the guy—one of the church assistants. He wore black shoes, black slacks, black shirt, but no white collar. “I’ve seen you plenty of times.”

“Yeah, my name’s Hudson.”

They shook hands. “I’m Gerold.”

“I’ve seen you, too,” Hudson said.

I’m easy to remember. The young guy in the FUCKIN’ chair. “Oh, and you know, I think I saw you in the bar last night, the Lounge . . .” Gerold’s eyes thinned. “Er, well, maybe it was someone else.”

“I confess,” Hudson said. “It was me. I was . . . having a few beers.”

“Oh, yeah, and the baseball game.” But now it all felt dismal. It reminded him of going there in the first place, and seeing those two hookers.

“You look like something’s on your mind,” Hudson said.

“Yeah, I guess there is.” Then Gerold laughed. “I’m not even sure why I came here.”

“There’s a late service at 7:30, but you’ve still got a few hours to wait.”

“I . . . have a question, I guess.”

“Okay.”

“But . . . you’re not a priest, are you?”

“No, no, but I hope to be some day. I leave for the seminary next week. I just help out around here, Communion prep, Epistle readings”—he held up the big plastic bag—“taking out the garbage. If it’s spiritual counsel you want, I can make an appointment for you with Father Darren.”

The thought chilled Darren. “Oh, no, see, he knows me—”

Hudson laughed. “He’s a priest, Gerold. He’s sworn to confidentiality.”

Gerold wasn’t convinced. He didn’t want to be embarrassed or look foolish. “I’d rather ask you ’cos you strike me as a regular guy.”

Hudson chuckled. “Well, I am, I suppose. What’s your question?”

“If,” he began but at once, he didn’t really know what to say. “If you’re sorry for your sins, you’re forgiven, right?”

“Sure. If you’re really sorry.”

“Well . . . is it possible to be sorry for a sin you haven’t committed yet but know you will?”

Hudson paused, and something about his demeanor darkened. “I’m not liking the sound of this, Gerold. Are you talking about suicide?”

Gerold could’ve howled. How the hell did he know! “No, man. It’s just a question. I’m curious.”

Hudson’s look indicated that he didn’t believe it. “The answer to your question is no. Being truly sorry for a sin is fine, even a potential sin, but only along with an act of repentance. How can a person repent if they’re dead?”

Gerold said nothing.

“Let’s go into the office right now. I’ll hook you up with one of the hotlines.”

“No, no, you’ve got this all wrong,” Gerold lied, sweating hard now. “I’m not going to kill myself—”

“Let me get Father Darren. He’d be happy to talk to you—”

“No, no, please, it’s nothing—”

“Gerold. Swear that you won’t kill yourself, or I’ll call a hotline right now.”

Gerold cringed in the chair. Me and my big mouth! “I swear I won’t kill myself.”

“Swear to God.”

Gerold sighed. “All right, I swear to God I won’t kill myself—”

“Swear to God on the Bible.”

Gerold laughed. “What, you carry a Bible around in your back pocket?”

From his back pocket, Hudson produced a Bible.

“Come on, man,” Gerold groaned.

“Swear on it.”

Gerold put his hand on the Bible. “I swear to God on the Bible that I won’t kill myself.”

“Good.” Hudson regained his ease. “If you break that, you’ll be in a world of hurt. God’s a nice guy but he’s also been known for some big-time wrath in the past. Trust me, you don’t want to incur it—”

“I’m not gonna kill myself, man . . .”

“You’re coming to the service tonight?”

“No. Sunday.”

“For sure?”

Jesus! “Yes. I always do.”

“Good. I’ll make an appointment for you to talk to Father Darren afterward, okay?”

Gerold slumped in place. “Okay.”

Hudson grinned. “Now, if you don’t show up, I’ll find out where you live—it’s in the church records—and I’ll bring half the congregation to your apartment, and there’ll be a big scene, and you’ll really be embarrassed—”

Gerold laughed outright now.

“—so you’ll be there, right?”

“Yes!” Gerold insisted. “I promise!”