“Pencils, shoestrings, razor blades?” The words behind him startled him, and he regained his balance on
the stool with difficulty. Standing just inside the door was a one-legged hunch-back with a handful of cheap articles. “Pencils?” he repeated. “Only a nickel. Help a poor cripple?” But the grin on his face belied the words.
“Indeed no, no pencils.” Phineas shuddered as the fellow hobbled over to a window and rid himself of a chew of tobacco. “Why don’t you try the charities? Furthermore, we don’t allow beggars here.”
“Ain’t none,” the fellow answered with ambiguous cheerfulness, stuffing in a new bite.
“Then have faith in the Lord and He will provide.” Naturally, man had been destined to toil through the days of his life in this mortal sphere, and toil he must to achieve salvation. He had no intention of ruining this uncouth person’s small chance to be saved by keeping him in idleness.
The beggar nodded and touched his cap. “One of them, eh? Too bad. Well, keep your chin up, maybe it’ll be better later.” Then he went off down the hall, whistling, leaving Phineas to puzzle over his words and -give it up as a bad job.
Potts rubbed his bunion tenderly, then desisted, realizing that pain was only a test, and should be borne meekly. The pen still scratched, the addressing machine thumped, and a bee had buzzed in somehow and went zipping about. It was a large and active bee.
Phineas cowered down and made himself work, sweating a little as the bee lighted on his drafting board. Then, mercifully, it flew away and for a few minutes he couldn’t hear it. When it began again, it was behind him. He started to turn his head, then decided against it; the bee might take the motion as an act of aggression, and declare war. His hands on the pen were moist and clammy, and his fingers ached from gripping it too tightly, but somehow, he forced himself to go on working.
The bee was evidently in no hurry to leave. It flashed by his nose, buzzing, making him jerk back and spatter a blob of ink into the plans, then went zooming around his head and settled on his bald spot. Phineas held his
breath and the bee stood pat. Ten, twenty, thirty seconds. His breath went out suddenly with a rush. The insect gave a brief buzz, evidently deciding the noise was harmless, and began strolling down over his forehead and out onto his nose. It tickled; the inside of his nose tickled, sympathetically.
“No, no,” Phineas whispered desperately. “N—
It was unbelievable; it couldn’t be true! His own mouth had betrayed him! With shocked and leaden fingers he released the pen and bowed his head, but no sense of saving grace would come. Too well he could remember that even the smallest sin deserves just damnation. Now he was really sweating, and the visions of eternal torment came trooping back; but this time he was in Callahan’s place, and try as he would, he couldn’t switch. He was doomed!
Callahan found him in that position a minute later, and his rough, mocking laugh cut into Phineas’ wounded soul. “Sure, an angel as I live and breathe.” He dumped some papers onto the desk and gave another backbreaking thump. “Got the first sheets done, Phin?”
Miserably, Phineas shook his head, glancing at the clock. They should have been ready an hour ago. Another sin was piled upon his burden, beyond all hope of redemption, and of all people, Callahan had caught him not working when he was already behind. But the old Irishman didn’t seem to be gloating.
“There now, don’t take it so hard, Phin. Nobody expects you to work like a horse when you’ve been sick. Mr. Sloane wants you to come out to lunch with him now.”
“I—uh—” Words wouldn’t come.
Callahan thumped him on the back again, this time lightly enough to rattle only two ribs. “Go along with you. What’s left is beginner’s stuff and I’ll finish it while you’re eating. I’m ahead and got nothing to do, anyhow. Go on.” He practically picked the smaller man off the
stool and shoved him through the door. “Sloane’s waiting. Heck, I’ll be glad to do it. Feel so good I can’t find enough to keep me busy.”
Sloane was flirting with one of the typists as Phineas plodded up, but he wound up that business with a wink and grabbed for his hat. ” ‘Smatter, Phin? You look all in. Bad bruise on your nose, too. Well, a good lunch’ll fix up the first part, at least. Best damned food you ever ate, and right around the corner.”
“Yes, Mr. Sloane, but would you… uh!” He couldn’t ask that now. He himself was a sinner, given to violent language. Glumly he followed the other out and into the corner restaurant. Then, as he settled into the seat, he realized he couldn’t eat; first among his penances should be giving up lunches.
“I… uh… don’t feel very hungry, Mr. Sloane. I’ll just have a cup of tea, I think.” The odors of the food in the clean little restaurant that brought twinges to his stomach would only make his penance that much greater.
But Sloane was ordering for two. “Same as usual, honey, and you might as well bring a second for my friend here.” He turned to Phineas. “Trouble with you, Phin, is that you don’t eat enough. Wait‘11 you get a whiff of the ham they serve here—and the pie! Starting, now, you’re eating right if I have to stuff it down you. Ah!”
Service was prompt, and the plates began to appear before the little man’s eyes. He could feel his mouth watering, and had to swallow to protest. Then the look in Sloane’s eye made him decide not to. Well, at least he could fast morning and night instead. He nodded to himself glumly, wishing his craven appetite wouldn’t insist on deriving so much pleasure from the food.
“And so,” Sloane’s voice broke in on his consciousness again, “after this, you’re either going to promise me you’ll eat three good meals a day or I’ll come around and stuff it down you. Hear?”
“Yes, Mr. Sloane, but—”
“Good. I’m taking that as a promise.” Phineas cringed. He hadn’t meant it that way; it couldn’t go through as a promise. “But—”
“No buts about it. Down there I figured you had as good a chance of being right as I did, so I didn’t open my mouth on the subject. But up here, that’s done with. No reason why you can’t enjoy life now.”
That was too much. “Life,” said Phineas, laying’ down his knife and preparing for siege, “was meant to give us a chance to prepare for the life to come, not to be squandered in wanton pleasure. Surely it’s better to suffer through a few brief years, resisting temptations, than to be forever damned to perdition. And would you sacrifice heaven for mere mundane cravings, transient and worthless?”
“Stow it, Phin. Doesn’t seem to me I sacrificed much to get here.” Then, at Phineas’ bewildered look. “Don’t tell me you don’t realize where you are? They told me they were sending a boy with the message; well, I guess he just missed you. You’re dead, Phin!
“No!” The world was rolling in circles under Phineas’ seat. He stared uncomprehendingly at Sloane, finding no slightest sign of mockery on the man’s face. And there was the hole in the memory of sins, and the changes, and—Callahan! Why, Callahan had died and been buried the year before; and here he was, looking ten years younger, and hearty as ever. But it was all illusion; of course, it was all illusion. Callahan wouldn’t be in heaven. “No, it can’t be.”
“But it is, Phin. Remember? I was down your way to get you for overtime work, and yelled at you just as you came out of your house. Then you started to cross, I yelled again—Come back now?”
There’d been a screeching of tires, Sloane running toward him suddenly waving frantically, and—blackout! “Then it hit? And this… is—”
“Uh-huh. Seems they picked me up with a shovel, but it took a month to finish you off.” Sloane dug into the pie, rolling it on his tongue and grinning. “And this
is Hereafter. A darned good one, too, even if nobody meets you at the gate to say ‘Welcome to Heaven.’ ” ·
Phineas clutched at the straw. “They didn’t tell you it was heaven, then? Oh.” That explained everything. Of course, he should have known. This wasn’t heaven after all; it couldn’t be. And though it differed from his conceptions, it most certainly could be the other place; there’d been that bee! Teh, it was just like Callahan and Sloane to enjoy perdition, misguided sinners, glorying in their unholiness.
Slowly the world righted itself, and Phineas Potts regained his normal state. To be sure, he’d used an ugly word, but what could be expected of him in this vile place? They’d never hold it against him under the circumstances. He lowered his eyes thankfully, paying no attention to Sloane’s idle remarks about unfortunates.
