Good Heavens
by Stephen Stuart
Raised in New Jersey, Steve now lives in Arizona. His background is in computer hardware and software engineering. He writes mostly mainstream short stories featuring a single element of science fiction or fantasy.
His stories have appeared in the Mensa Bulletin, in Calliope (a Writers’ Group publication), and on Tall Tale TV. His story about delivery robots, “Here’s Your Lunch, Human,” can be found at
https://www.us.mensa.org/read/bulletin/features/heres-your-lunch-human/
Other TTTV stories by Stephen Stuart https://talltaletv.com/tag/stephen-stuart/
Here’s the last thing I remember of life on Earth. Little kids—my great-grandchildren, I think—were running through the house, laughing and screaming. I took refuge in my den, put on headphones, and was listening to a heavy metal CD when everything faded away.
#
Now, days or years later—who could tell?—I was lunching at Cafe Calamari, an open-air restaurant in an Italian fishing village. I was in my 20s again, wearing the long dark hair and mustache of my youth. I was dressed for comfort in faded jeans and a tie-dye shirt.
I was enjoying my days in this village, relaxing to the sound of Mediterranean waves and the scents of fish and seaweed. Here it had always been 1971, my favorite year. It never rained. Because the restaurants stayed open day and night, I could sample delicious cuisine at any hour, yet no money ever changed hands. Everyone here seemed in the prime of life.
Across the cafe table sat my new friend Mabel. In an embroidered peasant dress, she wore her straight blonde hair down to her waist. Her face, alert and cheerful without makeup, reminded me of my high school crush circa 1966.
I picked at the seafood ravioli on my plate. “I like your old-fashioned name,” I said. “How did you get it? Hardly anyone our age is named Mabel.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “In school I knew three girls named Mabel. And Mildred and Edna and … I forget who else. It’s all so hazy now.”
“Same with me. Everyone here has fuzzy memories.”
She picked up the village newspaper. “Upcoming events,” she read. “Oh, look, Russ. There’s a jazz concert tonight.”
“Is that today’s paper? What’s the date?”
Mabel thumbed through the pages. “It never says.” She turned and gazed at the lush green hillside. “It must be June.”
“What year?”
“1928, I think.”
Strange answer. “It can’t be,” I said. “Look at what everyone’s wearing.”
“Oh. 1927, then.” Mabel rose from her chair. “Tsk. You’ve got red sauce on you.” She dipped a napkin in water and dabbed at my T-shirt.
The cold touch made me jump. “Hey, whoa,” I said. “Nobody’s going to notice a little stain on a tie-dye shirt.”
“It looks simply awful. Why, it’s all over your buttons.”
I looked down. “Buttons? What exactly do you think I’m wearing?”
“Oh, quit your kidding.”
“Humor me. It’s a game. Close your eyes and describe what I’m wearing.”
She sat down. “Gray tweed jacket, white dress shirt, blue bow tie. Okay?”
This was getting ridiculous. “What about my face?”
She sighed. “Blue eyes, clean-shaven, slicked-back hair.”
Had I changed? I checked my reflection in the cafe window. Long hair. Mustache.
“Are you all right?” I said. “What the heck is going on with you?”
Time stopped. Mabel froze in place.
A distinguished older gentleman materialized beside the table. Bellfont, the local concierge, had a habit of popping up when questions arose. “Ahem,” he said. “Let’s not disturb the other vacationers. Is something troubling you?”
“It’s Mabel,” I said. “Something’s wrong with her eyes. She sees me different from the way I am.”
Bellfont motioned toward the other cafe patrons. “You’re all seeing what you want to see. What makes you happiest. It’s by our design, to enhance your enjoyment of this place.”
“This place being … what. Heaven?”
“Let’s not concern ourselves with labels. It’s an afterlife.”
“Heaven. I thought so.” I eyed my silent companion. “Mabel always looks nice. You’re saying it’s an illusion?”
“I’m afraid so,” Bellfont said.
“Can you show me what she really looks like?”
“Now, Russell, are you sure that’s what you want?”
“I’m ready.” I closed my eyes.
“Done,” Bellfont said. “Goodbye for now.”
I opened one eye. Bellfont had disappeared. Motion returned to the village. I turned my attention to Mabel.
In her place sat a different young woman, a 1920s flapper with kohl-rimmed eyes and dark red lipstick, wearing a sleeveless blue dress. Her short black hair peeked out from under a bell-shaped hat. I gaped at her.
“What’s the matter, Russ? Is there a bug on me?” Mabel swatted the air.
“About your name,” I said. “I get it now.”
#
That evening Bellfont reappeared at Cafe Calamari and rang a little bell for attention. The dinner guests looked up from their plates of pesto lasagna.
“As many of you have realized,” he said, “what you’re experiencing here is not what you would call ‘real life.’ You’re no longer on Earth. This is an afterlife. If calling it ‘heaven’ gives you comfort, then that’s what we’ll call it.”
Some of the recent arrivals showed surprise at this revelation. Other tourists smirked as if to say I told you so.
Bellfont continued. “The afterlife is made up of many ‘sub-heavens,’ spaces we’ve established for people coming to us. This particular sub-heaven is a replica of an earthly resort. We’ve placed you here because, in our assessment, it’s the ideal setting for your eternal contentment.”
Several vacationers nodded in agreement.
“Unfortunately it will have to come to an end. We’re going to dismantle this village shortly.”
Mabel dropped her fork. “Oh, no!”
“Bummer,” I said. “I was just getting used to all this.”
“I’m sorry,” Bellfont said. “We’ve been unable to place enough of you in this village, not enough to justify its upkeep. We need this space to construct a more popular sub-heaven.”
“Like what?” I asked. “Clouds and harps?”
Bellfont consulted his notes. “A high-tech startup.”
I blinked. “That’s somebody’s idea of heaven?”
“You’d be surprised,” he said.
“I don’t know what I would do there,” Mabel said. “What’s going to happen to us?”
“You’re free to choose another sub-heaven,” Bellfont said. “We’ll select a few possibilities for each of you. You’re bound to find one that interests you.” His smile vanished. “If not, you may have to leave us.”
#
I found myself in a small room furnished with a twin bed, dresser, desk, and chair. I pulled up the window blinds to reveal a familiar scene, a snow-covered campus quadrangle. I realized with delight that I was back in my 1968 dormitory room at Ithaca Tech.
“You enjoyed college,” Bellfont said, “so we’ve placed you in this sub-heaven.”
I pumped my fist. “Yes!” I felt 18 again.
“There’s no four-year limit, no mandatory graduation. As long as you maintain your grades, you can stay here indefinitely.”
“Fantastic,” I said. “Is Mabel here, too?”
“Ah. I’m sure we can arrange something.”
“Perfect.”
“If you wish to end the tryout, say the word ‘arugula.’ It’s your exit key.”
I ventured out into the hallway and did a double take at an old friend passing by. “Hey, Fitz, are you really here?”
“Same as you, Russ.” Fitz recited the college cheer. “Square root, cube root, log of pi!”
I half smiled. “You bet. Go Ithaca.”
Tino and Berg from the old gang appeared, looking exactly as I remembered them. “We’re getting some pizzas delivered,” Tino said. “Are you in?”
“What’s the occasion?” I asked.
“We’re pulling an all-nighter for the test tomorrow.”
“What class? English lit?”
“Organic chemistry.”
I shuddered. “Yikes. O-Chem.” The hardest course in college.
The four of us took over the dormitory lounge to review the textbook and to lob questions at each other. Once the pizzas arrived we closed the books. At our midnight break, we went outdoors to ride cafeteria trays down the snowy hills.
In the dining hall the next morning, I slid a new tray past the pans of sausage and hash browns. Behind the counter stood Mabel in a hair net, scooping out a tub of scrambled eggs.
I rattled my tray. “Mabel! You’re here. Are they treating you right?”
“Pff,” she said. “This job is for the birds. Some heaven this is.”
“Hey, how about a movie tonight? They’re showing 2001 in the gym.”
“I won’t be here. After this shift, I’m leaving.”
She wouldn’t be talked out of quitting. My appetite gone, I sat down with the guys.
“Man, this O-Chem,” Berg was saying. “On Earth I had to take it twice and I barely passed. How do they expect us to keep our grades up?”
“They don’t,” Fitz said. “They’re trying to weed us out.”
After breakfast we trudged through the snow to a freezing lecture hall. I took a seat in the back row. The first item on the exam: “Draw the structure of 3,3-diphenylpropanal.”
My legs went weak. Draw? I remembered enough to start with a hexagon. Then what? I could visualize nothing but the letter F on my college transcript. I rose and staggered toward the exit.
A teaching assistant blocked my way. “Easy there. If you leave, you can’t come back in. What do you need?”
I decided to end the tryout. “Arugula,” I said.
#
“I believe your favorite sport was skiing,” Bellfont said. “Perhaps you’ll find this sub-heaven more suitable.”
A light snow fell on the Colorado mountaintop as the ski lift dropped me off. Mabel was waiting there along with my friends from the local sport club.
From my parka, I produced a blue plastic disc. “You know what this is, don’t you, Mabel?”
“A Frisbee?” she said. “My neighbors had one. It bounced off my window.”
“Catch.”
“No!” She deflected the disc with her arm. “Why did you bring it?”
“It’s a sport. Frisbee on skis.”
“How silly,” she said. “Be careful, will you? I’ll be right behind you.”
Our group started down the slope, tossing the Frisbee back and forth. I attempted a basic catch, only for the disc to spin out of my hands. The others stopped and jeered at me as I side-stepped back up the hill to retrieve it. I promised myself to never let it happen again.
In motion once again, I kept my eyes on the Frisbee. I reached out to intercept it and skied straight into a tree trunk.
I awoke on a cot at a midway station. “Oh, you’re back with us,” Mabel said. “If you were still on Earth, that tree would have killed you.”
I sat up. “Where are the guys?”
“They went on ahead. They must be down at the ski lodge by now.”
I pictured my so-called friends at the lodge restaurant, digging into a hot turkey dinner. I hurried to put on my equipment. “We’ve gotta catch up,” I said.
On our way down the mountain, the binding on my left ski came loose. I pitched forward and slid face-down in the snow before falling off the trail. I landed on a pile of jagged boulders.
From the trail edge, Mabel peered down at me. “Russ, are you all right?” She waited. “Say something.”
I propped myself up on one elbow. “Arugula.”
#
Night was falling on a Manhattan street as Bellfont checked his notes. “This sub-heaven is one of yours, Miss.”
“Oh, good,” Mabel said. She led me into an alley and knocked on a grimy metal door.
A panel slid open. A pair of eyes looked her over. “Password?”
“Bottoms up,” she said.
Inside, my eyes adjusted to the dimly-lit nightclub, where couples in 1970s casual wear sat waiting for the entertainment to begin. Mabel selected a table for us near the bar.
A long-haired rock band took the stage and performed a lengthy psychedelic ballad. Mabel tapped her fingers on the table to the beat of the drum solo.
“You like this kind of music?” I asked.
“Jazz? I love it.”
I scratched my head. Under my breath I called for the concierge.
Bellfont appeared. “Yes?”
“May I please see what Mabel is seeing?”
The nightclub transformed into a Prohibition-era speakeasy with customers now dressed in 1920s finery. On stage, musicians in tuxedos performed a syncopated number on horns and bass.
A waiter stopped at the table. We ordered a Bee’s Knees for Mabel, a Tom Collins for me.
Our drinks arrived in teacups. “Don’t worry, it’s not bathtub gin,” Mabel said. “They serve the real stuff here.”
I downed my drink and waited for the buzz. “It’s not doing anything for me,” I said.
“They don’t let you get tipsy in heaven,” Mabel said. “I’ve tried.”
The speakeasy manager rushed into the room. “The cops are here. Everybody out through the kitchen.” Only a few customers escaped before a logjam formed at the rear exit.
The waiters did their best to clear the tables. The bartender pulled a lever, sending bottles of premium whiskey hurtling down a chute to smash onto the cellar floor below.
Policemen overran the dining area. Two officers kicked aside the stools and set to work destroying the mahogany bar with fire axes. Two others hustled us out the door into a waiting police wagon, where several customers already occupied the hard benches inside.
“What happens now?” I asked one patron.
“Nothing serious,” the man said. “The cops raid this joint every day. We all get arrested and spend the night in jail.”
At the police station they herded all of us into cells. And sure enough, in the morning they kicked us out.
Mabel once again knocked on the alley door. Inside, the speakeasy was intact, showing no trace of the police raid. On stage the jazz musicians played a Dixieland favorite. Porcelain clinked.
“This place has atmosphere, don’t you think?” Mabel said.
“Sure,” I said, “but I’m waiting for things to get interesting.”
“As you wish,” said Bellfont’s voice.
The guests turned rowdy. A bleary-eyed man fell out of his chair to raucous laughter. One disheveled woman threw her drink in another woman’s face. A fistfight between tables was soon quashed by the bouncers.
A burly waiter, pad and pencil in hand, glared at me. “What’ll it be, Mac?”
I dodged an airborne teacup. “Arugula.”
#
Bits of trash skittered across the deserted town square. Outside Cafe Calamari, now closed, Bellfont reviewed the sub-heaven ledger. “We offered you several excellent venues. Didn’t you find any of them to your liking?”
“I tried Farm Heaven,” Mabel said, “but it was really hard work. And I missed indoor plumbing.”
“Golf Heaven was okay at first,” I said. “Kind of monotonous, though.”
“I see,” Bellfont said. “Monotonous.”
“Hey, I’m not complaining. I’m sure heaven is still way nicer than the other place.”
“Indeed.” Bellfont’s finger reached the bottom of the sign-up sheet. “Do you have any interest in sampling War Heaven or Medieval Heaven?”
“I’ll pass,” I said.
“Factory Heaven?”
“No, thank you,” Mabel said.
“Then I’m afraid we’ll have to send you both back to Earth.”
I coughed. “What? Down on that mud ball again? What for?”
“You’ll be reborn into one more life,” Bellfont said. “You’ll develop new interests, new tastes, new values. And if you behave, you’ll be back here again in no time. Then we can assign you to a sub-heaven you’ll enjoy.”
“Wait,” I said. “Maybe we don’t have to leave. Do you have a Woodstock Heaven?”
“I’m sorry. You’ve run out of options.” Bellfont gestured toward a patch of fog at the end of a street. “It’s a simple journey. Walk into the mist. It will send you to your new lives.”
“How new?” Mabel asked. “Will I have the same face?”
“Regrettably, no.”
“But we’ll keep our memories, won’t we?”
“Probably not. It happens occasionally, but we don’t support it.”
I leaned in toward Mabel. “We’ll remember,” I whispered. “We just have to concentrate.”
As we walked down the street, we made plans to rendezvous on Earth. Where? Under the Eiffel Tower. When? Every May Day until we connected. How would we recognize each other? We’d wear something unusual—green hats with red feathers.
We approached the fog. “One at a time, please,” Bellfont called out.
Mabel stopped. “You first, Russ.”
“No, wait,” I said. “If we go together, maybe we’ll be born in the same year.”
Good idea, she said. Arm in arm, we stepped into the mist.
#
Pardon my intrusion. I, Kenzo, will now take up the story.
On May 1, 2091, a flying taxi dropped me off at the base of the Eiffel Tower. Out in the sunshine, I took off my green fedora. The red feather still looked good. I replaced my hat and surveyed the scene.
This was the first year I’d managed to get away from my studies at the University of Tokyo. Would that other green hat still be waiting for me here? Under the iron girders of the tower, I set out for the refreshment stand to take a closer look at the tourists.
A boy sipping a drink stared at me and said something in French. The device on my wrist translated it into Japanese: “Nice hat, sir.” The sarcasm light came on.
“Thank you,” I said. “Have you seen anyone else wearing a hat like this?”
The boy pointed to a distant leg of the tower. Outside the gift shop, a red feather popped in and out of view. Who was wearing it? I couldn’t tell—too many people stood in the way. Craning my neck, I zigzagged toward the shop.
She was a healthy young woman with blonde braids, wearing an Oktoberfest costume with a green Bavarian hat. I considered my approach. Should I say something dramatic? Cool? Funny?
Something polite, I decided, in case she was the wrong person. I tapped her shoulder. “Hello again,” I said. “Nice hat.”
She looked at my fedora and laughed. “You finally showed up,” she said. “I’ve been coming here for three years looking for you. I was afraid you were reincarnated as a dog or something.”
“Please excuse my lateness.”
“Oh, relax.” She looked me over. “Well, mister, you’ve certainly changed.”
“It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it?”
“For sure.” She held out her hand. “I’m Greta. I used to be Russell.”
“Good,” I said. “I’m Kenzo. I used to be Mabel.”
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