Escape From Hell (26 page)

“Oh! For
Amazing?
”

“You read
Amazing?
”

“Sure.
Astounding,
too.”

Sammy had been staring at her. “You really are Mrs. McPherson!” he said.

“Sister Aimee. Yes, did we meet?”

“We sure did. In 1938, I guess it was.” He gestured to include all of us. “She really packed them in! Huge house, five, six thousand, she filled it three times a day! Sometimes people stood in lines for hours to get in. And she had this radio show, and soup kitchens, and a big rescue mission where people could stay during the Depression. The Fire Department made her honorary chief, and she had the uniform, too. The studio sent me down to check her out, they thought they could do a movie about her. I mean a real movie about her, Capra’s Stanwyck movie bombed.”

“That wasn’t about me!” Aimee said. “That woman didn’t believe in anything!”

“Yeah, the studio execs thought that was why it bombed. People didn’t want to think you were a fake. So we were looking to do a real picture about you, only the writers couldn’t figure out what to do about the scandal. They had scripts with it going both ways.”

Sylvia said, “I suppose you think we know what you are talking about?”

“Oh! Sorry. Everybody knew. Sister Aimee disappeared for a few weeks during the twenties. Said she’d been kidnapped but another story was she’d run off to shack up with a married man. Excuse the expression.” He shrugged. “Didn’t matter which one was true, it’d make a good movie either way. I thought it would be a good film, but nothing came of it.”

“No one told me the studios were thinking about a movie,” Aimee said.

“No, I’m sorry, ma’am, I was told not to say anything to you until we were ready to buy some rights. But it never got that far. Anyway, that’s how I met you, I went to some of your temple services, and talked to you about publicity.” He shook his head. “The services seemed kind of tame, compared to the stories they told about services when you first opened that temple! But you could still pack them in.”

She grinned. “I could, couldn’t I? And I still had my radio station, too. Yeah, it was a little tamer in the thirties. Depression. Harder to raise money, more to do, what with the soup kitchen and all. And I was getting older and tired. But tired or not, I did the Lord’s work!”

“So how came you to Hell?” Father Ernesto asked.

She looked crestfallen. “Look, I was on stage all the time, I couldn’t do anything without it being front–page news.”

“Sure was,” Sammy said. “Front page of the
L.A. Times
two, three times a week, like clockwork. And everyone listened to her! You could walk down the street in Los Angeles on a Sunday morning and never miss a word, she was on every radio in the city!”

“Yes! I made myself famous, because it helped me do God’s work. I was the first woman to have a radio broadcasting license! First woman radio preacher! Owned my radio station, and I learned how to do that, too! Built my temple, and paid for it, over a million dollars with no debts, it was paid for the day we opened! Biggest temple in the West, and it was all because I was famous! I couldn’t have done all that without the publicity.

“So I couldn’t just be a sinner and repent like anyone else,” she said. “Other people can sin and repent and it’s all right, but if I do it a thousand blessed souls leave the Lord’s grace! I had to hide my sins.”

Sylvia nodded. “Sure. But you were still a woman. All that talent, all that influence, but still a lonely woman.”

“Yes! You do understand! And I fell into temptation. I sinned. But I never gave up serving the Lord. I sinned often, but each time I came back and worked harder, right up to the day I died. I died serving the Lord. I was so tired from all those trips and rallies that I needed sleeping pills, and I took too many trying to get to sleep. In Oakland! Not home where I belonged. On a road trip, for the Lord. Oakland! Horrible place.”

“There’s no there, there,” Sylvia said absently. She smiled. “Gertrude Stein said that about Oakland.”

“She sure was right. So I died in Oakland. I thought I’d see the Lord, and I was frightened of judgment, but it wasn’t the Lord, it was Minos. Ugly. But he was the judge. Minos offered to pass me on to Purgatory. I was ready to accept, but then I realized I wasn’t feeling tired anymore! I felt young again, lots of energy again. So I asked him if there were any sinners in Hell. He laughed, but he knew what I meant, were there any people I could save.”

“What did he tell you?” I asked.

“He wouldn’t answer straight–out. He said there had been people saved from Hell. I said, but you put them there, and they were saved anyway, so you were wrong about them, and he admitted that was true, but he wouldn’t say there were any others. Wouldn’t say there weren’t, either. I asked him straight–out if I’d be wasting time trying to save sinners in Hell. He said something like ‘Good works never go to waste.’ So I made a deal with him. I’d stay in Hell and try to do the Lord’s work saving sinners, if he’d tell me how I could get out if that wasn’t working.”

“People, he thought that was funny! He said there was only one way out, for me or anyone else, just go down and down to the center and crawl out down Satan’s leg. So we made a deal. I’d stay here, but I was on my own.”

“What about the motorcycle?” Phyllis asked. “That’s a nice bike.”

“It was next to me where Minos put me at the bottom of that big cliff. Runs good, too. Even on the ice.”

“You used a motorcycle in your services,” Sammy said. “You were famous for doing that.”

“I only did it a couple of times.” Aimee laughed. “I got a speeding ticket from a motorcycle cop. That got me thinking and I dressed up like a cop to pull over sinners and put them on the right path. Got headlines for that. Anyway, I have this Harley here, and it works good.”

“Have you saved any souls?” Father Ernesto asked.

“You betcha! Dozens!”

“From where?”

“All over! I pulled out a flatterer. My goodness, he stunk! Had to wash my motorcycle afterward he stunk it up so bad. But I got him out! Couple of thieves, and one of those simoniacs, a pope, one of yours, Reverend Ernesto. But mostly I’ve saved fallen women from that first pit. Poor things.” She shuddered. “I guess I could have ended up in there myself.”

“I was in there,” Phyllis said.

“But you’re not there now! Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” She turned to Ernesto. “And you, Reverend, have you saved any souls?”

“No, but I have hopes.”

“Want me to show you how?” Aimee had a broad grin.

Sylvia giggled.

“I would be honored,” Ernesto said. “Lead on.”

“Sure. Next place is easy. Lots to choose from down here. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Chapter 24

Eighth Circle, Fourth Bolgia

Fortune–Tellers And Diviners

And people I saw through the circular valley,
Silent and weeping, coming at the pace
Which in this world the Litanies assume.
As lower down my sight descended on them
Wondrously each one seemed to be distorted
From chin to the beginning of the chest;
For tow’rds the reins the countenance was turned
And backward it behoved them to advance,
As to look forward had been taken from them.

O
scar was worried about his struts.

“You just stay here and heal,” Aimee told him. “We can do this better on foot anyway. Look after my bike, Oscar.”

She led us to the edge of the Fourth Bolgia. A narrow trail led down into the pit. It was rough and in places narrowed to less than a foot wide, but we could just scramble along it.

In the Fourth Bolgia the souls walked with their heads turned back to front. They walked backward, their eyes streaming tears. None looked up to see us coming down into the pit.

“Fortune–tellers,” Sylvia said.

“I feel sorry for them,” Aimee said.

“So did Dante,” Sylvia told her. “Until Virgil said:”

“
Here pity or here piety must die
If the other lives; who’s wickeder than one
That’s agonized by God’s high equity?
”

“That’s hard. Damned hard,” I said. “You mean we can’t even feel sorry for them? But Sylvia, that can’t be right! We’ve got some of them out. Benito got out, and Father Camillus said the angels rejoiced!”

“I don’t worry about it,” Aimee said. “I figure that if I can get them out, God wants them out.”

“God may will that they leave, but they cannot see to climb,” Ernesto said.

“Just watch,” Aimee said. “Got to pick the right one.”

There were more women than men. About half the men were bearded. Some walked in groups, others alone. Some were naked. Some wore robes with fanciful symbols, stars and comets and meteors. Each head was twisted around so that they looked over their shoulders as they came down the path.

“They walk pretty steady,” Phyllis said. “I’d of thought they’d stumble more.”

“They get used to it,” Aimee said absently. She studied each approaching figure, waited, then looked at the face after each passed. Every face streamed tears.

“What are you looking for?” Father Ernesto asked.

“You’ll see,” Aimee said. She waited. Several more passed us. Then came a man in a worn Oxford scholar’s gown. As he passed I saw he was clean shaven. There were no tears in his eyes. Instead there was a look of puzzlement.

Aimee pounced. She ran up to walk behind him, her face just below his. “You. You like it here?”

“I do not.”

“Where did you expect to be after you died?” she demanded.

“Dead.”

“Atheist?”

“I suppose so. I believed in a lawful universe that might be God, not a personal God in man’s image.”

“So you never prayed.”

“It would be pointless to pray to the law of gravity. The whole concept of religion and afterlife seemed absurd.” He shrugged. It must have been from habit, because his head was facing Aimee but the rest of him was facing away from her. “I have been rethinking that position. So who are you?”

“Sister Aimee,” she said. “Your ticket out of here if you want. You do want to get out of here?”

“I very much want to get out of here,” he said.

“Come over here with me and let’s talk about it.” She took his hand and led him over to us.

He walked backward facing us, and stared at each of us in turn. “Who are you?” He looked directly at me. “I have seen you before. Where?”

I recognized him then. “Boston. Annual meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. You were giving a news conference on how the world was headed for trouble. Overpopulation. Shorter growing seasons. Everything getting colder, and a New Ice Age was coming.”

“I remember that!” Sylvia said. “You lectured at Harvard. Ted and I went with some friends.” She stared at his clothes. “But why are you wearing an Oxford gown? You weren’t British. But I can’t remember your name.”

“Carl,” he said.

“Sylvia Plath.”

His expression changed. “Oh. I met your husband. But that was long after — after you died.”

“After I killed myself,” Sylvia said. “Why are you wearing that gown?”

“I don’t know. They gave me one when I lectured at Oxford. Minos must have given it to me before I was thrown into this place.”

“What did you think of Minos?” I asked.

He looked slightly amused. “I thought I needed new lessons in physics,” he said.

“I am more interested in why you are here,” Father Ernesto said. “I would expect an atheist to be among the heretics, not here with false diviners.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Aimee said. “What matters is, do you want out of here, Carl?”

“Well, yes. What must I do?”

“Do you repent being a false prophet? Will you accept God’s love?”

“Accept God’s love. That would mean believing in God,” he said. He looked around, at the pit, and the gray skies above, at men and women walking with their heads reversed. “I suppose I have no choice but to believe in God,” he said. “Perhaps a cruel God. Since I don’t know a better hypothesis. Why would God love me?”

“He loves everyone!” Aimee said. “Don’t you know that?”

“I certainly heard it often enough. You say that all I must do is accept God’s love and I can get out of here? To where?”

“We don’t know,” Sylvia said. “But it has to be better than here.”

“Eternal bliss! Bask in the presence of the Lord!” Aimee said.

“To a long and difficult journey on which you will earn the favor of God,” Father Ernesto said. “And learn to love Him.”

“You’re pretty quiet.” He was looking at me. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you, but did you know me on Earth?”

“We had a few drinks,” I said. “I was with the press corps at the time. I’m quiet because I don’t know where we’re going. When I first got here I was sure this was a construct, Infernoland to amuse some sadistic engineers, but it’s too elaborate for that. So I’m looking for answers.”

He looked thoughtful. “All right. I’ll accept God’s love. Get me out of here.”

“Right! Hallelujah!” Aimee shouted. “Sammy. Allen. Hold him!”

“What?”

“Hold him!” she commanded. Before I could move she took a step closer to Carl. She gripped his elbows and kicked at his knees. The knees buckled and she threw him, face down, on his back. He lay there startled and thrashing.

“Hold him!”

Sammy grabbed Carl’s feet. Aimee took his head and twisted, hard. She seemed immensely strong. Carl thrashed and screamed, but Aimee paid no attention at all. It was clear she had studied some martial arts because she had complete control of her body as she twisted his head. Then she threw herself on the ground, still holding his head.

Carl’s scream was cut off. There was a sharp snap, and his head came around, forward, so he was facing skyward. He lay there in silence for a moment, then screamed again.

Aimee got up. “You can let go now,” she told Sammy. She turned to me. “It would have been easier and quicker if you’d helped.”

“Slow of thought,” I said.

Carl had stopped screaming. He groaned twice, then tried to sit up. His head flopped out of control. “My God!” he said. He felt the back of his neck. “God, that hurts.”

“It will heal,” Aimee said.