Remembering Hell by Helen Downing

that Tom went to visit his neighbor. The neighbor was
a somewhat famous drummer for an up and coming rock band. He was able to supply
enough heroin for Tom to end his life.” Deedy looks up and finishes the story
looking directly at me. “That was the first and only time Tom had ever done
heroin. While all the papers, legitimate and tabloid, reported it as another
celebrity doing too much of his favorite drug, most everyone in the inner circle
suspected suicide.”
    “But why?” I ask incredulously.
“Why did he feel that was the only way out? By the time the story came to light
his career was long over, and the stigma regarding a gay actor playing straight
roles was a faded memory.”
    “My darling girl, you too died
young, so you never knew the sensation of growing old. The world changes around
you, adopts new ideas and accepts new things, but people rarely do. Even though
the world could take Tom Thomas being gay, Tom couldn’t live in a world where he
was out. All he knew was his secrets, the compartmentalization of his private
and public lives.”
    “So back to Joe,” I respond
quietly.
    “Joe had cultivated some real
relationships during his career. That is what he was known for, having actual
sources. It didn’t take long before he realized the whispers about Tom and
suicide were true.”
    “And he felt like he had single
handedly ruined a man’s life,” I finish with conviction.
    “He felt like he had single
handedly ended a man’s life,” Deedy says. “He went to a local bar, planning to
drink until he felt better, or until he forgot altogether. When the bar closed
and he hadn’t accomplished either of those goals, he got into his car and drove
home.”
    “That didn’t work out either,” I
say.
    Deedy closes the file folder and
slips it back into the desk. He folds his hands under his chin, a move I’ve
seen so many times. “The thing is, Lou, if he had never written that story,
never had to endure the horrific consequences, his life would have gone so
differently. There was a path he could have taken that would have given him
prestige and fame. There was another one where he might have become a novelist
and won awards. There was one where he got married and lived in a small town
running a local paper that wrote about little league tournaments and pot luck
dinners.”
    I can see the pain in his eyes. I
have never heard him talk this way. I never realized that the chess game he
plays in his head is seeing not just what was, what is, and what will be. He
can see everything that could have been. I can’t imagine how his heart breaks
every moment of every day as he watches us, his creations, make choices that
lead us away from him and into despair.
    “I understand why he ended up in
Hell, but why was he there so long before he got this shot?” I wonder aloud.
    “Because at his core, Joe is a good
man. When he passed he was filled with so much shame and grief that he could
not see any good at all within himself. That brand of ruefulness takes a long
time to work through.”
    I get a fleeting thought that I
must express. “Are you saying that because I was an awful person, but didn’t
feel as guilty as Joe, I was able to escape fire and brimstone in half the
time?” My tone sounds a bit more accusing that I intend.
    “No,” Deedy says in a tired voice.
“In fact I was not, if you can possibly believe such a thing, referring to you
in any way. I was talking about Mr. Watkins, the guy who is still as of this
hour, in the land of eternal suffering.”
    “Okay, fine. But can I ask a
question that is sort of about me?” I ask.
    “Of course,” Deedy says, laughing
now.
    “Besides follow him around, what
exactly are my duties?”
    That question did the trick. Deedy
is now back to his usual effervescence. “Believe it or not, I need you to be as
bad as Will when it comes to following him around. It’s a very fine line. Don’t
look completely incompetent but just make sure he knows he is