guys?” Frank asked. “You atheists?”
“I’m agnostic, I guess,” Charlie answered. “I believe in something. I just don’t know what. Certainly not the Christian God. His believers say that He hates me. I’ve heard that all my life. Supposedly, He nuked an entire city just because of people like me. So fuck that—I ain’t following. But I do think there’s something out there. Something that maybe we’re not meant to understand. I believe in ghosts and stuff like that, so I guess that’s proof of an afterlife.”
Frank nodded. “But not a Heaven?”
“No,” Charlie said. “At least, not the way you mean. No clouds and people with wings on their backs, flying around and playing the harp. If you want to see that, there’s a gay bar in York I can take you to.”
Frank started laughing and Charlie joined him. They both stopped, clutching their bellies and slapping each other on the shoulder. Despite my eagerness to get home, I was glad for the break, and even happier to see that the tension between the two was easing. When they’d gotten their breath back, we started down the road again.
“How about you, Steve?” Frank asked. “What do you believe?”
“I don’t know. I was born and raised Jewish. My wife and her parents are born-again Christians. I don’t know what that makes me. I guess I don’t really believe in anything, other than that I wish everybody could get along.”
Charlie nodded. “I can’t remember who said it, but there’s a quote that goes, ‘There’s enough religion in the world to make people hate one another, but not enough to make them love one another.’”
“I agree with that,” Frank said.
We walked on in silence. A group of crows were gathered along the side of the road, picking at a corpse. In the darkness, I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, or what had killed it. Stranded motorists ignored the birds. One of the scavengers took flight with something pink hanging from its beak.
A murder , I thought. A group of crows is called a murder.
“But what if they’re right?” Charlie asked again. “The Soapbox Man and his crowd. What if this really was the Rapture or the Second Coming or whatever they call it?”
Frank shrugged. “If that’s true, then God called everybody home and we don’t get to go.”
“Sure we do,” I said. “We’re walking home right now.”
“Yeah,” Frank replied. “But to get to the home they’re talking about, we’d have an awful long way to walk.”
I sighed. “Seems to me like we have a long walk ahead of us either way.”
“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “Wish we’d have brought along some of that whiskey those people back at the fire gave us.”
“I’ve got a new joke,” Charlie said. “A Jew, a Polack, and a homo are walking to Heaven, pissed off that God left them behind . . .”
“What’s the punch line?” Frank asked.
“I don’t know.” Charlie smiled. “Like I said earlier, we’ll just have to wait and see.”
Charlie’s words ran through my mind. Home. Heaven. They were pretty much the same thing, as far as I was concerned. Christians said that when they died, they went home to be with the Lord. They called Heaven home. My heaven was home, too—at home with my wife. I’d walk all night to be with her again, if I had to. And if God really had called His children home and took them all to Heaven, then I’d walk there to find her, too.
In either case, it was a long way to walk.
6
We reached Exit 24—Butler and Sparks—around 8:40 p.m. The suburbs and industrial parks had given way to woodlands and farms. Lots of cars traveled past us now, both on-road and off. Those with four-wheel drive raced through the fields and pastures, short-cutting around the slow-moving traffic. Some without four-wheel drive tried it too, and wound up stuck in the mud. We had to raise our voices over the spinning tires and blaring horns as they splattered each other’s windshields with mud.
We stuck close
“I’m agnostic, I guess,” Charlie answered. “I believe in something. I just don’t know what. Certainly not the Christian God. His believers say that He hates me. I’ve heard that all my life. Supposedly, He nuked an entire city just because of people like me. So fuck that—I ain’t following. But I do think there’s something out there. Something that maybe we’re not meant to understand. I believe in ghosts and stuff like that, so I guess that’s proof of an afterlife.”
Frank nodded. “But not a Heaven?”
“No,” Charlie said. “At least, not the way you mean. No clouds and people with wings on their backs, flying around and playing the harp. If you want to see that, there’s a gay bar in York I can take you to.”
Frank started laughing and Charlie joined him. They both stopped, clutching their bellies and slapping each other on the shoulder. Despite my eagerness to get home, I was glad for the break, and even happier to see that the tension between the two was easing. When they’d gotten their breath back, we started down the road again.
“How about you, Steve?” Frank asked. “What do you believe?”
“I don’t know. I was born and raised Jewish. My wife and her parents are born-again Christians. I don’t know what that makes me. I guess I don’t really believe in anything, other than that I wish everybody could get along.”
Charlie nodded. “I can’t remember who said it, but there’s a quote that goes, ‘There’s enough religion in the world to make people hate one another, but not enough to make them love one another.’”
“I agree with that,” Frank said.
We walked on in silence. A group of crows were gathered along the side of the road, picking at a corpse. In the darkness, I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, or what had killed it. Stranded motorists ignored the birds. One of the scavengers took flight with something pink hanging from its beak.
A murder , I thought. A group of crows is called a murder.
“But what if they’re right?” Charlie asked again. “The Soapbox Man and his crowd. What if this really was the Rapture or the Second Coming or whatever they call it?”
Frank shrugged. “If that’s true, then God called everybody home and we don’t get to go.”
“Sure we do,” I said. “We’re walking home right now.”
“Yeah,” Frank replied. “But to get to the home they’re talking about, we’d have an awful long way to walk.”
I sighed. “Seems to me like we have a long walk ahead of us either way.”
“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “Wish we’d have brought along some of that whiskey those people back at the fire gave us.”
“I’ve got a new joke,” Charlie said. “A Jew, a Polack, and a homo are walking to Heaven, pissed off that God left them behind . . .”
“What’s the punch line?” Frank asked.
“I don’t know.” Charlie smiled. “Like I said earlier, we’ll just have to wait and see.”
Charlie’s words ran through my mind. Home. Heaven. They were pretty much the same thing, as far as I was concerned. Christians said that when they died, they went home to be with the Lord. They called Heaven home. My heaven was home, too—at home with my wife. I’d walk all night to be with her again, if I had to. And if God really had called His children home and took them all to Heaven, then I’d walk there to find her, too.
In either case, it was a long way to walk.
6
We reached Exit 24—Butler and Sparks—around 8:40 p.m. The suburbs and industrial parks had given way to woodlands and farms. Lots of cars traveled past us now, both on-road and off. Those with four-wheel drive raced through the fields and pastures, short-cutting around the slow-moving traffic. Some without four-wheel drive tried it too, and wound up stuck in the mud. We had to raise our voices over the spinning tires and blaring horns as they splattered each other’s windshields with mud.
We stuck close
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