The Afterlife Explained

It would be a few days before Winnie returned home, and I wondered how mornings at The End of Time would change once she was back. Would we sit on the same side of the booth? Would we start sharing meals? Dressing alike? Things could get complicated.

When I entered the café I saw The Forb and Limerick Bill in deep conversation. It must have been something important, because The Forb rarely sacrificed his newspaper time for in-depth discussions. He was more of a bullet-point conversationalist than he was a listener and responder.

The Forb saw me come in and motioned for me to join he and Bill. I sat next to The Forb because I was still unsure about Limerick Bill’s habits of hygiene. The Forb jumped right in.

“Max, the death of Winnie’s mother has caused us to ponder the possibility of life after death. What are your views?”

“I’m still trying to figure out life before death, Forb,” I said.

“I’m working on that myself, Max,” said The Forb. “As you know, I avoid being specific on the topics of heaven and hell. If pressed, I would have said that neither one likely exists, and that when people die, they just die with no subsequent glory or fiery torture on the cosmic horizon.

“However, in thinking of the loss of Winnie’s mother, I can’t help but consider Winnie. I have a fondness for her, and I’ve been thinking that I might not be comfortable with my theories if someone I really cared about—like Winnie—died. Theories tend to break down when confronted with real life.”

“I know what happens when we die,” said Limerick Bill.

“Bill has reached a point of certainty on the topic,” said The Forb.

“When we die,” said Bill, “our life force gets scattered into the brains of newborn babies. That’s how people get creative and smart.”

“And how do you know this, Bill?” I asked.

“I had a dream about it once,” he said, “and it made sense to me. Plus, no one can ever prove me wrong.”

“So if a person dies in India, his creative molecules can infect a baby in Alaska?” said The Forb.

“No,” said Bill. “You have to be closer. Like maybe a mile. Mile and a half at the most.”

“You astound me, Bill,” said The Forb. “Hey, wait: Let’s ask the authority on the subject.”

We all turned to see Father Gene walking through the café door. The Forb called out to him.

“Padre! We need some counsel over here!”

Father Gene offered a quizzical half-smile and came to our booth, seating himself next to Bill. Bill’s unkempt and possibly unbathed appearance was a stark contrast to the Priest’s clerical neatness.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Having a theological crisis, I assume?”

“It’s about the afterlife, Your Eminence,” said The Forb. “With the passing of Winnie’s mother, we’ve spun some theories about the great beyond and would like your informed views. Do we go somewhere else with angels or devils? Do we sleep for centuries until the great trumpet sounds? Do we just decompose and feed the worms? Or what?”

Father Gene scratched his chin and put on a thoughtful face. I imagined that he had been asked questions like this many times in his career as a priest and he probably had his answer all worked out. I was surprised at his response.

“I don’t know, really,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” said The Forb. “Aren’t you in cahoots with God? I thought you would have the celestial itineraries all worked out.”

“Well,” said Father Gene, “the church does have its teachings on what happens to human beings after they die, but historically there haven’t been single agreements on the precise pathways of life after death. Some speak of instantly appearing in either heaven or hell after a swift divine judgment; others suggest a silent waiting until the day of resurrection. Beyond that there are any number of ways that theologians and philosophers have speculated on the next life.”

“So what do you think?” asked The Forb.

“I’m sure it goes without saying that I stand on the religious side of the question,” said Father Gene. “Yet, the most I can say is this: When we die—each and every one of us—we enter the care of God. For some that will be paradise; for others it will be agony.”

“You mean, like torture?” I had images of a grandfatherly god patting some of his children on the head and offering candy, while pinching the ears off of others. The possible duplicity disturbed me.

“No, not at all,” he said. “It would be agony because some would not want God’s care. It would be like being hugged by someone you deeply dislike. There are folks who don’t like God right now—why would they like him on the other side of death?”

Father Gene’s comments quieted us enough for him to relocate to a quieter corner of the café. The Forb opened his newspaper, Limerick Bill resumed work on a new literary masterpiece, and I fled to my booth to drink coffee and think about Winnie.

Life at The End of Time almost felt normal again.