Afterlife Crisis

by Randal Graham

A moment later we were back in the open spaces of Bethnel Green, I still mopping the troubled brow, and Vera pointing Jack’s car keys at vehicles in the street, pushing buttons on the key fob and hoping for results.

  “I think we ought to divide and conquer at the hospice,” she said. “You deal with Oan, get the coordinates of this Norm Stradamus person, and leave Peericks to me.”

  “Peericks?”

  “We’ve got to check in with him. I’m on a day pass from the hospice. He’s waiting for you and me to return with proof that I’m your fiancée and ready to be discharged.”

  “Oh, ah,” I said, remembering. And this particular remembrance, featuring yet another landmine that had been planted squarely in the Feynman path, led me to muse upon the topic of just how dashed confusing life had become in the last few orbits about the sun, or rotations of the Earth, or whatever astronomical thingummy signals the passage of one day. I mean to say, a simple quest to find Zeus, supplemented by Abe’s request to thwart whatever dangerous plans Isaac Newton might have hatched, had turned into one of those Byzantine scenarios thrown together by amateur playwrights who, long before learning the wisdom of keeping things simple, see their audiences scrutinizing the playbill for explanatory notes, scratching their heads, and sneaking out of the theatre at the first intermission. Consider my current state of affairs: having determined that Isaac’s “dangerous plot” was the sort of dangerous plot you surround with a pair of quotation marks — indicating that it isn’t in fact dangerous at all, but rather a goofy science project aimed at messing about with quarks — you’d think the path before me would have become a dashed sight simpler, reducing my list of quests by fifty percent. But no. Now that I was left with but one quest, viz, tracking down Zeus, this quest has now bifurcated — do I mean bifurcated? — into a rabbit warren of side quests, backup plans, and distractions. My list of aims and objects had been fruitful and multiplied to the point that I was in danger of losing track. Thus it was that, when we finally managed to find Jack’s car (a loathsome compact number painted green, with an orange rag protruding from where the gas cap ought to have been), I edged my way into the passenger seat and withdrew my journal, keen to take stock of my current posish. As Vera put the steed in motion, if you can call a compact car a steed, I set about the task of preparing an up-to-date to-do list. It took shape as follows:

  Rhinnick’s To Do List, Wednesday, Abeuary 21:

  Find Zeus, the parent quest from which all others spawn;

  Help Peericks woo Oan — a task which has become a dashed sight more complicated by Oan, in her fatheadedness, thinking that I am the one doing the wooing — so Peericks might unseal his lips regarding Zeus’s current location;

  Convince Isaac to corroborate Oan’s story about the apocalyptic goings-on in the Church of O’s grotto, thus allowing her to be released from the hospice, clearing the path for item 2 (Peericks’s woo-pitching), above;

  Push along Isaac’s quantum-altering efforts by tracking down Napoleons and supplying relevant data regarding their brain scans, psychological profiles, and whatnot, all in aid of achieving item 3 above, viz, convincing Isaac to string along with Oan’s story;

  Fish Nappy out of the soup, wherever she might be found, thus enabling her to assist with item 4, namely, Isaac’s quantum doings; and

  Track down Norm Stradamus, who seemed likely to have data regarding Nappy’s whereabouts, which would place item 5 within the realm of practical politics.

  Not to mention side quests 7 through 208, which involved whatever steps might be required to sort out the slew of Rhinnick-centred betrothals which seemed to be spawning like the very rabbits whose warren my life now so resembled.

  Having compiled this list, I checked it twice. Then I checked it a third and fourth time. I read it forward, I read it backward. As a matter of fact I seem to remember smelling the thing. And the upshot of all of this list-obsessing was this: it was a pensive Rhinnick Feynman who, chauffeured by Vera Lantz, finally hitched up at the hospice at about half-past eight p.m., far later than Vera’s day pass strictly allowed. She parked the car, we crossed the lot, and after a few steps found ourselves in the lobby, where Vera was eagerly greeted by a phalanx of hospice staffers who seemed intent on stuffing her back into her cell. She offered a few well-chosen words of explanation and was chivvied off in the direction of Peericks’s office, while I, now apparently a trusted member of Oan’s treatment team, was escorted to her room.

  I stood at the door. I swallowed. I reached into my jacket pocket and patted Fenny for good luck, and then braced myself for the inev. Two knocks and a “come in” later and I found myself once again vis-à-vis with my betrothed. Or rather, my accidentally betrothed, not to be confused with the other betrothed who’d apparently been thrust upon me without notice through the Author’s recent revisions.

  “Mr. Feynman!” she said, although “effused,” “exulted,” or “gushed,” may be mot juster, for she was beaming like any woman would after finding herself on the verge of being married to the Hand of the Intercessor. She continued beaming rather freely for the space of a few ticks, before adding, “I’m so glad you’re here. There’s so much I wish to tell you!”

  “There is?” I said, bracing for impact.

  “Oh, yes! I’m sure you’ll be ever so pleased,” she said, gushing rather freely. “I remembered your deep love of great literature — you spoke of it often, in the grotto. It’s one of your most admirable traits. Many adherents of the Church of O remarked on how deeply moved they were by the reverence in which you held authors.”

  The Author, I might have corrected, had I been able to get a word in edgeways.

  “It’s because of this great reverence, Mr. Feynman — because of my own heartfelt wish to honour the fusing of our souls, and to share in your commitment to the sanctity of the written word — I’ve started writing a book!”

  “A . . . a book?” I stammered, suffocating beneath the mounting dread. I mean to say, the mind boggled at the thought of the hideous bilge that might drip from any pen gripped by this prized slice of fruitcake.

  “I’m going to call it For Love Alone: My Journey to Join the Hand of the Intercessor. Oh, Mr. Feynman,” she added, still gushing, “I can’t wait for you to read it!”

  I’d rather see the thing consigned to the flames, I might have said, but for the fact that, at this fraught stage of my affairs, speechlessness had marked me for her own. As it was, I merely stood there, overcome by dumb anguish, and tried to separate my tongue from the front teeth with which it was now fully entangled. Oan took my moment of silence as a chance to rub a bit of salt in the wound.

  “And I’ve been making plans for the wedding!” she said. “I was thinking Dr. Peericks should give me away.”

  I might have remarked on the outmoded and patriarchal nature of this wedding custom but for the fact that Oan still seemed intent on hogging the conv.

  “Who do you think should give you away?” she asked. “Your friend, Zeus? I do hope you’ve managed to find him.”

  These last words were like manna in the wilderness. I was so grateful for this sudden change of subject that I latched on to it like a drowning sailor might grasp a kisby ring — those things that are sometimes called “life preservers” in the beforelife; a name which, I think you’ll agree, makes no sense in Detroit.

  “It’s . . . it’s about Zeus I’ve come to see you!” I said, now regaining the power of speech. “I haven’t much time to explain all the ins and outs,” I said, “but it turns out my errand to reunite with Zeus has taken a turn, and that turn has set me on a course which leads straight through Norm Stradamus.”

  “Norm Stradamus?” she said, befogged.

  “You remember him,” I said. “Religious chap. Saw the future. Spoke in quatrains, if that’s the word I want. Bearded bloke who—”

  “Of course I remember him. It’s just that I’m . . . well, I’m
shocked that you should desire to see him. You see,” she said, eyes widening, “I’d just been thinking you need to confer with him before we marry.”

  “You had?” I said, for most of this had floated past me.

  “I had. And I suppose it should come as no surprise that the Laws of Attraction have made your desires align with mine!”

  Here she blinked in a doe-eyed fashion which only heightened my desire to be elsewhere.

  “I think it’s only proper that we should seek his blessing, after all,” she continued. “I mean, he is the head of the Church of O, and the Great Omega’s greatest prophet. I’m sure he’ll grant his blessing — the Laws of Attraction assure me of it — but I still believe it’s only proper for us to see him in advance. He’ll want to perform the ceremony. He may require the whole flock to be in attendance! It’s an auspicious event for all. It’s not every day that the Hand of the Intercessor takes a partner to share his path!” she added, more doe-eyed than ever.

  I did my best to swallow my chagrin and soldier on. I mean to say, there was no sense being defeated by all of this wedding-planning stuff when I was hot on the trail of Zeus. I wanted to meet with Norm, Oan wanted me to meet with Norm. It seemed our interests were aligned, as the expression is.

  “There’s just one thing,” I said.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea of where to find him. I mean to say, Norm and his flock had fled the grotto like rats leaving a sinking ship last time I checked, and I’ve no idea where they might’ve regrouped. I thought I should check with you.”

  “Oh!” she said, looking surprised. “You must have forgotten. I told you last time you were here — I haven’t any idea of where Norm and the flock might be. If I did, we could have just asked him to corroborate my story, rather than troubling Isaac Newton.”

  “Abe’s drawers!” I said, smacking the forehead. My forehead I mean, not Oan’s. “You did say that, didn’t you. It slipped my mind. So you haven’t a notion of where to find him?”

  “Sorry, no. We held our meetings in the grotto and the surrounding catacombs. They were abandoned after the battle between the Intercessor and the forces of darkness. I’ve no idea where Norm and his flock may have gone.”

  This was an unexpected turn. I mean to say, just when life offers a bit of a leg up, it sneaks around behind and lays you a juicy one right on the seat of the trousers. This pattern of one step forward, two steps back was beginning to wear on me.

  “We might try a Vision Board,” said Oan. “Surely you’ve heard of Vision Boards, Mr. Feynman. They help us harness our positive mindforce, and bring harmony between our authentic selves and the world around us. Through a Vision Board — one featuring representations of Norm Stradamus and the church — we can manifest our own deepest desires. We can use the Laws of Attraction to bring the information we seek.”

  It amazed me that even a sloppy pest like Oan, in the face of the obvious loopiness of this idea, was able to put the dashed thing forward with every appearance of sincerity. And it pained me to think this sort of goofy drivel could be a daily feature of life in the Rhinnick-Oan household, unless of course our conversations would come to be dominated by explanations of why an additional spouse named Vera kept popping up at the breakfast table.

  “Perhaps you can have a whack at setting up a Vision Board,” I said tolerantly, for I didn’t wish to wound the freak. “I mean to say, perhaps my own efforts might be better directed elsewhere. Knocking on doors. Placing phone calls. Turning over rocks and logs. But in the meantime, can’t you think of anything Norm might have said to indicate the location of his post-grotto HQ? A forwarding address? A hint of where you might look him up? A favourite bar he might stop by when moving house?”

  “Let me think,” said Oan, instituting a bit of a stage wait as she looked off into the distance. “I don’t know where he lived before the grotto and never saw him elsewhere . . .”

  “Any magazine subscriptions? Favourite pizza delivery shops? Anyone to whom he might have given a heads up about his future whereabouts?”

  “He was most concerned that he might be found by sinister forces. You’ll recall that the grotto was invaded by the church’s enemies. He would have made every effort to keep his location secret.”

  “Even from you?” I said. “I mean to say, you were one of his steadfast whatdoyoucallits. He would have wanted you to find him.”

  “I always expected he’d send word to the hospice. He knew he could always find me here, and I assumed he’d send word once he had established the church elsewhere.”

  “Have you checked today’s mail?” I said, teeing up a long shot.

  “Yes. Not a peep from Norm Stradamus.”

  I sat down and massaged the lemon. I mean to say, how is one supposed to find a bloke who’s making every effort to stay hidden from all and sundry? We Rhinnicks are resourceful, but if we’re going to be resourceful we insist on a precondition, viz, that there be resources upon which we can draw. I was at a loss.

  “I’m at a loss,” I said.

  “Me too,” said Oan. “What shall we do?”

  And before I could respond — though what I might have responded with remains beyond my ken — there was a brief knock on the door followed by the advent of Vera.

  You can imagine my chagrin. I mean to say, as fond as I am of the young pipsqueak, and as accustomed as I’d become to being in Oan’s room, the effect of their combined presence was enough to make anyone drain the bitter cup and take on the general aspect of a bloodhound who had received bad news. But I bore up philosophically. I mean to say, you can’t show alarm and despondency simply because you’re in the presence of two birds who’ve both made plans to sign you up for better or worse. Or rather you can, but it wouldn’t be chivalrous, and we Rhinnicks are practically famous for being chivalrous. So I bore up, as I just said, philosophically, and welcomed Vera with a debonair “hello.”

  “I’ve just come from Peericks’s office,” she said. “He’s given the all-clear!”

  “What do you mean?” asked Oan.

  “I’m free to go. But I’ve got to be going straight away. Places to go, people to see, that sort of thing. No time to dawdle. Rhinnick,” she said, turning to me, “would you be a lamb and give me a lift back home? You have a car with you now, and it’d save me the bother of hopping on a bus.”

  I raised a puzzled brow. Vera knew the ins and outs of my growing to-do list, and ought to have been hep to the fact that carpooling hither and thither wasn’t written on the agenda. But I reminded myself that we were in the hospice, and that Vera had just been closeted with Dr. Peericks, and these things have been known to take a toll on the cognitive whatnots of even the most level-headed bimbos. So rather than issuing a flat-out refusal or telling the bird to go and boil her head, I softened my response, hoping to gently jiggle her grey cells back into proper working order.

  “I . . . err . . . I was just asking Oan where I might find Norm Stradamus. You remember Norm Stradamus? I need to pinpoint this chap’s whereabouts so I might push along the quest to—”

  . . . find Nappy, take her to Isaac, convince him to help Oan, and unseal Peericks’s lips regarding Zeus’s current locale, I might have said, had my sentence been allowed to come to fruition, but it didn’t. Instead I was interrupted, or cut off, if you prefer, by Vera insisting there was no time for extended chit-chat.

  “We’ve got to get going. I know where we have to go next.”

  “You do?” I said, bewildered.

  “I do. Television,” she added, tapping her bean.

  “Oh, ah!” I said, cottoning on. “Right then. Tally ho. Next stop, Norm Stradamus!”

  This drew a sharp intake of breath from Oan, who had spent the last several seconds watching the exchange between self and Vera like a spectator at Wimbledon. And she followed this sharp i. of b. with an e
xhortation.

  “Be sure to ask for his blessing!” she said.

  “Whose blessing?” asked Vera.

  “Norm Stradamus’s blessing,” said Oan. “If Rhinnick and I are going to be married, we’ll want to have Norm’s approval. He’ll give it, of course. Oh, he’ll be so pleased that we’ve asked. And I’m sure he’ll want to conduct the service himself. He’s such a—”

  Goof, would have been how I’d have finished that sentence, but Vera once again showed herself a champion interrupter and insisted that we get on with the show.

  “No time to chat,” she said. “I’ll make sure Rhinnick asks Norm for his blessing. You have my word.” And so saying, she sauntered over to Oan, leaned down, and gave her a warmish sort of hug that must have lasted at least three seconds.

  “Shall we pack your bags?” I said, wanting to help push things along.

  “No time,” said Vera. “I have an appointment.”

  “Well then, cheerio!” I said, facing Oanward, while opening the door and letting Vera glide through.

  “Come back as soon as you can, Mr. Feynman,” said Oan. And what she said next blanched the skin beneath my tan, for it seemed precisely calculated to shatter the undersigned’s aplomb. It was this, spoken with a sickening sort of treacly rumminess which unmanned me:

  “Or rather, come back as soon as you can, darling.”

  Doing my best to suppress a wince, though every fibre within me was wincing like billy-o, I bade farewell once more and exited stage right.

  Chapter 15

  “What ho!” I cried, and I’ll tell you why I cried, “What ho!” The moment I’d loosed myself into the hallway I found that my elbow had been grabbed and I’d been chivvied, at a rate of considerable mph, up the hall without what is known as preamble. And the person who had attended to the chivvying was Vera.

  “What in Abe’s name are you doing?” I said, mid-chivvy.

  “Getting out of here,” she said. “Just play along.”