I don’t actually believe in hell—or in heaven, for that matter—but on the off chance I’m wrong, here’s a list of those who should be admitted to the latter and why:
Barbara Jones, for her pitch-perfect red (but sometimes, magically, blue) electronic marks;
Ellen Archer and Pam Dorman, for commissioning this book, thereby keeping the Kogans from eating cat food;
Lola Bubbosh, for calling Ellen and Pam;
David McCormick, for being Ricky to his client’s Lucy; Gillian Bagley, for her smarts, heart, and art;
David Remnick, for saying yes to the raw scribbles that begat this manuscript;
Henry Finder and Carin Besser, for transforming said scribbles into potable prose (here’s how they would edit everything after that last comma: “for editing”);
Daniel Jones, no relation to Barbara, for reworking “A Sign of Love” with the author as she lay in a hospital bed, sliced open and high on morphine, not that she remembers much of this;
Elizabeth Beier and Dani Klein Modisett, for sparking the final essay by indulging a middle-aged woman’s stand-up fantasies;
Raymond Mosley, for allowing his tenant to pay the rent on her office late late late;
Kevin McLaughlin, for keeping the Vespa safe from both vandals and cops;
J.J. Abrams, for inviting a dying man to a sneak preview;
Richard Copaken, for showing us that grief can be endured with a smile; if there is a heaven, he’s definitely up there, buying popcorn and a Diet Coke at the Pearly Gates Multiplex and bragging about his grandchildren to the poor schmuck sitting next to him;
Margie Copaken, for insisting on tea and scones during the darkest month;
Jacob, Sasha, and Leo Kogan, for keeping their mother honest (“I didn’t say, ‘Can I eat my lunch first?’ I said, ‘Can I eat my chicken first…’”); for granting her permission to discuss private matters publicly, with the caveat that they had final say over every story, sentence, comma, and fornicating lemming; and for giving her three excellent reasons, every day, to keep her head out of the oven;
Paul Kogan, for putting up with his wife and her pen for nineteen years and counting, and still claiming, unbelievably, to love her;
And Josh, Kammi, Brad, Abby, Dave, Robin, Eddie, Meg, Richard, Patty, Paul, Martha, Adam, Tad, Amanda, John, Aleksandra, Abigail, Marco, Nora, Nick, Esther, David, Simone, Jennifer, Ed, Frank, Rebecca, Matt, Julie, Paul, Ellen, Stephen, Katie, Anne, Larissa, Philip, Eric, Diana, Monique, Oliver, Ian, Mauzi, Burt, Ayelet, Michael, Jonathan, Amy, Heidi, Ben, Michael, EB, Jackie, Andrew, Ann, Peter, Suze, Marc, Betsy, Sarah Jane, Michael, Annie, Faulkner, Andy, Olivia, Susan, Maria, Tom, Jennifer, Donald, Janny, Bill, Amy, Flip, Lisa, Ray, Katie, Steve, Julianne, Ward, Maia, Darren, Jen, Todd, Julie, Laura, Marilyn, Barry, Kipp, Anne, Deb, Gustavo, Deb, Mark, Jim, Vanita, Josh, Geula, Marni, Bruce, Peter, Susan, Jamie, Michael, Joe, Katherine, George, Bess, Celia, Sharon, Steve, Dan, Lindsey, David, Andrea, Julie, Toby, Carolyn, Marion, Luton, George, Irina, David, and Lisa, and many others I’m sure I’ve forgotten, for being the Others who disprove the entire premise of this book.