Josh
This is an idiotic and dangerous plan. In other words, it’s like most of my plans. What’s afterlife without a few risks, right?
I knock on Mr. Griffith’s door, and it opens almost immediately, admitting me to the usual pool hall where we used to meet. It hasn’t been more than a month, but it feels like forever ago. The memories hit me with a pang I’m not expecting. I miss Grace so much that I didn’t notice how much I’ve missed hanging out with Mr. Griffith. The Mr. Griffith I knew before he became all fatalistic and sent Grace to Hell, that is.
He’s seated on the edge of a pool table, papers spread out before him and what looks like a giant feather in his left hand. He glances up, surprised, whether by my presence or that he’s now in a pool hall, I have no idea.
My hands automatically seek out my jean pockets. “Hi. Sorry to bother you. I know our appointment isn’t for another hour.”
“Josh? Of course you aren’t bothering me. Come in.” The feather, which I realize is really a pen, disappears along with all the papers, and he turns to me with his usual undivided attention.
“Listen, Mr. Griffith, I’ve been thinking, and I have some questions that I was afraid to ask…before. But they’re important.” Great job so far, Josh. I shake my head, trying to formulate my words.
“Shoot.”
“The rules. You know, the ones you always go on about? The ones that got Grace thrown from Heaven? Where do they come from?”
Mr. Griffith’s eyebrows rise so high on his head, I wonder if they’ll float right off. I guess he wasn’t expecting that question.
“Well, most of them come from The Man Upstairs. Some things are up to me. But the big ones—things like whether humans should be free to go back and forth to Earth after death—well, those came directly from Him.”
I shift my weight and pull up a stool of my own. I was afraid he’d say that. “And there’s really nothing you can do about it?”
His expression turns pained, and he reaches out to place a hand on my shoulder. “I know you miss Grace. I do, too. It hurt to send her down there. But I tried to warn her, Josh, you know that. In answer to your question, can I disobey? No. I’ve seen what happens to Archangels when they disobey. I cannot risk it.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “What happens?” I press. He didn’t say he couldn’t do it, just that he wasn’t willing to risk it. Those are two very different things.
“They are thrown from Heaven. I can’t imagine a worse fate for an Archangel. That’s what happened to Lucifer, you know. Now look at him.”
Anger swells inside of me, and I can’t hold it back. Screw it. I jump up from the chair. “So you’re saying that Grace being thrown from Heaven is okay because you’re still here?” Grace is a better Angel than he ever was.
“No! Josh, that’s not what I meant. I’m so sorry. Please, calm down. If it were a choice between saving Grace from circumstances beyond her control… But she chose her lot. That’s what free will is. That’s the gift The Man Upstairs bestowed upon humankind.”
I’m speechless. I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open. Does he think she made some clear-cut, easy choice for selfish reasons? “She did it to save someone she loves. She sacrificed herself for him, like I did for her—only in my case it earned me wings, not a sentence in Hell.”
Mr. Griffith looks away, back rigid, as he considers what to say.
“Josh, I’m not going to argue about Grace. Are you going to help me in Heaven or not? I’m a very busy being.”
“Busy giving up.” I can’t hold back. Not anymore. The time for tact is over.
Mr. Griffith rises to meet me. He’s taller, and there’s something very intimidating in the way he stands so regally and almost unnaturally before me. “I am not giving up, Joshua. I am looking to the future, to the next wave of time. I tried my best to prevent it, but it happened, just as foretold; true—just as the word of The Man Upstairs always is. And now it’s time to move on. I understand that might be difficult for you, and I want you to know I’m not hurt by your words. I understand you are lashing out because you’re in pain.”
Well, that’s great news.
I suck in a breath and do my best to control my temper. At least he hasn’t explicitly forbidden me from doing anything; he just said he’s not going to help. At least, that’s what I choose to hear.
“One more question, Mr. Griffith.”
He crosses his hands in his lap and waits.
“How do I talk to The Man Upstairs?”
To his credit, he doesn’t overreact to this request. He just chuckles. “You can talk to Him at any time. Just pray.”
“And He’ll answer?” I ask, glancing skyward despite being in Heaven already.
“Rarely.”
I nod, defeated. “I see. I should let you get back to…whatever it is you’re doing.”
I glance back on my way out to find Mr. Griffith with quill in hand, papers back on the table. “Just so long as you don’t let your feelings get in the way of learning your job as a greeter,” he mutters.
But if you ask me, my real job is to stop Armageddon before it starts.