It's a Wonderful Death - Sarah J. Schmitt Page 0,19
rolls her eyes. “It’s the Gates of Hell,” she says.
“You’re kidding? The Gates of Hell are located directly across from the Gates of Heaven?”
“Actually,” Yeats interjects, “it’s very efficient. Aren’t you the one who said we should streamline?”
“Yeah, but doesn’t it seem cruel to the poor schmucks heading downstairs? I mean, how would you like to have it thrown in your face that you’re facing eternal damnation while the majority of the souls are partying it up before entering Heaven?” I cock my head to one side. “Is that him?”
“Is that who?” Yeats asks.
“Over there. Next to gate. Is that Saint Peter?”
Yeats glances up toward the line waiting to get into Heaven. “That would be him.”
I stretch my neck to get a better look. “Who’s that guy sitting next to him?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Buddha,” Yeats scoffs.
I try to cover up my surprise with indignation. “Yeah, I know who he is, but why is he here?”
“I thought we covered this already,” Hazel says with a sigh. “It’s not God who has problems with other religions. That’s a mankind thing. Buddhists have as much right to the eternal grace as anyone else.”
A smirk spreads over my face. “What about Scientologists?”
Hazel’s face turns bright red as she starts to answer, but Yeats steps in front of her. “Why don’t we go see Peter?” He takes my elbow and leads me through the crowd, leaving Hazel to simmer.
“What was that about?” I ask, craning my neck to see if she’s following us. She is, but slowly.
“Oh, Hazel just has a strong opinion about some of the beliefs that have popped up over the years.” I can tell by the look on his face that this isn’t an issue I should push. Behind me, I hear a dog barking.
“Wait, there are dogs up here?” I ask, thinking about the beagle we had when I was in elementary school.
“Do you see any dogs?” Yeats asks.
I shake my head. “But I heard one.”
“No, you heard Cerberus.”
“Who?”
“Cerberus. He’s the Guardian of Hell.”
I shake my head again. “I have no clue who you’re talking about.”
“Don’t they teach the classics anymore?”
“You mean like Shakespeare?”
Yeats slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand and groans. “I’m talking about Greek and Roman mythology.”
“No one cares about myths anymore,” I say. “It’s all math and science now. Blame it on the global economy, but literature plays second fiddle at my school.”
“That’s another thing I wouldn’t mention to Hazel,” he says before changing directions and leading me toward the Gates of Hell.
I pull back. “You are not taking me in there.”
“Relax,” he says, giving me a slight tug. “Let me add a little culture to your pathetic education.” He stops short and looks up. “This is Cerberus.”
Before me are four paws at the base of tree trunk legs. As I follow them up, I see a broad chest as wide as my mom’s SUV. On top of that are not one but three heads, each with huge jowls. Saliva drips onto the floor in front of me and I take a step back to avoid it soaking my shoes. The three sets of teeth look razor sharp and I shudder at the sight.
“Oh, he won’t bite,” a heavyset woman with curly brown hair says with a laugh.
“How do you know?” I ask, stepping behind Yeats just to be safe.
She laughs again, one of those sounds that rise from the pit of the belly. Like Santa Claus, but without the “ho ho ho” business. “Because you aren’t trying to escape,” she looks at me a little closer. “You aren’t, are you?”
Cerberus lets out a growl and my eyes widen with fear that that thing is going to eat me. Yeats is shaking his head and I realize I have a tight grip on the sleeve of his robe. The woman is doubling over, laughing and slapping her thighs with her hands.
What is wrong with her? And then Cerberus begins to howl and I swear the beast is laughing at me too.
“I’m sorry,” the woman says, wiping tears from her eyes. “It was too easy.”
Yeats pulls himself together. “RJ, this is Alexandra, Cerberus’s handler. Al, RJ.”
She sticks out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
I look up at the dog, but it’s not paying any attention to me at the moment. Slowly, I take her hand and give it a quick shake before pulling my arm back.
“So, Yeats, why are you slummin’ it here in the trenches? I thought you winged