“You silly! We didn’t see other people. Just the houses. We drove up this hill and everything was like in a Walt Disney cartoon and we looked at one another and smiled because we were in Heaven, because we made it, because there wasn’t any more shit.”

“Now, let me get this straight. We were driving around in a beat-up car—”

“Yes, Richard, but it didn’t matter.”

“Let me finish. You say people lived in houses. That means people have to build houses. Paint them, clean them, and maintain them. Are you telling me that people in Heaven have jobs?”

“Yes, but they like their jobs.”

“Oh, God, does it never end? A job! What am I going to do? I’m a doctor. If people don’t get sick there, they’ll probably make me a coal miner or something.”

“Yes, but you’ll love it.” She grabs my arm with both hands, pitches her forehead against my chest, and laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard Susan laugh, ever—since we were kids, I mean.

“Richard, it’s just like Earth but with none of the bad stuff. You were happy, too. So please don’t worry. Is Africa like the Garden of Eden, Richard?”

“It’s lush all right, but there’s lots and lots of dead time,” I say. “It’s a good place to read Anna Karenina. Do you get to read novels in Heaven, hon? Have they got a library? After I pull my shift in the coal mine, do I get to take a nice little shower, hop in the Dodge, and drive over to the library?”

Susan laughs for the second time. “We will travel from glory to glory, Richard, and you won’t be asking existential questions all the time. You won’t have to anymore. And Mom and Dad will be there. You and me, all of us in perfect health. No coal mining. No wars, no fighting, no discontent. Satan will be in the Big Pit. He’s on the Earth now tormenting us, but these are his last days. Why do you think we are here?”

“I often ask myself that question.”

“Just hold on for a little while longer, Richard. Can you do that? Will you do it for me, Richard? What good would Heaven be if you’re not there? Please, Richard, tell me you’ll come.”

I said, “Okay, baby, anything for you. I repent.”

“No more Fyodor Dostoyevsky?”

“I’ll be non-Dostoyevsky. It’s just that, in the meantime, we’re just sitting around here—waiting for Godot?”

“No, Richard, don’t be a smart-ass. In the meantime we eat lunch. What did you bring?”