Fiction by Laurel DiGangi
Judith and Marlon sat on their veranda, sipping Château Lafite Rothschild and nibbling chunks of a divine French brie. The setting sun painted the clouds above and ocean below in iridescent strokes of color. But they didn’t know what specific ocean they viewed, nor could they describe the colors since they didn’t exist on the spectrum.
A year earlier, Pastor Ned had told Judith, Marlon, and the rest of his congregation that there was a special place in heaven for those who put their total faith in the Lord. Believers, true believers, did not need masks, vaccines, seat belts, safety razors, smoke alarms, carbon monoxide detectors, or non-slip bathmats.
Now, here they were, the both of them.
A trio of humpback whales breached in the distance.
“Magnificent creatures!” announced Marlon.
“Yup,” said Judith, but they only reminded her of their three grandchildren. She tried not to miss them because she felt guilty when she did, as if wishing for their early demise.
Suddenly Marlon sprung from his lounge chair. “I think I’ll go for a run,” he said.
“Have fun,” said Judith, but she was thinking, “Don’t come back.” If it weren’t for Marlon, she could be jangling her hip scarf at belly dance lessons or helping her grandkids look for seashells and hermit crabs on a real, living beach. Instead she’d spent her last semi-conscious days traumatizing them, their parents, and her friends—including a special friend who couldn’t visit her in intensive care because their friendship was, well, secret.
Judith felt achingly lonely. Sensing this, her lifetime’s accumulation of dogs, five mutts, a dachshund and a Lab, ran out the back door to join her. A plate of doggie treats and chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies appeared. The dogs sat in a row on their haunches and waved their forepaws in the air like little beggars. They were never this well-behaved when alive, but rowdy or polite, they were now one of her few joys.
She tossed treats at the dogs. She ate the cookies. And no matter how many she ate, more would appear. She tried a dog treat, just for fun. It tasted like ambrosia.
Judith leaned back and cracked open her book, a tell-all memoir written by her favorite actor after his death. The dachshund jumped on her lap, waves churned in the distance, and by page 12, she had fallen into a light slumber.
When she awoke, Marlon was hovering above her, scowling.
“The people down the shore have a gazebo,” he said. “And a fire pit, hot tub, and swimming pool.”
“Cool,” said Judith. “Maybe they’ll invite us over.”
“No. Not cool. We deserve everything they have, plus maybe a fifty-foot catamaran and our own private pier!”
“What makes you think we deserve anything?”
“We were specifically told, a special place in heaven!” Judith had no words. All she could do was glare at her husband. She glared for a long, long time, as time was now mockingly irrelevant.
Laurel DiGangi’s writing has been published in The Chicago Reader, Denver Quarterly, Fourth Genre, Asylum, Atlanta Quarterly, Cottonwood, Two Hawks Quarterly, and Under the Gum Tree, among others. A Chicago-born, former graphic designer and illustrator, she now teaches and is coordinator of tutoring services at Woodbury University in Burbank, California.
