Kevin’s Inferno: Thirty-Four Days in the Life of Kevin O’Rourke

By Jim Farrell

“Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita…In the middle of life’s journey…Well not quite the middle for me. Unlike Dante, I was only twenty-five when I was taken on my journey through the netherworld. Taken by whom? I have to name God as the ultimate trip planner, but He assigned a distinguished guide the task of accompanying me on the many legs of the journey. Dante had a poet guide him through Hell, the poet Virgil, but I was given a different guide, a philosopher whom you will meet. Perhaps Virgil was not up to a second trip. Once is enough!”

So opens Kevin’s Inferno. Spend thirty-four calendar days with Kevin O’Rourke, days and evenings in Brooklyn, nights in Hell, following in the footsteps of the immortal Dante Alighieri. You will never forget the journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781663235619

Jim Farrell

Jim Farrell earned a master’s degree in accounting from the University of Rhode Island and a bachelor’s degree in philosophy from the Gregorian University in Rome, Italy. He spent eleven years in a Roman Catholic seminary, served as a captain in the U.S. Army, and worked with Air America in Vietnam. Now retired, he lives with his wife, Marianne Collinson, in Palm Coast, Florida. He has published four novels and two collections of short stories.

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Copyright © 2022 Jim Farrell.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-3562-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-3563-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-3561-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022902268

iUniverse rev. date: 02/18/2022

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Canto IThis Isn’t Prospect Park

Canto IIA Beautiful Lady Sent Me

Canto IIIThe Gate of Hell

Canto IVLimbo

Canto VLust

Canto VIGluttony

Canto VIIHoarders and Wasters

Canto VIIIAccess Denied

Canto IXMichael the Archangel

Canto XThe Wink

Canto XIWhat Is Still To Come

Canto XIIThe Minotaur

Canto XIIIThe Forest of the Suicides

Canto XIVThis Is Not Siesta Key

Canto XVSuch Filth

Canto XVIGeryon Approaches

Canto XVIIHe Who Makes the Whole World Stink

Canto XVIIIMalebolge

Canto XIXPopes All the Way Down

Canto XXFortunetellers with a Twist

Canto XXILet’s All Pitch In

Canto XXIIBattling Demons

Canto XXIIIA Stella Performance

Canto XXIVMeeting a Hellish Phoenix

Canto XXVThe Night of the Iguana

Canto XXVIKevin Meets Ulysses

Canto XXVIIAnticipatory Absolution Is Invalid

Canto XXVIIIRiven from Chin to Ass

Canto XXIXThe Ice Pick Cometh

Canto XXXHellish Debates

Canto XXXIIn the Land of the Giants

Canto XXXIIThe Bottom of the Universe

Canto XXXIIIIntimations of Cannibalism

Canto XXXIVThe King of Hell

Epilogue

Others books by Jim Farrell

Brooklyn Boy (2013)

Kiss Me, Kate, and Other Stories (2014)

The Extraordinary Banana Tree (2015)

Mikey’s Quest for Father God (2016)

The Barge of Curiosity (2016)

The Committee and Other Stories (2017)

Realities (2018)

The Whale’s Tale: Call Me Moby Dick (2019)

The Joyce Girls of Brooklyn (2021)

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife, Marianne Collinson,

who has supported me in all my writings

and who is my greatest promoter.

To my sister, Madeline Nixon, who has been the source of

so many of my inspirations

To my grandsons, Maxwell James Farrell,

and

Coda James Farrell

just because they are my beloved grandsons.

Acknowledgments

A s always I wish to thank my cousin and editor, Patty Gallagher, for all her help in cleaning up the words I put on paper, not only checking the spelling, but, more importantly, suggesting better words or better ideas.

I also wish to acknowledge Frank McGoff, a true lover of the great books, who led me down such wonderful literary paths. To quote Frank, Why are the great books called great books? Because they are great books.

To the poet Dante for writing The Divine Comedy. One of the greatest pleasures of my life was reading The Inferno in Dante’s original Italian.

To my wife’s cousin, Billy Stott, who first used the phrase, It is hard to keep down with them. He was referring to his and my wives, in Obidos, in Portugal. Kevin uses it in this story in reference to the lead-caped hypocrites.

All translations of Dante’s Italian in this volume have been done by the author who thoroughly enjoyed doing them.

For those who want to read The Inferno in English, I recommend the volumes (Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso) published by Robert and Jean Hollander, scholarly editions with voluminous notes on the history and mythology contained in the original poem; the more modern translation by Mary Jo Bang; or for the true classicist, the version produced by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

1

THIS ISN’T

PROSPECT PARK

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita…In the middle of life’s journey…Well not quite the middle for me. Unlike Dante, I was only twenty-five when I was taken on my journey through the netherworld. Taken by whom? I have to name God as the ultimate trip planner, but He assigned a distinguished guide the task of accompanying me on the many legs of the journey. Dante had a poet guide him through Hell, the poet Virgil, but I was given a different guide, a philosopher whom you will meet. Perhaps Virgil was not up to a second trip. Once is enough!

W ho am I? Kevin O’Rourke, a young Irish Catholic man living in Brooklyn, New York, who, at the time of my life-changing experience, did not spend much time contemplating death or Hell. Or Heaven either. And who lived as purposelessly as you would expect one to live who does not contemplate the final things. Why did God choose me? That was the question that constantly occupied my thinking while I made my way through Hell, through all its twists and turns, all its levels and labyrinths. I don’t think I ever received a satisfactory answer. My ways are not your ways, says the Lord. That is from Isaiah. It should have been from the Book of Job. Now there was one unlucky guy. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. Archibald MacLeish’s J. B., a modern Job, refused to add that final benediction. Maybe I will meet J. B. on my journey, wishing eternally that he had uttered that missing benediction.

Was my journey real or a dream, a nightmare? After reading this account, you can come to your own conclusion. You may decide on the latter; I am convinced it was the former. When did it begin?

I was sleeping peacefully the night my journey began. Pleasant thoughts filled my head as I drifted off to sleep. I had turned in at ten o’clock after a pleasant first date with Rubi Garcia. Ten o’clock might seem early, but we both had to get up early the following day, Rubi for work, and me to keep a commitment to her. She’s a waitress at Doby’s Place, the diner on my corner, Fifth Avenue and St. John’s Place, in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn. Doby’s Place only serves breakfast and lunch, so Rubi has to arrive at the small diner at five in the morning. That’s where I met her, at Doby’s Place. I work as an assistant editor for the New York Daily News––that sounds impressive, but just out of college, I am in reality a glorified copy boy––and, before taking the subway to Manhattan each morning, I stop at Doby’s for a couple of eggs and bacon. The only decisions I usually have to make are: scrambled or fried, bacon or ham. The rye toast is a constant––Doby––he’s the owner––uses freshly baked Jewish rye bread. Rubi told me that the delivery boy from the Jewish bakery, Sol, is there waiting for Doby and her when they open up. The bread is always hot, and the smell, Maravillosa! as Rubi says. Rubi sneaks a piece, a crusty end piece, while she is putting on her apron in the kitchen. She really doesn’t sneak it; Doby knows she takes an end; he takes one as well. Those who live in glass houses…That hot, fresh-from-the-oven Jewish rye is hard to resist.

Rubi started working there two weeks ago. She attends night school at Brooklyn College, attending classes from four until eight on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Doby, whose real name is Domenico, is her father’s brother. That’s another reason why he doesn’t mind her taking the best part of the warm rye loaf. Family is very important in the Puerto Rican community. I don’t know how he got Doby from Domenico. I never asked. The only other Doby I knew of was Larry Doby, the former center fielder for the Cleveland Indians. His Doby was a last name, but still, it was a Doby. Larry Doby is not as well-known as Jackie Robinson, but he did make his mark on history: the second black man to play major league baseball, and the first black man to play in the American League. Oh, I didn’t forget Dobie Gillis, but he spells his Dobie differently. He did not make it onto my Doby-with-a-y list.

Rubi and I hit it off from the start. She’s Puerto Rican, and I’m Irish, but that is not an issue for us. Living in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, I had associated with Puerto Ricans since birth. I even speak Spanish. Hablo Español. That language fluency was the reason why The Daily News hired me. My major at St. John’s University was Philosophy. That was not a plus for the city editor at The News; neither was my minor in English Lit. But my ability to read, write, and speak Spanish landed me the job.

Rubi Garcia is an extremely attractive young woman. Long, straight brown hair which flows down to the small of her back, sparkling brown eyes, and a face that belongs in a Renaissance painting. Who does your make-up? Raffaello, when he is not busy painting for the Pope. Nice figure too. After watching that angelic face smile at me as she handed me my breakfast eggs each morning for two weeks, I asked her yesterday morning if she’d like to have dinner and see a movie with me. Doby’s Place has two waitresses, Rubi, who handles the counter, and Maria, an older woman, who handles the tables. After Rubi’s arrival, I became a counter sitter. Maria, Domenico’s wife, Rubi’s aunt, liked me from my first visit to Doby’s Place. She did not complain when I exchanged my chair for a stool. A nice Irish boy who speaks Spanish. Always polite. Wears a jacket and tie. Tips well. Always finishes his food. Not a waster, that boy. He is a nice boy, Rubi. I think he likes you. Talk to him. The Irish are Catholics too. I approve. It is nice to receive an endorsement from a girl’s aunt.

Rubi smiled at me and said, I would love to. I, filled with happiness, descended into the tunnels of the New York City Rapid Transit System. I floated onto the crowded 7th Avenue IRT express train. Standing room only. I didn’t mind. I hung on the strap thinking of Rubi. All the way to my stop, the Times Square station. On nice days, I walk down 41st Street to the News Building; on rainy or cold days, I hop onto a crosstown bus. No hesitation on her part. Not just Yes, but I would love to. Gracias a Dios. How hermosa she is…Where will we go for dinner? I know, that Puerto Rican bodega on St. John’s Place, just above Fifth Avenue, that serves sandwiches, the San Juan Bodega––Clever, huh? The San Juan Bodega on St. John’s Place––She will love that…Not fancy…But I know she will love it, the ethnic choice will show my sensitivity…Perhaps corned beef and cabbage at Farrell’s Tavern…Not on our first date…Wouldn’t that surprise her…I know Puerto Ricans eat cabbage––Doby serves a cabbage soup for lunch––but corned beef…That, I dare say, is an acquired taste.

Rubi had gone home at two yesterday when the diner closed, and I picked her up at her apartment on Douglass Street when I returned from Manhattan. She lives with her parents and two younger sisters. I live on St. John’s Place in my own apartment. My parents and younger sister, Ann, still live in the house on Sackett Street, in St. Agnes parish, where I grew up. In Catholic Brooklyn, you are identified by your parish. You would not know it from our, Rubi’s and my, addresses but we live on the same street, one above Fifth Avenue, me, and one below Fifth Avenue, Rubi. The street changes names when you cross Fifth Avenue. Actually if one is walking down St. John’s Place, one has to jog slightly to the left on Fifth Avenue before continuing down Douglass Street. Small point, but I am an editor, an assistant editor anyway, and we live by accuracy. Rubi’s mother and father loved me as soon as they met me. Maria had spoken well of me to her brother- and sister-in-law. I treated the Garcias with respect, I spoke Spanish, and I brought a quart of Breyer’s loose vanilla bean ice cream for her sisters, Teresa, 16, and Manuela, 14. "Gracias por el helado. De nada." They were also impressed that this Irishman, their sister’s potential boyfriend, spoke Spanish. And brought ice cream, Breyer’s loose ice cream, not the frozen cubes that one buys in Safeway. Frozen dessert, whatever the hell that means. "You know he’s an editor at The Daily News? No, I didn’t. So handsome too..lucky Rubi! Shush, he can hear you."

Rubi and I stopped at the San Juan Bodega for jibaritos, Puerto Rican sandwiches made with smashed plantains instead of bread––different, but I had been eating them for years–– and then went to the Plaza Theatre to watch Scarlett Johansson in Her. I think I liked it more than Rubi did; I guess men always like Scarlett Johansson movies more than women do. I don’t understand why. Men appreciate her for her acting skills. Well, those too.

We returned to the bodega after the show for Cokes. It was a Friday night, and I normally would not be going to Doby’s on Saturday morning, but Rubi asked me to stop for breakfast on my day off, so I agreed. I will have two surprises for you. I sensed a mutual attraction. She asked if I went to Mass, a question which surprised me. I went on most Sundays––I know, it should be every Sunday––at St. Augustine’s, the neighborhood church, and simply said, Yes. When I did go, I went to the ten o’clock Mass on Sunday morning. Bueno, she said. Go with me tomorrow afternoon, at four, okay? Again I agreed. I would see Rubi twice the following day, much better than the usual not seeing her at all on Saturday. What about Sunday?..Would I see her?..I think Yes!..Farrell’s Tavern for corned beef…After a walk through Prospect Park…Maybe the zoo before dinner…I still love the Prospect Park Zoo…I know the animals by name, my favorites: Farina the lioness, Whitey the she-wolf, and Pardo the Leopard. .. Have you ever tried corned beef, Rubi?… No, but I would like to.…Yes, we will go to Farrell’s!...And the zoo…

Gentleman that I am, I walked Rubi home. The Park Slope neighborhood hit bottom in the fifties, but its proximity to Manhattan, a fifteen-minute subway ride from the financial district, had given it new life. But still, there is no way I would let Rubi walk unaccompanied during the hours of darkness. We kissed, chaste but nice, a taste of jibarito mingled with popcorn and Coke, and, after she was safely returned to her apartment, I walked home anticipating breakfast, wondering about the surprises she had mentioned, and was back in my apartment by nine forty-five and in bed, as I told you, by ten. I was sleeping soundly when…..

I found myself in a dark, dense wooded area. A gully of sorts. I had on jeans, a St. John’s University sweatshirt, and loafers. Yes, there were shiny pennies in each loafer. How the hell did I get here? My first thought was: I am in Prospect Park, but I had never seen any place like this in the park. This is not Prospect Park! A dirt lane ran through the gully. The sky was beginning to lighten, but the Sun had not risen yet. Even in the sweatshirt, I was cold. I decided to follow the lane toward the top of the gully, but suddenly a leopard appeared before me. Pardo? Did he escape from the zoo? I wish I had a weapon…My belt?..Better than nothing.

It’s me, Pardo, Kevin O’Rourke. Don’t you recognize me?

The leopard stood its ground. It did not look friendly. I started to move around it, off to the right side of the lane, but the leopard moved to its left, staying in front of me. Yellow, mean eyes fixed on me.

An impasse, but suddenly the Sun, che l’amore divino mosse di prima, (which divine love moved in the beginning)––now why did I phrase it like that? And in Dante’s Italian?––peeked over the edge of the gully. Pardo sneaked off into the brush. I could hear him retreating. I was safe. Or was I?

A lioness appeared to take his place. Farina? She remained stationary blocking my progress. I turned and fled down the lane in the opposite direction. But that retreat was not going to provide a means of escape. A she-wolf stood on the lane directly in front of me. Whitey? The she-wolf was all skin and bones; I remembered Whitey as being more substantial. I was filled with terror.

Am I in Dante’s Inferno? I thought. Will Virgil come to rescue me? What the hell is going on? I had studied, and loved, The Inferno as part of my Italian language program at St. John’s. Yes I speak Italian as well as Spanish.

I began to shiver. Whitey, or whoever this she-wolf was, issued a throaty sound, harsh, frightening, and unfriendly. I looked back; Farina was still blocking the path in the other direction. At least the leopard was gone.

Then a shadowy figure approached me from the woods to my right. He, or she, was wearing a long brown robe with a hood covering the head. A Franciscan? Francis himself? Did God sent St. Francis to help me?

Are you a man or a woman? I cried, And why are you here?

I am neither a man nor a woman, the shadow replied, but I used to be a man. I have been sent to help you.

By whom?

He who orders all things and whose name we never utter.

Why did He send you?

He has a plan for you, a journey for you to undertake and write about.

Is this really happening or is this a nightmare?

That you have asked that question tells you the answer, he replied cryptically. He removed his hood. It was not St. Francis.

I recognize you. You are The Philosopher, aren’t you?

That’s what Thomas Aquinas called me. We have had many wonderful discussions in Heaven.

So you are in Heaven now?

"Oh yes. He loved my Ethics and my proofs."

Thomas Aquinas?

Yes, Thomas too, but He, the Prime Mover, as I called Him in my days in Athens.

Oh, I said. Him.

Yes, Him. He whose name I never utter. Wouldn’t dare.

What happens now? I asked Aristotle.

We must go by a different path. The she-wolf––no, it is not Whitey––will not let us pass ahead, nor will the lioness let us pass behind.

But there is no other path, I said.

Look to the left.

I turned my gaze to the left. There was another dirt path leading to the summit through the woods. I had not seen that path. I could have sworn that it was not there a moment before.

We can follow that path to safety. The she-wolf will kill anyone or anything that tries to pass her. Many she mates with before devouring them. One day she will meet her match, a dog.

A dog? I queried.

Yes, man’s best friend, perhaps the Hound of Heaven, Aristotle laughed.

Follow me, he said. Turning back, he added, You cannot wear that sweatshirt where we are going. St. John is not too popular there. Leave it on now, but when you come back, wear a different shirt.

Come back?

And stick this in your pocket. It will come in handy if any of the inmates give you a hard time.

He handed me a small, sterling silver crucifix. Aristotle giving me a crucifix!

That surprised you? he asked.

Yes, you lived before Jesus came.

I would not have known what it was when I had my body, but now I do. Believe me, it will be useful for you. Do not lose it.

I followed him, and we walked unhindered up the path and out of the gully.

Then I was sitting up in my bed. The Sun was shining through the window. I glanced at my clock. Six fifteen. I told Rubi I would meet her at six thirty at Doby’s. I looked at my legs––I was wearing jeans. And my St. John’s University sweatshirt. What the hell is going on? Have to rush…Already dressed at any rate.

I was afraid you weren’t coming, Rubi said to me as I took a spot at the counter at six thirty-five. She is radiant, I thought, like the Sun, che l’amore divino mosse di prima ––there it is again, that phrase.

Sorry. I overslept. I did not tell her any more than that.

She went into the kitchen and returned with a plate of huevos rancheros. I made this myself. The first surprise. I was afraid it was going to get cold.

What a delicious surprise! "Gracias, Rubi," I said.

"De Nada. When you finish that, I will give you the second surprise, food for the mind."

After I finished the huevos rancheros, she asked me to step out into the alley behind the diner. We have to be quick, she said pulling me out the back door. I can’t leave the counter unattended.

She handed me a plastic bag. I could tell it contained a book. When I opened it, my mouth fell open. Dante’s Inferno in Italian and Spanish.

I thought you would like this. I bought it in the college bookstore last week.

Last week?

Yes, I knew you would ask me out, and I knew you would love this. Dante in Spanish.

"I love it. Me gusta mucho," I said.

She gave me a quick kiss, on the lips, and pulled me back inside Doby’s Place.

She entered the kitchen, and I returned to my seat at the counter. She came out carrying a second cup of coffee for me, rich, dark, Puerto Rican blend this time, which I sipped as I opened my gift.

A mitad del camino de la vida...On an impulse, I felt inside my right front jeans pocket––a small, sterling silver crucifix. I pulled it out of my pocket. It reflected the light from above. It sparkled; I shivered. Rubi noticed the shiver.

Is anything wrong? she asked. What a lovely crucifix.

No, nothing’s wrong, I lied. A friend gave it to me. Aristotle, a friend?

"A girl friend?" Rubi asked.

No, I answered, truthfully this time. An old man. I don’t have a girlfriend.

Maybe you do, she said, with a smile.

Maybe I do…My own Beatrice…

I put the crucifix back in my pocket and, getting up from the stool, whispered to her, See you at three-thirty.

She just smiled. What a lovely smile she has.

2

A BEAUTIFUL

LADY SENT ME

Lo giorno se n’andava….Dante’s opening line for his second canto: The day came to an end…My day with Aristotle, my day somewhere in a dark gully in an unknown park––could it have been Prospect Park?––had ended with Aristotle leading me safely away from the three beasts. My day ended with the rising of the Sun. That in itself was strange. My days usually end with the setting of the Sun. Aristotle told me that I would be coming back, that I had just experienced the beginning of my journey, of my task. Would I? Was any of it real? If not, how did that crucifix end up in my pocket? The one Rubi admired. "Was it from a girl friend?... No, Rubi, I don’t have a girlfriend... Maybe you do"…Maybe I do…. How nice is that!..The second day of my relationship with Rubi was just beginning. That, I knew, was real. Would I have a second day with Aristotle?

P utting the crucifix back in my pocket, out of sight and out of mind, I enjoyed my strong, black coffee, my Spanish Inferno, and the view of Rubi, both the frontal view and the view from behind as she stretched to remove plates from the window ledge separating the dining area from the kitchen. I did not mention it, but she has a divine behind. To be expected from her overall divinity.

Truly a remarkable woman. How did she ever think of getting me the Inferno in Spanish?.. I wonder how old she is…My guess, twenty or twenty-one…A good match for my twenty-five…A match?..You have only known her for two weeks, Kevin…But Dante fell in love with Beatrice at first sight…Is Rubi my Beatrice?..I think I am in love with her…I hope I have better luck with her on Earth than Dante had with Beatrice…God, how we laughed eating the sandwiches last evening…She kept touching my hand across the table…squeezing it…I like a girl who’s physical…She leaned over and took a bite from my jibarito…How she laughed at my surprise…and she leaned against me in the theatre, feeding me popcorn, sharing our Coke…Do you think I’m as pretty as Scarlett Johansson?.. Prettier... That reply earned me a kiss on the cheek…and a piece of popcorn in my ear…She is full of surprises…I don’t think she was wearing perfume, but she did smell heavenly…Rubi as Beatrice, a nice thought.

When I finished my coffee and my daydreaming, Rubi leaned over and whispered to me, See you at three thirty.

We took her sisters, Teresa and Manuela, with us to Mass.

The priest entered the sanctuary and intoned, "En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espiritu Santo." After we had all replied, Amen, he continued, "El Señor esté con ustedes", to which we replied, "Y con tu espiritu."

I didn’t know the four o’clock Saturday Mass was in Spanish. I looked at Rubi, who whispered, I’m glad you speak Spanish. Then she smiled and poked me in the side. I like this girl. Physical.

Just before Communion, the priest said, "La paz del Señor esté con ustedes," and instructed us to give the sign of peace to each other. Rubi turned to face me and said, "La paz del Señor esté con te." I liked the personal te instead of the more formal usted. Then she kissed me and said, I am so glad we are here together.

Me too, I said.

Really?

Yes. She kissed me again, quickly due to the location and the time allotted for the kiss of peace.

Teresa and Manuela were smiling at us, enjoying the show. It was obvious that they idolized their older sister. I gave them each a hug of peace and prepared myself to receive Communion. The girls and I also used "te." We went up to take the Body of Christ as a family, Teresa first, then Manuela, then Rubi, and finally me.

"El Cuerpo de Cristo," said the priest to each of us.

Amen, we replied. My amen was in English; theirs in Spanish.

After father released us with "Podemos ir en paz. Demos gracias a Dios," the four of us exited the church. There are my parents, Rubi said, leading me over to where they were standing. I was surprised that they had not sat with us, but Mrs. Garcia explained that. We wanted to let you children be by yourselves, she said. Mr. Garcia gave me a manly hug. Yes, Rubi’s parents do like me.

We’ll be home in about an hour, Ma, said Rubi. And then she said to me, Let us talk to father. We walked over to the young priest who was sending his flock back into the world.

Father Aquila, this is my friend Kevin, said Rubi.

Your first time in St. Augustine’s? he asked.

No, but my first time at the Spanish Mass, I answered. Then I removed the sterling silver crucifix from my pocket and asked him to bless it. If I did need it, as Aristotle thought I would, better to give it additional potency.

Father blessed it and handed it back to me. I almost presented it to Rubi––she had admired it––but something––someone?––prevented me from doing that. In retrospect, I am so glad that I retained possession of it. But I decided that eventually it would go to Rubi. I would give her my crucifix and my heart. Wow! I did have that thought standing outside St. Augustine’s that Saturday at five in the afternoon. I noted the date and the time.

As we walked away, she saw my smile and asked, Why so happy?

You, I answered.

Then we were both smiling.

Teresa, Manuela, want some pizza? Rubi asked.

Yes, they answered.

So the four of us went to Antonio’s, the preferred pizzeria in our neighborhood, for pizza. One large, cheese, tomato sauce, and olive oil only, thin crust Antonio’s pizza. We all waited for the pizza to cool before taking a piece. That takes a special degree of patience. While we waited we sipped our Cokes. Rubi wanted to share the cost, but I insisted on paying for the four of us. That earned me a kiss on the cheek. After dinner we sent Teresa and Manuela home––Tell Ma we’ll be sitting on the stoop.––and we sat outside in front of her apartment and talked.

Rubi is in her second year at Brooklyn College and plans to get her bachelor’s degree in five years. She graduated from high school three years ago, Prospect Heights High School, but took one year off before starting college. She spent that year with relatives in Puerto Rico. Her father’s cousin is a priest in a parish on the outskirts of San Juan, and she did volunteer work in his parish while she was there, teaching catechism to little children and English to the teen-agers. I did not ask her how old she was, but it came out during the telling of her story, twenty-one. I was right.

I so loved working with the little ones; the teen-agers were like teen-agers here, a bit difficult, but I did learn to love them too…

It is the same with teen-agers all over the world, I said, as if I had experience of teen-agers anywhere. I lived with Ann, my sister, when she was a teen-ager, but she was my little sister, and she adored me. Who doesn’t?

Working with the little ones, it made me say to myself, ‘I want children of my own.’ Do you want children? she asked me.

Yes, I said. I had not thought about it, but, Yes, was a truthful answer.

She tousled my hair and said, Good.

When can I meet your family, Kevin? You have met mine, Rubi said.

Whenever you want, I answered. Let me arrange a dinner at their home. That should be interesting…Rubi, as nice as she is, is not Irish…Catholic, yes, but not Irish Catholic…Oh well…Dad will have no problem with her…Ann will love her…But Mom…Mom always thought I would marry a nice Irish or German girl… Once she gets to know her…But who’s thinking about marriage?..I guess I am…Rubi is that special!

Next week-end? she asked, retrieving me from my reverie.

Yes, next Sunday, I said. I’ll call and make the arrangements.

Do you think they will like me?

I know they will. Dad and Ann definitely will…Mom, I hope so…She has such high hopes for her firstborn, her son…

What are we going to do tomorrow?

We…tomorrow…I like this…Farrell’s Tavern and the zoo?..

Join us for breakfast at nine, she said. Mom is a great cook. Doby’s Place caters to the working public. Doby, Maria, and Rubi take the Lord’s Day off.

I said that I would be delighted.

At ten thirty Rubi suggested that we each go home. I have said that our neighborhood is now safe, but that safeness decreases as night deepens, when fewer and fewer people can be found on the streets. I could have stayed on her stoop talking to her all night. We stood face to face, kissed, and then she said to me, "Kevin, I have never met anyone like you. Te quiero." (I love you.) Her beautiful face changed from brown to red. "Lo digo en serio." (I mean it.)

"Yo tambien," I said. (Me too.)

She squeezed me, and then broke free and sprinted up the stairs.

See you tomorrow, she called down from the top of the stoop.

At nine, I said.

She smiled and threw me a kiss as she disappeared through the outside door. I stood a moment watching the space she had just vacated, then I headed up Douglass Street, crossed Fifth Avenue, and arrived safely at my apartment on St. John’s Place. La calle de San Juan. Not a popular man in Hell, I have been told. I will put that sweatshirt in the dirty clothes hamper when I get home.

I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts of Rubi ran through my head. I took a Coke from the refrigerator and sat on my couch reliving the evening. Her smile and her smell both lingered. Before going to bed, I put the St. John’s University sweatshirt in the hamper, and stripped down to a T-shirt and white boxer shorts. I believe I fell immediately asleep.

I woke to find myself at the top of the gully. Aristotle was up ahead of me, motioning me to follow. I looked at my clothing, the St. John’s University sweatshirt––I had put that in the hamper!––jeans, and my penny loafers. If I remember all the details of this journey, memory will have done its job. I called out to Aristotle, Oh Philosopher, do you really think I am the man for this job? I am consumed by fear at the prospect of what lies ahead.

He turned back to me and gazed at me with dismay. The sweatshirt?

I tried to put this sweatshirt where it could not be found, I stated. I tried to heed your warning.

Don’t let it worry you today. But before the next stage, remove it from your house.

The next stage? I cried out.

Yes. Have courage, he said.

What about the crucifix?

Just keep it hidden, he advised.

I put my hand inside my front right pocket. Yes, it was still there.

What happened while I was gone? I asked.

No time has elapsed since we reached the top of the gully.

My mouth dropped open. No time has elapsed? I said, shocked.

Time is different here. You have entered eternal time, an unending now.

No beginning, no end? I asked.

No beginning for Him. It begins for us when we die. But for us, it never ends.

Heaven is an eternal now? I asked.

And Hell, he said.

What about Purgatory? The location of Dante’s second journey? There must be duration in Purgatory, I protested.

There is Purgation; there is no Purgatory.

Purgation?

An immediate cleansing of the residue of our failings. Varies in intensity, but not in time. He who names things calls it the Ritual Bath of Fire.

I recalled my Inferno and said to Aristotle. "Virgil spoke to Dante of Aeneas, who had visited the underworld and returned. He was trying to give Dante hope. ‘You’re not the first to go and return.’ Dante also believed St. Paul had visited Hell, in a vision. Aeneas came back from Hell to found Rome, where the descendants of St. Peter rule. St. Paul returned to spread Christianity far and wide. But, as Dante said to Virgil, ‘Io non Enea, io non Paolo sono.’ I am not Aeneas, I am not Paul. What have I ever done to rival their achievements? Why should He pick me to go on this mission? I am not fit for this, this, madness."

I see you are being pinched by the claw of cowardice, Aristotle said, putting his right hand on my shoulder. Let me tell you who sent me. That might remove your fear. The claw of cowardice?

I thought you said He sent you.

"Well, yes, all that happens happens because of His will, but he uses intermediaries…

A lady approached me, Aristotle continued, so beautiful and saintly that I knew her request could not be resisted. Her face was like the visage of a woman who modelled for the great Raphael….

I said that about Rubi’s face, I interrupted.

I expected him to deny that the lady was Rubi, but he just nodded.

How can it be Rubi? I objected. She still lives.

All of the universe, past, present, and future in the perception of one living is like a projection displayed on a super wide screen. He, and we who are with Him, see all at once. The future has happened already; the past is still happening.

How about me? Am I there too? With Rubi?

That I cannot tell you. No man can know his destiny until his time has come. Even Jesus had to wait for His time to come while he was on Earth. Let me tell you about my and Rubi’s conversation.

I am Rubi and I wish to return immediately to the Heavenly place from which I came, but first I must ask your assistance. My beloved, my dear Kevin, is in a gully beset by beasts and he is filled with terror.

She begged me to go and assist you, to remove your fear and strengthen your intention to proceed.

Do you come to me on His authority? I asked her.

Yes, but not directly, she answered. "She whom all generations have called blessed, as she predicted, sent Lucia to me. Lucia, the youthful virgin martyr––you know her as Saint Lucy––is often sent on errands by the Regina Coeli. The Heavenly queen also sent her to Beatrice instructing her to go see Virgil. Now she who radiates light sent Lucia to me…

Lucia asked me, the beautiful lady continued, Why I was not helping the one who loves me so? ‘Do you not sense his fear, his anguish? Go to Aristotle and have him guide your soulmate.’ So I have come immediately to you. Will you go to him, to my Kevin?

So I came to you as she requested, Aristotle said. I saved you from the leopard, the lioness, and the she-wolf and led you out of the gully. Why do you still delay when three ladies in Heaven are looking out for you? And with me here to guide you?

Courage did indeed fill my heart at these words. How compassionate she! I said to Aristotle. How courageous thee! I am now ready to continue the journey with you no matter whither you lead me. Whither?

He led on.

I followed.

So Rubi is in Heaven. I can’t tell her I know that; she will never believe me. I don’t know if I believe me. I do not know if this journey is real…What about the crucifix?.. Perhaps that has been in my possession for some time, a gift from someone that has slipped my mind?.. I don’t believe so, but….

3

THE GATE OF HELL

Per me si va ne la citta’ dolente…

Per me si va ne l’etterno dolore…

Per me si va tra la perduta gente…

LASCIATE OGNE SPERANZA, VOI CH’ENTRATE…

Through me to the city of sorrow…

Through me to eternal pain…

Through me runs the road among the lost people…

ABANDON ALL HOPE, YOU WHO ENTER HERE…

T he sign on the gate at the entrance to Hell. The bottom line makes this the second most infamous gate in history. The most infamous: the gate at Auschwitz with its ARBEIT MACHT FREI. Work will make you free. At least the sign on the Gate of Hell is honest.

Mrs. Garcia handed me the platter of pancakes and said, Take some more, Kevin. Alfonso, give him some more sausage.

I stabbed two pancakes with my fork and dropped them onto my plate. They were thinner and sweeter than the pancakes my mother makes, less dense,