By A.R. Navas

St. Peter needed a holiday from Heaven. He longed to travel to Las Vegas and watch Tom Jones perform at the MGM Grand, a desire he had ever since he heard the song, “To Make a Big Man Cry.”

But the angels had already finished decorating the stadium with flowers and Christmas lights for the semi-annual Paradise Fest in two days. St. Peter was billed as the closing act, a slot he didn’t want to fill. He walked up to St. Paul who sat on a cloud with his legs folded and scribbled over a crossword puzzle.

“I’m not going,” St. Peter said.

“I already told you,” St. Paul said, without looking up. “You are not backing out.”

“I can’t handle the pressure.”

St. Paul tapped his pencil on the puzzle. “Hey, do you know a six letter word for refrigerator?” 

“Are you listening to me?”

“Frankly, I do not understand why you are upset,” St. Paul said.

“I’m not upset.”

“Yeah, you are. You’re yelling at me.”

“I’m not yelling!” St. Peter shouted. A young woman who sat on a cloud hovering a few feet away stopped painting her toenails and looked at him. 

“We’ve been planning this for months,” St. Paul said.

“You don’t know what my job is like. If I’m not performing at these festivals like a clown, I’m taking care of people, fixing the Jacuzzis every time they break down, listening to everyone complain at once whenever their satellite dish doesn’t work.”

 “You cannot just cancel at the last minute. Besides, God is not pleased with your magic tricks. He demands that you entertain the residents, not bore them. If you want that vacation, you have to improve your act.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” St. Peter said.

“Just make them happy. That’s our job.”

St. Paul looked at his puzzle, thought about those missing letters and finally tossed the paper down. “I can’t help but think about the past. Remember when we were down on Earth, preaching and saving all those people from damnation? It would be exciting to do it again.”

“No,” St. Peter said, rubbing his eyes. “It was hard work. We busted our backs.”

“But we saved people.”

St. Peter flung his hand in the air. “I don’t care. I spent my whole life spreading someone else’s word. I never enjoyed my life. I should be relaxing here. Isn’t that the idea?”

It struck St. Peter as sarcastic that nearly everyone referred to him as the manager of paradise. Heaven was never paradise to the servants.

St. Peter spent his hours catering to a population that had everything: a full supply of their favorite foods, detailed tours through the most exotic planets, answers to all the mysteries of the Universe and digital cable where you can ultimately find something good on.

But eternity had reduced the residents to blank expressions and daily complaints. It was common to see men on separate clouds argue with each other over who had the most remarkable life. Families who were once ecstatic to be reunited in Heaven soon remembered how much they actually despised each other. If they received the finest luxury in the afterlife, residents would simply ask why it wasn’t better.

St. Peter offered what he could. “How about taking a trip through all the galaxies?”

One man said, “I’ve done that over a thousand times.”

“What about having dinner with Einstein?”

“Again? He chews with his mouth open.”

St. Paul had boasted to the other saints that at least three million people would attend Paradise Fest. Only nine hundred showed up, most of whom strolled into the arena in the middle of the performances. The residents sprawled throughout the stadium, some of whom sneezed wildly because of the abundance of flowers lying in the isles. Some came to see if the show was going to be bad as the last one; others attended strictly for the popcorn and hotdogs.  

The first act featured St. John the Divine as a comedian. He approached the microphone on state and stuttered when he spoke.

“Three pigs walk into a bar…one of them owns a butcher shop, the other owns a glue factory…wait a minute…actually, it’s a horse who owns the glue factory... a pig and a horse walk into a bar…okay, wait…”

A few people cleared their throats. St. Peter watched the performance from backstage and thought, what a shame that all the really good comedians are in Hell.

Five minutes before he was due on stage, St. Peter stood in front of a mirror in his dressing room.  Katherine stood behind him. She was a stocky nun with a round, wrinkled face and glasses that always slid down her nose.

“Maybe I shouldn’t do this,” she said.

He swung his head around. “You’re backing out now?”

“It’s dangerous.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m confused,” she said. “I have never ridden a bull before.”

“It’s easy,” he said. “Just hold on to the saddle. I’m going to have you disappear to a rodeo in Texas. Remember, you’ve got ten seconds to find one and jump on top of it. Then I’ll bring you back. What’s the problem? You never had difficulty helping me out.”

“This is different. At the last one, I handed you those swords when you shoved them down your throat.”

“Well, now you’ll be the star of the show,” he said.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” she asked.

“I think so,” he said. “I skimmed through a book once. Don’t worry.”

The spotlight shone on St. Peter as he wheeled out a shiny red box on stage.  Katherine followed him, and the two bowed to the audience. A few people clapped. A trumpet played a waltz melody in the background.

St. Peter shoved the nun inside the box and closed it. He then raised his arms, chanted a few words in gibberish and kicked the box open, showing no signs of Katherine. He shut the door, repeated the words and then opened it again. A pig soaked in mud leaped out of the box. It shrieked at the audience and scurried to the backstage.

St. Peter giggled nervously.

He leaned into the empty box and shouted the words, nearly straining his voice. But Katherine did not appear. The audience watched as he lifted the box and searched the back stage. Some residents stood up and headed towards the exit, hoping to get back to their clouds for a short nap.

The train leaving from Heaven usually took three hours to arrive in Hell. It rode through a long, noisy tunnel where St. Peter could see the sparks outside his window. The train suddenly halted. The conductor announced that a mutilated ox lay in the middle of the tracks. The passengers stepped out and found the animal with its skin removed and its head propped on a stick a few feet away. St. Peter held a handkerchief to his nose as he watched the passengers remove the ox from the tracks. He wondered if he should help them.

But then he returned to his seat and flipped through a golf magazine. Not my problem, St. Peter thought.

He arrived in Hell forty-five minutes later.

St. Peter felt embarrassed when Lucifer’s secretary reminded him that he was an hour late. He entered his office and found Lucifer on the phone with a plate of chicken salad and a bowl of baked chips on his desk.

“I was expecting you an hour ago,” Lucifer said, hanging up the phone.

“It wasn’t my fault,” St. Peter said. “There was a dead ox in the middle of the tracks.”

“Those damn kids! I don’t know how many times I told them not to play on the railroad tracks. Anyway, I can’t really talk long. I have an appointment with one of my publishers.”

Aside from being the ruler of Hell and all of its inhabitants, Lucifer was also a successful author of such books as How to Possess a Soul in Three Easy Steps, The Financial Benefits of Being Evil, and his all-time bestseller The Joy of Cooking Spaghetti.    

“I know why you’ve come,” he said. “The answer is no. The nun stays with us.”

“Let me explain," St. Peter said.

“I don’t want to hear it. You sent her down here.”

“But it was an accident.”

“End of subject!” Lucifer said, slamming his fist on the table. “By the way, where are my manners? Would you like some chips? Some coffee?”

“No thanks,” St. Peter said. “Someone made a mistake and accidentally transported her here.”

“What idiot did that?” Lucifer opened his cigar box.

“It doesn’t matter! The point is that she doesn’t belong here. This was just a slip up. It could happen to anybody.”

St. Peter felt as if he were talking to the residents again. It was an accident no one in Heaven would ever forget. He had the unfortunate task of informing God of what happened over the phone, who was on the other side of the Universe taking care of some real estate business.

It was well known that God spoke very little. Ever since He had been misquoted repeatedly in the Bible, (this was one of the reasons why He no longer gave interviews) God choose His words very carefully, speaking briefly as possible. His response to St. Peter was simple. “You did what?”

Lucifer looked at his watch and then folded his arms.

“She’s going to stay here. Besides, we don’t have many nuns in Hell. Plenty of priests, but no nuns.”

“This woman grew up in a convent,” St. Peter said.  “She helped all these homeless children in Africa.”

“Even better.” Lucifer said. He lit his cigar and held the box open to St. Peter. “These are Cuban, by the way.”

“Once a person is sent here, they’re under your control, but you can’t keep someone who doesn’t belong here. Why do you want her?”

“To possess her soul, do what I normally do to everyone. Besides, this is a big middle finger to your God. I’m still resentful over all those arguments we had.”

“I need to bring here back,” St. Peter said. “I’m in a lot of trouble because of this. I can’t go back empty-handed.”

The secretary buzzed in and informed Lucifer that his wife was on line two.

“You’re married?” St. Peter asked.

“Yeah, but I only did it for tax purposes. It turned out to be a really bad idea.”

He grunted and told his secretary to take a message. He then paused and rubbed his head.

“All right. What are you going to give me for her? There’s only one thing I’ll take in exchange for her. And that’s you.”

St. Peter watched as Lucifer took a puff from his cigar.

“Excuse me?”

“If I’m not going to have a nun, I might as well have a saint,” Lucifer said.

“How is this negotiating?” St. Peter shouted.

“It’s not so bad here. We have a roach problem, but it’s nothing serious.”

“I’m not staying here!” St. Peter said.

Lucifer tossed a chip into his mouth. “Then the nun stays. We have no further business to discuss.” 

“Can I at least see how she’s doing?”

“If it’ll help you change your mind.”

Lucifer led the way down a flight of stairs to a vast kitchen with millions of people scurrying between burning stoves and tables. The steam and intense light stung St. Peter’s eyes. The inhabitants of Hell wore brown and yellow-stained aprons. They shuffled past each other with trays of food that smelled of rotten meat and spoiled milk. St. Peter held his breath. He tried not to step on the dozens of cockroaches that scrambled past his feet.

A man tipped a pot of boiling water over his arm and screamed. Three middle-aged women shouted at him in Spanish and flung their rags at his face. Two male cooks grabbed each other’s collars and argued over the contents of a recipe.

The kitchen was so loud that Lucifer shouted in St. Peter’s ear. “All this food is for me and the other officials down here. On Fridays they make lasagna that is absolutely delicious!” 

The two arrived at a corner where Katherine bent down to feed three chickens that circled her. She spotted Lucifer and jumped back, thrusting a cross from her necklace at him. He laughed and nudged St. Peter in the ribs. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

“He doesn’t want to release you,” St. Peter said.

“I know. I want to stay.”

“What?”

“I want to save these people,” she said, pointing at the two screaming cooks. "I’m needed down here. They do not know the way.”

“But they’re not human.” St. Peter said. “They can’t be saved.”

“I’m more useful to God here than I am in Heaven.”

Katherine bowed her head and whispered a short prayer. After crossing her chest, she picked up small crumbs of grain from a wooden bowl and tossed it at the chickens. She watched their beaks swoop down at the floor.

A bronze statue of Katherine stood in the entrance to Heaven. Whenever St. Peter passed by this statue over a dozen times, he could feel her eyes follow him. The monument reminded him of her popularity throughout Heaven, and this was a good enough reason to avoid walking past it. A year had passed and the residents wouldn’t stop talking about her.

All St. Peter thought about his own statue, which had long rusted behind a set of clouds. The only time anyone spoke to him was in reference to Katherine. How many souls will she save?

When he finally received permission to go see Tom Jones in Las Vegas, St. Peter didn’t say much to anyone. He packed at light suitcase and headed for the train station. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Katherine. He envisioned her holding out her wrinkled hands towards a crowd of staggering people and leading them out through the gates of Hell. Maybe he could participate in a few conversions.

He arrived in Hell, walked pass the rusty gates and shouldered his way through the crowd in the kitchen. He asked for the nun’s whereabouts to everyone. No one paid attention.

He finally saw the back of a bulky woman hunched over.

Katherine grabbed a chicken from an open cage, flung it on a wooden board and sliced a butcher knife through its neck. She tossed the head aside and began tearing out the feathers.   

Someone from behind said that the new dishwasher was too slow. Katherine flicked the cigarette from her mouth, marched up to the young boy standing by the sink and raised the knife to his neck. She cursed at him in a raspy voice and pointed to the pile of brown and green dishes, her apron smeared with blood. She walked back to her table and continued plucking the chicken.

Lucifer wrapped his arm around St. Peter’s neck and kissed him on the check.

“I can’t thank you enough for her. I give her a managing position and she starts abusing her authority. Are you sure she really was a nun?”

“What did you do?” St. Peter asked.

“Nothing,” Lucifer said. “I only come around here for the food.”

St. Peter ran to Katherine and grabbed her arm.

“We’re leaving,” he said.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said.

He tried to yank Katherine from the table, but she leaned back with her feet pressed against the ground. He then picked her up from the waist and flung her over his shoulder.

But St. Peter didn’t take into account her recent weight again. He took one step before his knees gave in and the two toppled onto the floor. Katherine rolled to the side and knocked down a table full of dishes covered with meat sauce and cheese.

Four tall, muscular women rushed over to St. Peter and kicked him as he tried to stand up. One chef cursed in French and struck his back with a large frying pan.

Lucifer shouted, “Get him out of here! He’s making a mess in my kitchen.”  

They shoved St. Peter through the gates, and he fell on his hands and knees in the alley, his nose bleeding and his back bruised. He heard the clatter of the gates slamming shut.

St. Peter sat up and trembled from the cold in the alley. Lucifer stood behind the gates.

“You’re not allowed to visit anymore,” Lucifer said. “I was nice to you, very polite and you cause a scene in my kitchen.”

“I’ll take her place,” St. Peter said. “She doesn’t belong here.”

“Too late,” Lucifer said. “You’re no good to me.”

“Well, I’m not going to leave her here. I’ll bring a whole army here, I don’t care.”

“You’re kidding me,” Lucifer said. “You’re going to start a war over one nun?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Lucifer giggled and shrugged his shoulders. “All right, then. I’ll be waiting.”  

St. Peter bent down and folded his arms across his chest, his teeth chattering from the cold air in the alley. He could feel the rats scurry past his feet.

He hesitated on leaving. Would the saints laugh at him for the idea of storming the hallways of Hell? He hoped to God some of them still had respect for him.