be safe.”
“And I think I’m weirded out.” I gestured. “That’s a door.”
“Uh ... yes. It is a door. See? I’m not scared. You shouldn’t be, either.”
“Laura, you sound like an episode of Sesame Street. There wasn’t a door three seconds ago. There wasn’t anything three seconds ago.”
“Should we—?”
I looked at her, then back at the door. The doorknob gleamed innocently. I was pretty sure. “I guess we’d better,” I said.
I stepped forward and gingerly gripped the knob. I was expecting it to be hot. You know ... hellish. But it just turned when I turned it.
So we went in.
Chapter 25
H ell was a waiting room with fading fluorescent lighting and out-of-date Good Housekeeping and Redbook magazines. Also: hell smelled like a doctor’s office, that sharp, sting-y smell that promised you were gonna get hurt, one way or another, before the visit was over.
“Uh.” Laura was looking around, as wide-eyed as I was. “This is unexpected.”
“To put it mildly.” I glanced down at a Redbook from April 1979. Those bell-bottoms! Those how-to-satisfy-your-man self-help articles! When the urge to vomit became too much, I knew exactly what I was going to aim for.
The room was furnished with dinged-up, knocked-around cheap furniture; no one was sitting at the check-in desk. The carpet was a perfect mixture of snot green and eye-booger gray. And there were doors, doors about two inches apart along every wall except where the desk was.
“Subtle,” I observed, nervously eyeing one of the doors. “I guess you’re supposed to get around hell with these things.”
“Doors in a waiting room?”
“That’s all this is.” I glanced up at the ceiling as another ailing fluorescent started to flicker. “People wait. In one of the yuckiest spots ever. You can tell just by standing in this room that unpleasant things are right around the corner. Like an audit you think is done, until they pull out more paperwork.” I shuddered. “It’s brilliantly evil.”
“Thank you,” my dead stepmother said.
Of course. Of course the Ant was here. Of course she was the devil’s right hand. With the possible exception of Eva Braun, no one could be more suited to the job.
“Well, great,” I said, eyeing her. “The good news is, being dead hasn’t made any sort of imprint on your eclectic personal style. Eclectic being another word for hideous.”
“Says the vampire!” my dead stepmother cried, her overly be-ringed hands flying up to pat her shiny blonde hair. Her hair was as it had always been: the same shade, consistency, and shape of a ripe pineapple. “Only you could have been more a pain in your poor father’s ass after you died.”
“Uh, whoa,” Laura said, glancing from the Ant to me and back again. “At least this isn’t stressful. Or weird.”
“So, the devil’s handmaiden is really ... the devil’s handmaiden! Ha! Color me the opposite of surprised. Ugh, what are you wearing? You can’t tell me all the clothing designers went to heaven. Can’t you dig up ... I dunno ... Yves Saint Laurent? No. Wait. He was just a coke hound who liked to drink. That’s not really the sort of thing people burn in hell for. Too bad he didn’t kill someone and cover it up. Cavalli? I’m pretty sure he was blasphemous when he wasn’t cranking out panties ... aw, nuts. He’s not dead.”
“Maybe we’re getting off track,” Laura began.
“Oooh, Donna Karan! Right? The whole fur thing? Dammit, I think she’s still alive, too. Uh ...”
The Ant puffed out a harassed breath, apparently never having noticed her hair never, ever moved. (It was interesting to me that people kept habits like breathing and sighing when they didn’t need them anymore.) “It’s nice to see you again, Laura.”
“Thank you, Mrs. T—”
“No, no, no. Please, my name is—”
“Mud,” I suggested. “Mud Barfbag Taylor. Call her Asshat for short.”
“—Antonia.”
Laura stretched an arm over the
“And I think I’m weirded out.” I gestured. “That’s a door.”
“Uh ... yes. It is a door. See? I’m not scared. You shouldn’t be, either.”
“Laura, you sound like an episode of Sesame Street. There wasn’t a door three seconds ago. There wasn’t anything three seconds ago.”
“Should we—?”
I looked at her, then back at the door. The doorknob gleamed innocently. I was pretty sure. “I guess we’d better,” I said.
I stepped forward and gingerly gripped the knob. I was expecting it to be hot. You know ... hellish. But it just turned when I turned it.
So we went in.
Chapter 25
H ell was a waiting room with fading fluorescent lighting and out-of-date Good Housekeeping and Redbook magazines. Also: hell smelled like a doctor’s office, that sharp, sting-y smell that promised you were gonna get hurt, one way or another, before the visit was over.
“Uh.” Laura was looking around, as wide-eyed as I was. “This is unexpected.”
“To put it mildly.” I glanced down at a Redbook from April 1979. Those bell-bottoms! Those how-to-satisfy-your-man self-help articles! When the urge to vomit became too much, I knew exactly what I was going to aim for.
The room was furnished with dinged-up, knocked-around cheap furniture; no one was sitting at the check-in desk. The carpet was a perfect mixture of snot green and eye-booger gray. And there were doors, doors about two inches apart along every wall except where the desk was.
“Subtle,” I observed, nervously eyeing one of the doors. “I guess you’re supposed to get around hell with these things.”
“Doors in a waiting room?”
“That’s all this is.” I glanced up at the ceiling as another ailing fluorescent started to flicker. “People wait. In one of the yuckiest spots ever. You can tell just by standing in this room that unpleasant things are right around the corner. Like an audit you think is done, until they pull out more paperwork.” I shuddered. “It’s brilliantly evil.”
“Thank you,” my dead stepmother said.
Of course. Of course the Ant was here. Of course she was the devil’s right hand. With the possible exception of Eva Braun, no one could be more suited to the job.
“Well, great,” I said, eyeing her. “The good news is, being dead hasn’t made any sort of imprint on your eclectic personal style. Eclectic being another word for hideous.”
“Says the vampire!” my dead stepmother cried, her overly be-ringed hands flying up to pat her shiny blonde hair. Her hair was as it had always been: the same shade, consistency, and shape of a ripe pineapple. “Only you could have been more a pain in your poor father’s ass after you died.”
“Uh, whoa,” Laura said, glancing from the Ant to me and back again. “At least this isn’t stressful. Or weird.”
“So, the devil’s handmaiden is really ... the devil’s handmaiden! Ha! Color me the opposite of surprised. Ugh, what are you wearing? You can’t tell me all the clothing designers went to heaven. Can’t you dig up ... I dunno ... Yves Saint Laurent? No. Wait. He was just a coke hound who liked to drink. That’s not really the sort of thing people burn in hell for. Too bad he didn’t kill someone and cover it up. Cavalli? I’m pretty sure he was blasphemous when he wasn’t cranking out panties ... aw, nuts. He’s not dead.”
“Maybe we’re getting off track,” Laura began.
“Oooh, Donna Karan! Right? The whole fur thing? Dammit, I think she’s still alive, too. Uh ...”
The Ant puffed out a harassed breath, apparently never having noticed her hair never, ever moved. (It was interesting to me that people kept habits like breathing and sighing when they didn’t need them anymore.) “It’s nice to see you again, Laura.”
“Thank you, Mrs. T—”
“No, no, no. Please, my name is—”
“Mud,” I suggested. “Mud Barfbag Taylor. Call her Asshat for short.”
“—Antonia.”
Laura stretched an arm over the
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