COULD THIS BE HEAVEN, OR COULD IT BE HELL -Short Fiction

Untitled Part 1

"People have it wrong. Hell is not fire and brimstone. It is a wasteland of cold nothingness called Papa Westray." At least, that is what my thirteen-year-old-self told everyone in the late '70s after my parents tore me away from America and moved me to the smallest islands in Orkney, at the northernmost end of Scotland.

The people who dwelled there were called crofters, and apparently, they were guarded about whom they allowed to move on their island. Grandpa, a genuine crofter, had died, and his land became my dad's. Even though the croft belonged to Dad, the elitist crofters made it their business to decide whether they would allow us to move there. If I had understood everything, I would have gone to that meeting and raised such a ruckus that they would have denied us even stepping foot on their island of desolation. But to my detriment, they permitted us.

We moved to the island of nothingness, in the middle of the Atlantic and some North Sea, and my parents said, "Well, this is home."

Could one call it home? The tiny Croft house had two rooms on the main level, none being an actual kitchen. Built above the pathetic rooms, I slept with my parents. I, a fresh new teen boy forced to room with his parents.

The house did not have electricity, running water, or even indoor plumbing.

Oh yeah, and no television.

My life ended right then and there. To make things worse, I had two options. I could live in a hostel on a neighboring island during the week and attend school or be homeschooled. I probably should have chosen school off the island. At least I might have had some semblance of a life. But the fear of my peers' strange accents and mannerisms kept me homeschooled since they didn't act like Americans.

On Papa Westray, life not only slowed down, it practically halted. The only thing that broke up the monotony of Croft life was when we went shopping, which involved a steamer, two ferry rides, and 100 miles of driving. Shopping days were long and exhausting, but that felt good compared to the sedentary nothingness my life had become.

When Dad wasn't away earning a living by fishing, I helped him repair the croft house and bring in plumbing and electricity. It took us five years to complete, just months before my eighteenth birthday.

"I'm out of here," I said the day I turned eighteen. "And I will never return. Ever. If you want to visit me, then you will have to come to America."

I kept true to my promise and didn't return to Papa Westray, but when I held the notice of Dad's death, I wished I had. My son Jordan never knew his grandparents on my side, with Mom dying two years earlier. Could my parents have changed Jordan's path from a sour teen who ran around with gangs?

I held Jordan's grades next to the mound of Dad's papers. I was losing my son and didn't know what to do. But, when I had to pick up Jordan from the Juvenile Justice Center on criminal charges, the answer flowed into me with pure clarity, as if the guru had infused it into me.

And like that, I ripped Jordan away from our zig zag of slums and away from everything he knew, moving him to the remotest place imaginable.

"You gotta be kidding me," Jordan said as we drove through the glen on Papa Westray. I gently put my hand on his knee to comfort him, but he winced at my touch and scooted as close to the passenger window as possible.

Dozens of thunderous wings flapped in varying rhythms above our heads. I pulled over, and Jordan followed me out of the car as I pointed to the sky. "This island is known for its variety of birds."

Jordan stared at me from a face suspended in hate, as solid as a granite statue. I put my arm around him as the crisp air burned our lungs, and I pointed to the sky bathed in tangerine and blood red-orange. "Kind of looks like a slushy. Don't get that in the city."

"Actually, you can find a slushy stand on every corner. No one will ever put a slushy stand in this stupid place." The wind ripped through our clothes, snapping fabric against our knees and faces. "I bet you there isn't even a Starbucks here." Jordan dashed back into the car, and I followed, the heat welcoming us into the tiny, safe place of American metal.

I put the key in the ignition as Jordan picked at a cuticle. Life purred in the engine of the car. When I lived there with my parents, we had a 1975 Dodge Sportsman wagon that could carry virtually anything. Whenever we went shopping, we tried to quietly leave the island because when the neighbors found out we were going, they insisted we shop for them as well. That van was a tank compared to my Chevrolet Volt. Now, no one could insist that Jordan and I shop for them. We would barely have room for our own groceries. Perhaps, since I was here last, someone put in a Walmart?

"This can't be home. There is nothing here," Jordan said, staring at the Tuscany grass.

"Can we please just pick up your dad's crap and go home?" His voice had taken on child-like tones, him ditching his gangster slang.

"Nope, this is home," I said. The island hadn't changed significantly in my absence. My neck and shoulder muscles tensed like someone had set them in cement. Jordan didn't realize I didn't want to be there either, but I had to return. It was imperative.

It was the only way to save Jordan.

We pulled into a dirt lot at the top of our croft. The skeletal Dodge Sportsman rusted into the ground. My skin tingled at seeing that dumpy old ride. We still had a little over half a mile to walk to the house.

Oh, that walk, the dread of it flooded back into me as the gravel crunched under my feet. A shadow vaped from the ground like oppressed memories seeping out of the gyros of my brain. Jordan stayed in the car, refusing to join me in his inevitable prison sentence.

The house looked smaller outside than I had remembered. It didn't surprise me when the door pushed open. The doorknob still lacked a lock. I flipped the switch, expecting to find the electricity cut off, but the overhead fixture buzzed to life as if trapped three angry hornets inside. A sick yellow light cut through the dense darkness and painted shadows of my past around the house.

"Well, will you look at that," I said. Dad had added a room to the Croft house. I found the modern kitchen equally surprising. It must have been a gift for Mom. I held back the tears as resentment and anger flooded my soul, my emotional dam bursting wide open.

"No way, no way, no way," Jordan walked into the croft, threw his arms in the air, and circled like mad Pete, who constantly paced the corners of VanBuren and 4200 S., slinging curse words at everyone who walked by. "I will not live here. I will run away if I have to. I refuse. What, is this a house stuck in the 1800s?"

"Believe it or not, it is pretty modern. You should have seen it when we first moved here." As if on cue, the wind rattled the windows and rushed through the house with the noise of a ravenous raccoon stuck in a chimney.

"As if." Jordan put his weight on his back leg, folded his arms across his chest, and gave me that death stare he had perfected in his gang. That was all I needed to remind me that I was doing the right thing.

I pointed to the corner of the room. "And look, there is even a TV."

And once again, my life drastically slowed down, but this time, I allowed it as I watched the serenity and magic of the island soften Jordan and chase the criminal out of him.

"This place is worse than Hell. It never gets warm in this house, with that damp air soaking into my soul. As soon as I am eighteen, I will do just what you did. I am out of here," Jordan reminded me almost daily. "And I will never return." He got in my face and lowered his voice, "Even if you die, I will sell your house and not return."

When Jordan turns eighteen, I do not know what I will do. Will I join him in America? Will I stay on Papa Westray? All I know is one person's Hell is another's paradise, and Papa Westray has become my paradise.