WILLIAM’S HELL

I just went through Hell. A couple of month’s worth. An unscrupulous acquaintance deceived Ed and me and then threatened us with legal actions. He was dishonest enough that I had no idea what he might do next. I don’t remember ever being that scared for that length of time. We sought legal help ourselves, and then waited way too long to hear back from an attorney.

When the lawyer finally called, I was practically panting for some understanding and direction. As I listened to him, my mouth fell open. My would-be savior had confused us with some other client and had no idea what we were dealing with. My whole body pulsed with fear, then went numb.

“We can’t let this ridiculous mess take our peace,” I’d told Ed over and over, but when I felt help was gone, I couldn’t stop obsessing about the future, imagining catastrophes, fantasizing revenge. As I tried to keep myself from imploding, I thought of our seven year old grandnephew, William.

When William was four, he found and paged through his grandmother’s book of art reproductions of angels. None of the family grownups knew that the book with cherubs on the first few pages included Dieric Bouts (c. 1415-1475) The Fall of the Damned. It’s a disturbing, Hellish painting, one that would easily make an adult cringe. William ran to Maga, horrified by the image of a demon dropping a naked man upside down into into a fiery, raging Hades.

Maga tried to explain Hell to William, quite a feat when dealing with a four year old. At one point, William said, “Who is helping him? Who is helping the man?”

“No one,” Maga said. “He’s alone.”

William looked at Maga in a way she said was “totally bereft and incredulous. As though he could not imagine such a condition.”

“So, Hell,” big-eyed William said, “is when there’s no help.”

No help. From the mouths of—you know. William’s open, searching mind and his little boy tenderness
nailed it. Hell is the place where no one comes to your aid. Where your cries are not heeded. Where you’re never rescued, ever. My hardest times have been when I was helpless, and this trauma dredged up those other times and turned me into a sometimes furious, sometimes quivering mess.

When Ed and I finally did get good, solid legal help, over the course of a month or so, our shoulders dropped several inches. We slept. We had moments of normal, and we loved them. Our situation not only resolved, it gave us reason to celebrate. The big bad witch is dead. Hallelujah.

I still tear up sometimes, when I think about how helpless I felt during the ordeal, though the awful events have become just a story now, one we tell family and close friends.

And my resolve to come to the aid of people when they’re in dire straits was strengthened. Hell is when there’s no help. Let’s help each other.

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