Martin Luther King and Coretta Scott King sit in the garden of their white, palatial estate just off Shalom Boulevard, east of the Elysian Fields.

Dressed casually, both are a picture of elegance. Martin serves Coretta tea while she reclines in a wicker-like deck chair soaking up the warmth of the eternal sun.

A cool breeze wafts through the garden, carrying with it the smell of millions of perfect magnolias and frangipani. Birds fly overhead, chirping with delight at the abundance of things they can do free of the fear of predators or hunger.

Martin sits beside his wife, sipping tea. He sighs with happiness. She smiles and turns to stare at glorious colors she has never imagined, dancing across the horizon as far as the eye can see.

"So, it's still possible for our folk to be late, even in heaven," Coretta said playfully.

"He'll be here in due time," Martin said suppressing a chuckle. "You remember what it was like when you made your own transition last year. How long did it take you to figure out that time doesn't have the same meaning here that it did back in Atlanta?"

"Oh, I'm just teasing you, ML," Coretta said reaching out her hand to clutch his.

"That's a good thing," Martin said grinning. "I'm glad I don't have to remind you how many times you forgot to meet me for our regularly scheduled New Wine tasting at Thomas Merton's place because you were down at the Imperium listening to Handel debut yet another oratorio."

"Touche," Coretta said, sipping her tea. Just then, a large cloud full of lightning and thunder appeared in the azure-colored sky. A set of golden steps poked through the dark cumulus. Within seconds, the golden stairs spanned the distance between the Kings and the cloud.

"See? I told you he'd be here in good time," Martin said.

A thundering blast of trumpets and saxophones playing in syncopated time suddenly dissolved the cloud. A figure appeared at the top of the stairs, swiveling his hips and dancing.

Within seconds James Brown descended the stairs with a shout: "I feel good, I knew that I would, now," he said accompanied by invisible horns that didn't miss a note. "I feel good, I knew that I would, now. So good, so good, I got you."

Now standing, Martin and Coretta applauded James Brown's entrance. The singer kissed Coretta on both cheeks before turning his attention to Martin Luther King, who opened his arms wide for a big embrace.

"Welcome to the Promised Land," Martin said. "It's been a long time, my friend."

James Brown fell into his arms the way a man in the desert embraces a pool of water after a three-day trek under the hot sun.

"I really feel very, very good now, Rev. King," the entertainer said, barely holding back his tears.

"My dear JB," Martin said. "Don't you know there's no need for honorifics in the kingdom of God? You don't have to call me Rev. King, or doctor this-or-that anymore. Those things have passed away."

James Brown continued to smile, but his voice betrayed a tinge of disappointment.

"That's all very nice, Rev. -- er, Martin, but I still get to call myself the Godfather of Soul under these new rules, right?" James Brown asked.

"There's only one godfather of souls now, and you aren't him," Martin said, hugging the entertainer to assure him that everything would be all right, despite his demotion in status.

"Well, if that's the way it's going to be, I guess I can roll with it," JB said. "How is my old friend Richard Nixon holding up now that nobody can call him Mr. President anymore?"

Martin and Coretta exchange embarrassed glances.

"Well, we haven't seen him to ask," Martin said. "This is a big place. Infinite, in fact. We don't know everybody."

"No problem. I bet Elvis knows where Nixon is hanging these days. I'll ask him," JB said.

"Sounds like a good idea," Martin said.

James Brown looked around the property. He was amazed by the deep, green color of the grass and the intoxicating smells of nature. Everything looked like it would on high-definition television magnified a million times.

"These are some nice houses, Martin. Who lives next door?"

"Mother Teresa lives in that house over there," Martin said pointing to a beautiful house shaped like a gleaming crucifix.

"Who do you have on the other side -- Gandhi?"

"Actually," Martin Luther King said smiling broadly, "Former Governor George Wallace lives there. He moved in a few years ago."

"Wallace? You don't mean the man who stood in the schoolhouse door of the University of Alabama barring the way to two black students?"

Martin shook his head.

"You have a problem with God's mercy?"

"Not at all. Man, this really is an integrated neighborhood," JB said. "Maybe a little too integrated if you ask me."

"James. We were both saddened and excited to hear you'd finally arrived. Our prayers are with your family, of course. It must have been a shock to lose you when you were still so vital and energetic," Coretta said.

"Indeed, your death is a terrible loss for the whole world," Martin said.

"Never mind me. Look at you two. You've hardly changed at all," JB said. "You both look the way you did in the 1960s."

"Actually, we've changed a whole lot, James," Martin said. "Your 'eyes' are still adjusting to heaven's celestial optics. After you've been here a while, you'll see us as we truly are in our new, glorified bodies."

"New bodies? Do I get one, too?" JB asked.

"You already have it, James. You just can't see it yet. Very soon you will, though," Martin said.

"Well, it couldn't come a moment too soon given all that's happened to me in the last month," JB said. Martin and Coretta looked at each other quizzically.

"Haven't you heard?" JB said. "My people are still fighting over my estate. Even though I died nearly a month ago on Christmas morning, my casket is still sitting in my living room on Beech Island, South Carolina. All I want them to do is put my body in the ground where it belongs. Is that too much to ask?"

Martin smiled. "Allow the dead to bury their own dead," he said. "The disposition of your body shouldn't concern you now. You already have your reward."

James Brown laughed. "See, that's easy for you to say, Martin. Your massive grave in Atlanta already attracts hundreds of thousands of tourists a year," he said. "Next year, the $100 million Martin Luther King National Memorial will open on Washington's National Mall. You're the first black person to ever receive that honor. I'd love to trade places with you, Doc, believe me."

The civil rights leader cleared his throat. "There's no better way to forget something than to commemorate it," he said.

"Man, that's deep," JB said.

Martin laughed. "Actually, that's a line I lifted from a movie called 'The History Boys.'"

"Really? They allow plagiarists in heaven, these days?"

Martin laughed. "Honestly, James. I'd rather they took the money they're spending on monuments in my honor and built monuments to education. We need schools full of committed teachers more than we need cultural vanity projects."

Suddenly, a golf ball sliced the air, coming within inches of the three friends, causing them to duck instinctively.

Someone yelled "fore" after the fact.

Martin, Coretta and JB looked up.

"It's Jerry Ford," JB said, pointing to President Gerald Ford flanked by Bob Hope and Sammy Davis Jr. All three were carrying their own golf bags.

"Mind if we play through?" Ford asked.

"Hey, Mr. President. I watched a little bit of your funeral from up here. It was kinda stiff, if you don't mind me saying so," JB said.

"Oh, don't mind that," Ford said. "It was just excessive dignity, that's all." Everyone laughed. Ford took another swing at the ball, hitting it out quite a distance.

"Well, at least they got your body in the ground pretty quickly. Wish I could say that," JB said.

"Hey, Jerry," a figure yelled from a distance. "Don't forget to yell 'fore' next time, OK? You almost beaned me."

"Who's that?" Martin asked. "I don't recognize his voice." Coretta shook her head and squinted, too.

A lone figure emerged from the back of George Wallace's estate. As he walked toward the group, his silhouette looked more familiar the closer he got. James Brown smiled.

"Hey, don't you recognize him? It's Richard Nixon. My main man!"

Nixon shuffled up to the group and smiled. He extended his hand to Martin Luther King first. "It's an honor, sir."

"The pleasure's mine," Martin said. Nixon looks at the smiling group. "Now tell the truth. You didn't think there was room in heaven for an old Quaker like me, did you? Any of you people got a problem with God's mercy?"