Shelby by Pete; McCormack Read Free Book Online Page B

… I was just … I’ve been reading about destiny. Hitler, actually,” I said, for some reason lying. “He said he felt he was destined to … to do what he did. So did Stalin.”
    She paused for a moment. “The way I see it anyone who really believes his fate is controlled by destiny—the man of destiny idea—has to be seriously screwed up: schizophrenia, dementia, megalomania, something. I mean it’s so grand iose. Would you like some tea?”
    â€œUh … no. No thank you.”
    â€œAnd Stalin ? What a shit-dick he was. Ginseng?”
    â€œUh … no … thank you.”
    â€œI’m going to have a cup. It helps my head.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, somewhat rattled by her sweeping generalisation and word choice in describing those who are destined. She left the room. On the coffee table were several books I’d never heard of: The Dancing Wu Li Masters, The Gospel According to Women, A Confederacy of Dunces, If You Find The Buddha On The Street, Kill Him , among others …
    Lucy came back with a cup of tea and our conversation moved along at a fine clip. The subject of destiny, though still on my mind, was not brought up again. Our discussion, revolving around poetry and mythology and sprinkled with psychic phenomena, eventually found its way to our own personal spiritualities. I told her about my somewhat strict Protestant upbringing and we joined in laughter over a few stories about Uncle Larry’s fanaticism.
    â€œI’m more into a Goddess thing,” she said.
    â€œWhat religion would that be?”
    â€œJust mine.”
    â€œYour own?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWell, I’m partial to Christianity.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWell … it has the theme all the way through it, eh? The seed they talk about in Genesis ends up being Christ. I like that. Plus the prophesies.”
    â€œHey,” she said grinning, “some of my favourite mystics are Christian. But please forgive me. It ain’t my bag. See, when I was a kid I had recurring dreams that I was a Goddess.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWeird, eh? I’ve even had a couple lately, too.”
    â€œWhat do you look like in them?”
    She laughed. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not like a Jesus Christ incarnate. It’s a feeling, a connection with the all, the earth, an internal sense of divinity, reliant on faith.”
    â€œSounds wonderful.”
    â€œYeah, kinda nice, eh? It just happens and I wake up very relaxed, all my fears up and gone and I lie their praising myself and my surroundings—as opposed to chanting that western female mantra: ‘Fuck I’m fat.’” Lucy laughed. “I can feed off it for a couple o’ days—no pun intended.” I smiled and glanced at her legs.
    â€œSpeaking of matriarchs,” I said, “I’ve got a ninety-three-year-old Grandmother who can make me feel that way.”
    â€œCool.”
    â€œSometimes I fear I rely on her too much. She truly seems to believe in me —regardless of my failures.”
    â€œNinety-three? I’ve got past lives younger than that.”
    â€œAnd she’s fat but she doesn’t care. Actually she’s more chubby than fat … and you’re not fat at all.” Minnie was fat.
    The afternoon rolled on.
    By the time it came time to leave, three hours had passed and I wanted to stay. Standing in the foyer, Lucy opened the door for me. Light from outside fell upon a poem that was framed and hanging just inside the hall.
    The valley spirit never dies;
    It is the woman, primal mother .
    Her gateway is the root of heaven and earth .
    It is like a veil barely seen .
    Use it; it will never fail .
    I felt a tingle at the back of my neck.
    â€œLao Tsu,” she said.
    â€œFrench?”
    â€œT-S-U,” she said, “Chinese.”
    â€œOh,” I said, “a haiku.” My knowledge surprised her; and