The Stolen Gospels by Brian Herbert Read Free Book Online Page B

Su-Su Florida made a pathetic, thinly veiled sales pitch for her high-earth orbital excursion agency, and another woman said she was a family counselor.
    When Lori’s turn came, last among the visitors, she announced in a firm voice, “I’m a hopeless cigarette junkie.”
    “Lori!” her mother whispered, as embarrassment reddened her face.
    Then Lori proceeded to light a cigarette, fending off her mother as she did so.
    All around the circle, the women glared at the rebellious teenager and whispered to each other. Even the blind woman seemed to be looking at her disapprovingly, with eerie white, sightless eyes.
    “Lori, give me that cigarette!” her mother insisted, in full voice.
    With a slight smile, Dixie Lou picked up the statuette and approached the errant girl. She knelt down, face-to-face with Lori. The teenager blew a puff of pink, scented smoke in the woman’s face, as her mother groaned in displeasure.
    “I’m sorry she’s being like this,” Camilla said. “Perhaps we should leave. She didn’t want to come tonight. I’ve been having trouble with her.”
    “What brand of cigarette is that?” Dixie Lou inquired of Lori, in the calmest of tones.
    “Pink Paradise.”
    “I’ve told her a thousand times not to smoke,” Camilla said. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do with this girl.”
    “Regular or light?” Dixie Lou asked, still focused on Lori.
    With a perplexed expression, the girl replied, “Regular.”
    “My favorite. May I have a drag?”
    Before Lori could reply, the woman had the cigarette in her hand and was inhaling deeply from it.
    “But let’s do this afterward, okay?” Dixie Lou said. She dropped the cigarette into a flower vase, where it fizzled out in water. “We’ll smoke and have a nice little chat, OK, Lori? So you’re a hopeless addict, eh?”
    “Yeah. I’d have my lips sewn onto a giant cigarette if I could.”
    “You’re awful, Lori,” her mother said. “You used to be such a nice girl. Always respectful and a good student. I don’t know what’s come over you.”
    “You do have quite an imagination,” Dixie Lou Jackson said to the girl. “Maybe it’ll make you famous someday.”
    Lori considered lighting a second cigarette, but resisted the urge. Instead she took a deep breath and stared back into the woman’s dark brown, impenetrable eyes, a gaze that bored into her.
    “A most interesting young woman,” Dixie Lou observed, at long last. “An old soul, I suspect, despite the clever subterfuge she’s putting on for us.”
    Lori squirmed. She felt warm, uncomfortable, didn’t like this woman for some reason, and it had nothing to do with the fact that she was black. Lori knew a lot of street people, of many races, and made no superficial judgments about them—not based upon skin color or any other aspect of their appearance.
    An old soul? Maybe she’s right. And maybe I don’t like the way she looks too closely at me.
    Dixie Lou’s cimmerian eyes glistened. “We’re here this evening to discuss women’s issues, Lori. And it’s about time, too. For thousands of years people have been talking too much about men’s issues, and the world has suffered for it. Have you ever noticed that most women are less violent than men, less aggressive, less destructive? Women are even better drivers, so they get lower insurance rates.”
    Lori didn’t respond. What kind of weird talk is this ? she thought.
    Dixie Lou continued: “If we’re so much better than men, why do you suppose we haven’t been more important throughout history?”
    Lori shrugged. She felt perspiration on her upper lip, wiped the moisture off.
    “Because men are physically stronger,” Camilla suggested. “Because they—bully us, dominate us.”
    “Precisely,” Dixie Lou said, “because we’ve been pushed, slugged, slapped, stabbed, beaten, raped, and shot for thousands of years. But I’m here to tell you we won’t be treated that way anymore.”
    Lori didn’t