Shelby by Pete; McCormack Page B

crumpled onto the bed, tentatively excited and relatively certain I was most likely still uninfected. In fact I was so inspired I packed a knapsack full of essentials, drove west and spent the remainder of the day at Spanish Banks playing my acoustic guitar and reading the Bible. Exodus 22:18 was disconcerting: Do not allow a sorceress to live . What about one whose powers are waning? I asked myself. Eerily, at that moment a cold wind shot off the ocean, momentarily freezing me with terror.
    By evening and after having spent a day watching joggers running in pairs, lovers strolling arm in arm and parents pushing carriages, it was clear how few good friends I really had. Lucy? No. Gran? My best friend. Brother Derek? There when I’m in dire need, but hardly a chum in the true sense of the word. Eric? Willing yet unpredictable. Beyond that was Carl Tkachuk, a pornography-addicted pal I occasionally chatted with in high-school.
    The most interesting event over the next couple of weeks was a date I bravely initated with Suzanne, Eric’s friend I’d met but one time previously at the Aristocratic. On the phone, she didn’t even know who I was. Nonetheless, explanation ensued and sure enough we met for coffee at Bino’s that very night. It was just what I needed to rekindle belief in intimacy and its essential role in one’s journey. But enough about the mystical.
    Suzanne: Although somewhat reserved, she showed an extraordinary passion for her creative endeavours. Dressed all in black save a Guatemalan vest of oranges and reds, she said in her deliberate way, and I quote:
    â€œClay has moved me since the first time I heard that, ‘The Lord God formed man from the clay of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life.’ My God , what an image. And I, in my humble—humble from the greek humus , meaning earthy—way, am doing the same. The breath of life coming, of course, from those who are moved by my creations …”
    Watching her fully-ringed hands express such a testimony, my innards softened to the consistency of corned beef jelly. I was enthralled to hear a women quote scripture. Sensuality had returned to my senses. Was sex a sin? Who cares. Granted, there was no indication from Suzanne that we would soon tumble. Nonetheless, her grounded presence assured me of one thing: There was life after Lucy.
    Two days later, the first of July, I awoke with what appeared to be the flu; sore joints, runny nose, headache and nausea. My anxieties, however, had a different diagnosis. Twenty-two days had passed since I last saw Lucy and I was now more terrified than ever that her virus had booked a room in my bodily fluids. A phone call interrupted me in mid groan.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œShelby?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYou all right?”
    I leapt up. “Oh, hi, Dad. Yes, I’m fine—mildly clammy. How are you doing?”
    â€œGood and bad. Here’s the bad: Derek and Kristine are talking about breaking up.”
    â€œThey are?”
    â€œListen, I’ve got a couple of letters here from the university adressed to you. We could really use some good news.”
    â€œKristine and Derek are breaking up?”
    â€œAh damn, I can’t talk about that anymore! When are they going to learn marriage ain’t some summer vacation? More important, your marks are here.”
    Out oozed a nervous sweat.
    â€œDid you hear me, son?”
    â€œUm … yes.”
    â€œSo, should I open them.”
    â€œI … I’d rather you sent them to me.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s a very personal thing—being judged by peers.”
    â€œCome on, don’t keep us waiting. Oh, speakin’ o’ waitin’, Larry wants to know if you’re coming home. If not he wants to fill your position.”
    â€œ Position ? Dad, standing in a four-foot trough shovelling sludge is not a position. Tell him to hire a retarded