Free Bethel's Meadow by Gregory Shultz Page B

about my midsection. Then Samantha walked in. In tight blue shorts and a revealing tank top (sans brassiere), she looked so tempting I nearly dropped that bed sheet.
    “Good morning there, Plain Old Smith.” She gave me a quick kiss. “I see you’ve met my son. He got the first feeding. Are you up for some grub?”
    The boy said, “Again, it was nice to meet you,” and then he left the room without saying anything to his mother. I didn’t sense a good vibe between them or any semblance of warmth.
    Samantha pointed to the couch. “There are your clothes.” My jeans, Polo shirt, and boxers were neatly folded. “You slept through three complete wash cycles,” she said. “You’ll find that from now on, without benefit of the meds, you will only fall to sleep once you have reached the point of complete physical exhaustion.” She sounded like Dr. Fleming instead of my newfound lover. “Now get dressed and get your ass in the kitchen before your breakfast gets cold.” There, that was better.
    It was another fine meal from a very fine cook. The coffee was the best ever. I normally didn’t drink coffee, but if I could somehow obtain this blend of Cuban bean through Samantha’s source, I decided I would take up a new habit. The biscuits and sausage gravy hit the spot. All I needed now to feel human again was a shower and a shave.
    During breakfast I couldn’t keep my eyes off Samantha, who sat opposite me while reading the Sunday paper. I also couldn’t help but maintain a constant smile. She truly was a beautiful woman. Her somewhat harsh demeanor and brutal honesty didn’t detract from her looks. As Caitlin would have said, the woman “gave good bitch.”
    After my last swig of coffee I tapped on the table.
    “More coffee, Mr. Smith?” she asked as she stood to render service. I motioned her to sit back down. She did.
    “First,” I said, “thank you for breakfast.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    “Second, I’d like to answer your question from last night. You were asking if I was suicidal.”
    She gave me that serious look of hers again. But it was more than just the doctor being in. Samantha really wanted to hear what I had to say. Because I now knew her husband had committed suicide himself, I hoped my answer would bring her some measure of comfort.
    And so I offered her this: “I have a fear of God. There are just some things I would never contemplate. I’m not a hundred percent certain that God exists, mind you, but if He does exist, I want to have my ass covered when Judgment Day arrives. Specifically, I have this fear that God would send me back to the planet and make me live another life as a lower life form. I would have to prove myself as an amoeba and work my way back up through the ranks: through being a worm, a squirrel, a magpie, a sloth, a dog, a gorilla, back again to being a human, where we all ultimately have to prove ourselves. I believe we have to convince the Big Man that we can gut it out, all the way from amoeba to human. Only then do we gain passage to His Kingdom. So I’ve come this far. Ain’t no way I’m starting all this shit over again.”
    “So you have a fear of reincarnation,” she said. “That’s not uncommon, but I’ve never heard anyone put it quite the way you just did. So you don’t believe there is a hell?”
    “We’re in hell already,” I said. Samantha laughed, but I wasn’t joking. “No, really, it is in hell where we have to make the grade. We have to defeat the evil forces on this planet before we can collectively ascend into Heaven. It is in how we treat each other that we are judged, both in our personal relationships and between communities and nations. It kind of goes without saying that right now we aren’t doing too well by any measure.”
    Samantha turned serious again, steepling her hands as she asked, “But what would you do if you were really tested? What would you do if you sank into a deep fit of depression? What if you were out of money