Goddess Sophia Calling
Goddess Sophia Calling, by Paul Lewellan
‘[E]ach person recognizes [Her]
in his own way, not all alike.’—Theodotus
October 10th, 6:35 pm, just as contestants were solving the opening puzzle on Wheel of Fortune, She called my cell phone. ‘Yes?’
‘Hello, Mack! This is your Divine Being speaking.’ The voice was inviting. Upbeat. Effervescent.
I wasn’t in the mood. I hung up. Obviously a sales pitch or a scam. I checked the call log. The number: 000-000-0000. The name: Goddess Sophia. WTF.
Two days later, the same name and number. This time I was ready. ‘Who is this?’
‘This is your Divine Being speaking,’ She said firmly and confidently.
‘Do I know you?’
‘Obviously not.’ She hung up.
My Saturday night date was with Dr Celeste Lewis, the new Assistant Superintendent of Schools (freshly minted PhD, early-fifties, divorce decree still drying). It did not go well. My reputation had preceded me. Once her curiosity was satisfied, I’d been sent home early, drunk, and alone. I’d just poured a generous tumbler of twenty-one-year-old Glenfiddich single-malt when the call came.
‘This is Mack. I’m listening.’
‘This is Goddess Sophia.’ Her voice sounded different. Sexy. Almost slutty.
‘You sound divine.’
‘We need to talk.’
‘Talking wasn’t my plan for tonight.’
‘And how did that work out?’ Her tone changed. ‘Let’s talk when you’re sober.’ She hung up.
When She called four days later, I feigned contrition, not a state of being I’m comfortable with. ‘It’s Mack. I’m listening.’
‘You’d better be.’ The voice was Mother’s. ‘This is your Divine Being speaking.’
I knew it wasn’t Mom; she wasn’t buried with her cell phone. ‘Divine Being…?’
‘Goddess Sophia, Universal Life Force, Holy Spirit, Earth Mother….’
‘Right. And I’m George Clooney.’ I hung up.
I searched online for Goddess Sophia. I found five porn sites under that name. Goddess Sophia also appeared in Gnostic writings and in religious commentary by Pagels and others. Tempting as the porn sites were, I didn’t want to go down that road again.
I pressed redial.
‘This is your Divine Being Speaking. Are you ready to talk about your anger?’
Good question. ‘No.’ We hung up simultaneously.
She was right, of course. I was angry. Had been for almost two years. So what?
I turned off my phone, grabbed a bottle of Writer’s Tears, and turned on The Learning Channel. I binge watched a Winky Dink retrospective.
As chief legal counsel for the school district, I attend all board meetings. Monday night’s was more contentious than most. Chairing the session, Assistant Superintendent Lewis had been solicitous to parents without giving an inch. I’d brushed aside their threats of legal action, implying counter suits, the high cost of litigation, and danger to their community reputation if their complaints came across as mean-spirited, hate-inspired, racist, or libellous.
After the meeting, Celeste suggested a drink at Starbucks, choosing wisely to avoid any venues that served alcohol. ‘I’m glad you’re on our side,’ she told me.
Over decaf skinny lattes, I discovered she was also a Winky Dink fan. I proposed dinner Friday night. ‘Give me a second chance.’
I was in my office Friday afternoon when my Divine Being called again. ‘Goddess Sophia?’
‘Shut up and listen.’ It was the voice of my second ex-wife. Brenda was still managing a restaurant in Ghent, indulging in Belgium chocolates and Trappist ales, and gloating over the day she used our Eurorail passes to run off to Greece with the tall blonde salesman from the Diamond Exchange. This couldn’t be Brenda. It had to be God.
She corrected me. ‘I don’t use the word, “God,” anymore.’
‘You used it a week ago when you called me.’
‘Who keeps track of these things?’ She said, ‘Divine Being captures my essence.’
‘Fine. What do you want?’
‘That’s crass, isn’t it? No pleasantries. No “How do you do?” No “I feel honoured you’ve selected me.” No “How’s the weather up there?”’
‘I don’t have time for this crap. The curriculum committee wants to meet at 4:00. Parents are up in arms about Huck Finn again. And I have a dinner date at 7:00.’
‘This is your Divine Being speaking. You know that?’
‘I believe you.’
‘And you’re telling Me this isn’t a good time?’
‘That is correct.’ I heard a pop. My iPhone began smoking. The curriculum meeting went long. Celeste left a note with the maître d’hôtel that something had come up. Fortunately I’d set the DVR to record the premier episode of NCIS Des Moines. I ordered a pizza, and on Saturday I went to the Apple Store for a new phone.
When the number came up again Tuesday night, I took three deep breathes before answering. ‘This is Mack.’
‘We need to talk.’ She spoke in the voice of Charlotte, my beloved third wife who’d died in a plane crash nineteen months ago.
‘I’m listening.’ I put the phone on speaker and uncorked a bottle of Delirium Tremens. I poured it into a long-stemmed tulip glass and settled into the La-Z-Boy. I tried to make my voice sound casual. ‘What would you like to talk about?’
‘You’ve cut yourself off from me.’
‘That is a little hard to do, isn’t it? You are omnipresent.’
‘You used to invite me into your thoughts. Lately you’ve shut me out.’
‘That was before you allowed Charlotte to die.’
‘Mack, it doesn’t work that way–’ We’d talked about this, but it was a long time ago. ‘I’d like to feel welcome again.’
‘You sound like a jealous wife.’
‘You know I am a jealous God. You know the chapter and verse.’
‘Exodus 20, verse 5.’
‘And you know the context?’
‘The Israelites were worshipping graven images. You thought that was bad idea.’
‘Exactly!’ She said it as though that clarified everything. ‘Your friends are worried about you.’
‘I’m doing all right.’
‘Have you looked at your office lately? Have you taken a good whiff of the trash? Could Sunny’s litter box get any more soiled? There’s mould in the shower tile grout.’ She had a point on the garbage. ‘It wouldn’t hurt to get a haircut.’
‘Look, while we’re registering complaints, I’ve got one. My knees. You issued me a defective pair.’
‘Maybe you don’t get down on them often enough?’ She had a point. ‘Before Charlotte’s death we talked all the time. Now you binge watch Blue Bloods, close me out of your thoughts, and consort with harlots.’
‘Harlots?’ Images of my last seven dates flashed before my eyes. ‘The new Assistant Superintendent isn’t a harlot.’
‘But you treated her like one on your first date.’ She said with an air of triumph.
‘Are we having a lover’s quarrel?’
‘It isn’t our first.’ She said it with a certain smug omniscient satisfaction. ‘It won’t be our last.’
‘So, let’s talk.’
‘Not on the phone. Let’s meet somewhere.’
‘How about the Mad Hatter?’
‘Fine.’ It was a brew pub in a sketchy part of town, walking distance from my riverfront condo. I went there for the craft beer and the classic blues tracks on the jukebox. It was not a place I took dates. ‘Give me an hour. I just opened a fresh beer and want to do it justice.’
She laughed. Laughed! At me…. ‘Trying to control the narrative. Wanting to set the terms. Life doesn’t work that way….’ Before I could reply she added, ‘Tomorrow night. 8:00. Shower. Come sober. Check your attitude at the door. Don’t flirt with the wait staff.’
‘But what about tonight?’
‘I thought I made that clear. You need to clean your condo and make it ready for company. Just in case….’
‘In case of what?’
‘Don’t play dumb. I’m a Goddess, not a nun.’
I cleaned the apartment. The next day I went to Steve’s Barber Shop in Rock Island and got a $10 haircut, left a $3 tip. At 7:57 p.m. I walked into the Mad Hatter in clean Levi’s, a pale blue oxford shirt, and a Green Bay Packers ballcap. She was sitting at the bar wearing Torrid jeans and an Aaron Rodgers jersey.
‘Dr. Lewis?’
‘Please call me Celeste. Should we get a table?’
Paul Lewellan lives and gardens on the banks of the Mississippi River in Davenport, Iowa, USA. His muse is his wife of forty years Pamela, aided by their seventeen-year-old Shih Tzu and their ginger tabby. He has retired after five decades of teaching and so has a lot more time to write. Although he doesn’t believe life begins at 70, it does get more interesting.
