Pascal's Wager

Pascal's Wager Read Online Free PDF Page A

Book: Pascal's Wager Read Online Free PDF
Author: Nancy Rue
Tags: Religión, Fiction, Contemporary Women, Religious, Inspirational, Christian Life
moment to interpret. “No, no, I just wanted to set up a lunch date with you.”
    â€œI have lunch plans today.”
    â€œSo how about tomorrow?”
    â€œI’m leaving for a conference. I’ll be gone until Monday.”
    â€œSo Monday then,” I said. “Noon?”
    â€œIt takes me a day to get out from under the work that pliles—piles—up while I’m away—”
    â€œOkay, Tuesday. Next Tuesday.”
    There was another pause. I thought she was considering hanging up on me.
    â€œWhat is this about, Jill?” she said finally. “You’re not usually this ang-shush to spend time with me. “
    Ordinarily by that point in such a conversation with my mother, I would have said, “And I’m not now either. Call me when you’ve got a minute, okay?” But “crawl” instead of “call”? “Ang-shush” instead of “anxious”? I had to get her to lunch—and I’d probably need a delegation from Alcoholics Anonymous with me.
    â€œI just need to talk to you,” I said.
    â€œAre you out of money?” she said.
    â€œNo,” I said. The hair on the back of my neck was starting to bristle. She wasn’t too drunk to get my hackles up.
    â€œYou’re not going to finish your dishertation in time, and you want me to intercede for you for more funding.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “It isn’t about me, Mother. It’s about you.”
    â€œWhat about me?”
    â€œI’ll tell you when I see you. Next Tuesday, noon. I’ll meet you at Marie Callendar’s.”
    Then I was the one who hung up on her. “You owe me, Max,” I said.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” a husky voice muttered from the doorway.
    I looked up to see a tall, skinny girl peering in with apologetic gray eyes. It was Tabitha Lane, a freshman in my Math 19 class, the one who always reminded me of an adolescent giraffe. I’d totally forgotten she was coming by this morning.
    â€œSorry about what?” I said. “Come in.”
    â€œI thought I heard you talking to somebody,” she said. “I can come back later if this isn’t a good time.”
    â€œIt’s fine,” I said. I turned around and cleared off a seat on the straight-backed wooden chair next to my desk. Then I had to find the matchbook I always put under one leg so it wouldn’t rock and drive me nuts. Most of the furniture in graduate student offices, at least in the Alfred P. Sloan Mathematics Center, looked like it had been salvaged from the Stanford attic. I kept talking as I hunted under the desk for the matchbook. “You’ve got an appointment. I was just on the phone.”
    â€œI thought maybe you were talking to that guy you share your office with.”
    â€œAlan Jacoboni?” I said. “He never comes in until at least noon, the slacker. You know, you’d think with the amount of tuition people pay to go to this school, they could afford a chair that doesn’t require—”
    I stopped in mid-sentence at the sound of wheels rollingacross the office floor. Tabitha was entering on roller blades.
    â€œWhat the heck?” I said, looking up at her.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry!” Her face went pale under the spattering of freckles that covered her nose and cheeks like carelessly thrown confetti. “Do you want me to take them off? Are they too noisy? I can take them off—”
    â€œNo,” I said, still staring. “You can wear them in here. The question is, why?”
    â€œIt’s so much easier to get around campus with these,” Tabitha said. “I was ending up late to, like, every one of my classes, and they frown on that around here and so then I saw this girl in my dorm putting them on and I go, what are you doing, and she goes, they’re totally the best, so I asked my mother to send me mine and of course it took, oh, maybe three weeks for me to get
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