Revelations (20 page)

“As you wish.” Not being the kind to take a subtle hint, he bends over me, his lips close to my ear, as he continues relentlessly, “Tell me something, does he have a very huge cock? Did it hurt at first when he fucked you with it? I assumed you bottomed for him, that’s the only thing that makes sense, you being a virgin and all.”

My hands ball themselves into fists but I keep them at my side. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him do this to me. I refuse, I refuse, I refuse!

“Begone,” I look him straight in the eye, without pretense that what may pass between us is anything but a business arrangement. Nothing more or less. All I want to do right now is sleep. That’s all.

He has other ideas, grabbing me as if I were even up for grabs, his lips hard and firm against my own—such a far cry from those of my sweet Jude. I push him away, spitting the taste of him from my lips. He only laughs. “I knew this time would be fun.” He chuckles. “You two…are priceless…” And without another word, he’s gone. And I’m left to the solitude of this jail cell, and my very turbulent thoughts, for the remainder of the night.

I didn’t want to leave him. I had no intention of ever leaving him. But he has ways of making me do what he wants me to. And I’m too weak to do anything else. He has the ability to make me so with a single word, with one touch of his gentle hand or his beautiful lips. I would do anything for him. Even this, hard as it is. What makes it even slightly bearable is that he wants me to come back tomorrow morning, as early as possible. Of course I agreed, for his sake. I’ll do whatever I have to do in order to be with him. Even if I have to walk back there to get be by his side, I don’t care. Not that I have reason to think I can’t use the Humvee, or that Mary M won’t be wanting to come back too. I’m sure she will.

And Mary, of course. At least the day after tomorrow this agony will be over with, bail will be arranged at last—damn this little hick town anyway—and I’ll have him back with me. Back where he belongs.

So, why do I feel this cold chill that runs up and down my spine when I think about it? As if I’m half afraid it’s not going to happen, that he isn’t coming back?

I’ve no reason to think that way, and yet I can’t rid myself of the nagging feeling in the back of my mind something is going horribly wrong. I suppose it’s because nothing is on schedule any more. Nothing is the way it should be, or as it was written. So why should this be the exception to the new rule? Just because I want it to be so? Don’t make me laugh.

The walk from the jail to the car feels as though it lasts forever, even though the distance hasn’t changed in any way from when I first walked in. Threading between the prejudiced protesters that litter our path, I almost run into one of them, stopping just short of a collision. An automatic apology springs to my lips even as I recognize him. The man who put the blame on “us homos” for his son’s sexual orientation. That guy. Something in me snaps.

“You say your son’s gay, and it’s our fault, is it?” My index finger finds a home against his chest, jabbing at it. “Ask yourself this, Mr. Concerned Father.

When’s the last time you sat down and actually talked to your son? Asked him how he’s doing, how he feels, what’s happening in his life? Saw him as your son, not a statistic? Another homosexual? You say he gets in trouble? Maybe he’s just acting out, trying to get your attention. Think about that, why don’t you, before putting the blame on someone else. Look in the mirror!”

I probably have more to say, but Mary M—no doubt wisely—grabs one arm, even as Mother Mary lays her hand more gently upon the other. My desire to fight drains from me. I allow them to pull me toward the car without another word.

Mary M insists on making a couple of stops on the way back to our encampment. She also insists I come inside with her to schlep packages. Maybe she’s afraid that if she leaves me alone, I’ll run back to him, given the opportunity.

Maybe I would, left to my own devices, but I’ve given him my word, and I won’t break that. She buys the boys an assortment of beer and liquor, against my advice.

I roll my eyes, but she just laughs and tells me to lighten up, the Master wouldn’t want them to be sad, but to enjoy life. I hold my tongue for once. I’ve no intention of getting liquored myself. I want a clear head in the morning. Let those idiots do as they like. She buys them fried chicken from a fast food establishment, and has the young men behind the counter’s tongues literally hanging out of their mouths as they fall all over themselves for the opportunity to wait on her. As far as they’re concerned I don’t exist, which suits me just fine. I swear she undid the top buttons on her blouse on purpose, just to give them something to drool over. She calls it giving them wet dream material. Whatever.

The other apostles crowd around the Humvee upon our return, making utter asses of themselves over her, and the buckets of chicken she brings. She begs them prettily to help her unload the vehicle and like lapdogs they obey, ignoring me in the process, for which I’m actually grateful. This is my chance to slip away, leave them to their own devices so I can be alone with my own thoughts and company.

But just as I’m about to make my escape, his mother Mary takes my arm and requests that I escort her to supper. How can I possibly refuse? I cannot, which naturally she realizes. She has a decidedly unfair advantage over me, but what can I do?

The long table which we use for our meals has been readied, I see, and the lot of them are already seated there, laughing and joking amongst themselves as they fill their plates, already having delved into the liquor she’s brought them, the lushes. Thomas smiles at me, gives me a small wave. He rises, as if he’s going to join me, but they pull him back down again. He blushes, but what can he do? The others rib him about his bad taste, meaning me, and he laughingly tells them to knock it off. He’s a good boy, he means well. He’s served me well, and I do appreciate that. More than that, he’s been my friend, the only friend I have besides Jesus.

I seat myself beside Mary, albeit reluctantly. Of course they all home in on her with delight—they adore her so very much, and she doesn’t fail, even now, to return their light banter with ease. She makes everyone around her feel good about themselves and one another. Even me. Surprising, isn’t it? It is to me, especially at a time like this, when I’m sure she’s upset over what’s happening to her beloved son. There’s no doubt she’s the finest woman I’ve ever known.

On the other hand, the others amaze me with their seeming indifference to what’s going on. I’m trying to quell my growing irritation with them. They sit here, eating and drinking and chattering as if it were any normal day, as if we don’t have this life and death situation going on around us, as if this isn’t the end again, and as if we aren’t about to lose Jesus again, too fucking soon. I know they love him, and I also know they don’t give a rat’s ass what happens to me. I don’t care about that.

I just wish they would focus on Jesus, instead of on getting drunk.

Taking advantage of their disinterest in me, I turn to Mary. Having no desire to eat, I have simply been sitting here among them, my fingers shredding a mutant buttered biscuit. And yes, I’m brooding, I admit it. “Mary.” I lower my voice for her ear alone for there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask her. “You said something about…Jesus and me…earlier…how did you know? About us, I mean?

Is there something you aren’t telling me? Something important?” My eyes plead with her for her candor, which is more important to me now than ever.

She smiles at me serenely; nothing ever ruffles that woman. “How did I know you’ve been in love with my son for a very long time? I have eyes, Judas, and I can see.” She pats my arm gently. “And I know he loves you as well. Even if it took him longer to figure it out.”

Her words bring nothing but joy to my heart, and yet they don’t exactly answer my question either. The one about what does she know? I find that ominous. “I’d never hurt him, I only want him to live a real life, to be happy, to—” She stops my words, placing one of her fingers against my lips as if to stem them. “What will be, will be, Judas. Everything in its time.” And then she turns to whoever’s sitting on her other side, and I know she won’t tell me anymore, no matter how much I ask, so I don’t even try.

Maybe Mary subscribes to the
que sera sera
theory of life, but Judas Iscariot believes in taking the bull by the horns and ramming them down someone’s throat to get what he wants. And what he wants is for Jesus to live. End of story.

It’s time we got their heads out of the booze and began to work together. I clear my throat, in order to gain their attention. It doesn’t work, naturally, but at a single glance from Mary M, they at least stop talking. That’s a start. Even if it leads nowhere.

“Look, “I begin. “We have to prepare. Jesus will be back with us the day after tomorrow, we have to get back on track—”

Jeers of laughter interrupt my words. Snickers. “We know that. Tell us something we don’t know.” Words of similar ilk.

I restrain my temper, with difficulty, determined to say what I have to say. “In the meantime, we have to make sure our behavior is circumspect. We can’t give them any reason—”

Another interruption. “Look who’s talking! It’s your fault he’s been taken away from us already, betrayer!”

I flinch involuntarily at the harsh words; they only serve to echo my own private recriminations—that I’ve brought this about, whether intentionally or not. I try to move on, knowing this won’t do any good, ignoring the personal attack.

“So, seeing as I’m in charge during Jesus’ absence—” I can get no further as they all begin to howl, banging their cups and bottles on the table, some laughing, others simply angry. No one listens, at least not to me. Should I really be surprised?

“Shut up, Iscariot.” “Asshole!” “Your fucking fault!” The insults fly about me, and I dig my nails into my palms, my fists clenched so tightly I fear I may draw blood. It doesn’t help.

Peter’s voice makes itself heard above the rest, the thickhead. “ —your fault Jesus is in trouble, you shouldn’t have touched him like that, it isn’t right. You should die in his place!”

Thomas stands beside me now, protectively, a bottle in his hand. He offers it to me, encourages me to drink. “Don’t listen to them,” he whispers, his hand enfolding one of mine for a moment. I know he’s simply trying to help; it’s not his fault this situation is beyond his ability to repair. “I know it’s not your fault, what happened, I know you love him.”

I return the pressure of his hand briefly, rejecting the offer of the beer or whatever it might be. He’s very sweet to even care, but I’m done here. Done wasting my time and my breath. Damn them all to hell anyway. I pull away from him, trying not to be too brusque. I push aside the bottle and shake my head. He sighs, but he makes no move to stop me. I rise from the table, my intention being to leave peacefully. At least that’s the idea. Suddenly Thomas pulls sharply on my arm, as if to move me out of harm’s way. “Don’t do that,” I hear him scream just as I feel something hit my head—a beer bottle, I think. It hits my temple with a dull thunk, falls to the table and shatters, scattering brew in its wake. This only produces more laughter as I put an uncertain hand to my head. What the fuck?

Bastards.

Someone else tosses a glass of something in my direction, forgetting who my dinner companion is. I shield her the best I can, taking most of the spray upon myself. The entire table’s in bedlam now. Thomas is yelling at them, they’re yelling back at him, and Mary M’s screaming for everyone to calm down.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up with this. Unperturbed, Mother Mary catches my arm, whispers words of wisdom. “Go on,” she urges me. “I’ll handle this. Please let it be, for now.” I jerk myself away from Thomas, away from the table, and away from everyone there. But of course I cannot resist getting in the last word, as I give them my most scornful look, my hair dripping with alcohol, my temple throbbing. “You don’t deserve him,” I say simply before I exit the tent. I need to get away from them, I need to think. I need to plan.

“Here, let me look at that.”

I turn to snap at whoever’s dared to follow me, but Mary M disregards my foul look, too busy examining my head in a clinical manner. She leads me to the Humvee and makes me sit in the passenger seat while she roots around among some things in the console between the seats, emerging with a first aid kit. How handy. I should be grateful she’s so well prepared. I certainly wasn’t, was I? What the hell did I expect from them, though? Seriously? I should have my head examined. I know, irony. I’m about to, just not in a psychiatric way.

“You got lucky, Judas. It didn’t break the skin, but it’s gonna swell. You’ll have a pretty good goose egg by morning,” she predicts, wiping at the area, pushing my wet hair out of the way. “Nothing I can really put on it, but I can give you something to take the edge off the pain.”

I shake my head. It doesn’t hurt at the moment, just throbs, not the same thing.

And right now I don’t want to lose that; it’ll keep me focused more clearly, if that makes any sense. “Not now,” I reply, and she doesn’t argue, putting everything away, and taking a seat behind the wheel.

For a few minutes, nothing is said. I collect my wits about me and prepare to simply walk away, but she lays a hand upon my arm. I give her a questioning look, saying nothing. “Judas, you know we haven’t exactly gotten along very well over the years…”

“That’s an understatement,” I mutter, which produces a chuckle from her.

“I admit I’ve called you a whole passel of names, most of them not very flattering. And you’ve done the same for me. No question about that.”

“No question,” I agree, wondering just where this true confession is going.