Revelations (17 page)

What was the book I gave them to read? Are you kidding me? The Holy Bible, of course. What else?

Don’t I have a wonderful sense of humor?

This has got to qualify as one of the weirdest days ever. No shit Sherlock, and straight out damn.

I just don’t mean the part where Jesus has already been arrested, even though it’s way too early—that’s weird by itself, and damn unsettling. What happened to the script? It’s like it doesn’t exist right now. Or else none of us have the same script, or something, ’cause we sure aren’t on the same page, I’m here to tell you.

But taking the cake in this realm of weirdness and things I would’ve bet good money on would never happen in my lifetime is the part with me and Judas Iscariot not only getting along, but me braiding his damn hair!
And
I massaged his temples!

And
I kissed his forehead! I know, you’re thinking this isn’t me, chick, but I checked, it is. What’s up with this?

Just when you think you know how something’s going to turn out, life bites you on the ass, and says hey, you’re all wrong.

Now I’m back here with the boys, trying to sort things out, figure out how I feel about things. Other than confused, that is.

It’s hard to think I’ve been wrong about Judas for over two thousand years; I don’t really think I have been. Not totally wrong, that is. He
has
been a major pain in the ass, as well as a major dick, too. But at least now I think I know why; I guess I understand. If I’d been in love with Jesus the way he has for this long, and had to keep betraying him, over and over and over…I mean I get it, it’s what he’s supposed to do, and all that. But still…it has to be hard on him. Especially since he couldn’t talk to anyone about it. He knows we all hate him.

Not like we all didn’t know how he felt. To be honest, we really didn’t care. He made us not care about him. But yeah, it’s not all his fault. And it’s not ours either.

It’s not gonna be easy to explain this to the guys. Much as they love me—

which they do—and much as they really love Jesus, they hate Judas. I mean seriously hate him. With the exception of Thomas. Hmmm, gotta do some serious thinking.

Now, the question is, what are we going to do? I get the feeling Judas isn’t going to take this lying down. Not that I expect him to confide in me or anything.

That’d be asking a whole lot from him, and I can’t blame him for not trusting me.

Not like I wholly trust him. The next question is, will he stop and think about what he’s doing, or just rush in and do something completely stupid and foolish?

Who am I kidding? It’s Judas we’re talkin’ about. Stupid and foolish it is.

I’m going to go to talk to Mary. Maybe she’ll have some answers. Should’ve thought of her sooner. Shows how rattled I am.

It was hard to do, but I’ve sent Judas away for a while. I know he would’ve been more than happy to stay here with me, and I would’ve been more than happy to have him here. I can’t allow that, for his own good. I want more time with him, yes, I do. Time I can’t possibly have. What a very painful thought that is.

I must stop thinking along these lines, and concentrate. Focus, Jesus, focus.

I asked him to please check on my mother, and on Mary. While that wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t the complete truth either. It’s too hard for me to think when he is right there, to think clearly I mean. There’s so much to do and so little time. He said he’d make sure when the judge comes in two days he’ll be ready to post my bail, and I didn’t disillusion him. I let him think it might actually happen. Was that so very horrible of me? No, I haven’t changed my mind, but I don’t want to take away his hope. Perhaps that is wrong of me, to offer hope where none exists. But I want to alleviate his future pain as much as possible, while I can. I don’t know—I just don’t know. This…this…has got to be…the hardest thing I’ve ever done before.

I’m so confused. Why the changes? Why weren’t we told? Why has my father said nothing to me? What is it he wishes me to learn? What is there
to
learn? Why does man never learn? Have we simply been wasting our time, all these years?

I know, I know, have faith. I do have faith, I do. I really do.

Judas promised to return as soon as possible when he left. That thought alone sustains me. That and the memory of our time together, the way he kissed me before he walked out the door. I had to push him away. I didn’t want to, but it was for his own good, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone. It’s what’s best for him. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

They’re picketing outside now. Lucifer’s group, that is. I catch a glimpse of them, whenever anyone happens to come into the jailhouse. I can hear bursts of whatever songs they’re singing. I don’t blame them. They are but the pawns of Lucifer. If they only knew, how horrified do you think they’d be at the part they’re playing in my demise? Pretty horrified, I should imagine. But I won’t burden them with that knowledge. What purpose would it serve? None whatsoever.

I pace back and forth in my cell, restlessly, driven by this need for perpetual motion. No matter how I try, I cannot focus my thoughts. All I can think of is him.

I know I’m about to lose him, and the knowledge hurts so very much. Does love always have to be this way? Or is it just for us? A noise at the door catches my attention. I wonder if it could be…but no, it isn’t Judas.

It’s a young blonde girl, maybe five or six years old. She races familiarly through the room as if she’s been running here every day of her life. And perhaps she has. Just behind her a woman appears in the doorway. She exchanges a few words with those outside before politely closing the door. In her hand is a good-sized wooden basket, covered with a red checkered cloth. And if my nose isn’t mistaken, it contains some sort of food.

Kaplan has been sitting at his desk for a while now, occasionally answering the telephone, doing miscellaneous paperwork, I imagine. He tries to engage me in conversation now and again, but his words fall on deaf ears for the most part. I’m not ignoring him; I’m simply tuning him out, as Matthew would say. When these two enter, he pauses in his work, pushing back his chair, as the girl speeds around the desk and leaps into his outstretched arms. “Daddy!” she cries. She throws her arms about his neck and hugs him tightly. Kaplan laughs, hugging her in return as the woman—undoubtedly Mrs. Kaplan and the mother of this lovely child—comes around the desk as well, laying her load down as she fondly regards the tableau before her.

I find myself drawn to this familial scene, nearing the bars to gain a closer look. What a loving family. It does my heart good, and at the same time causes it to ache, if that makes any sense. I remember how it was when I was younger, when we were once a happy family such as they—Mother, Joseph, and myself. So many years ago. So many lives ago.

“Daddy, Daddy, we brought lunch,” the child says, pointing proudly to the basket on his desk.

“Good job!’ he praises her, and she fairly beams with pleasure. She kisses her father’s cheek, allowing herself to be cuddled, but then her attention wanders, as is the wont with the very young, and her eyes suddenly turn toward me. I smile at her. She easily returns my smile.

“Daddy, Jesus is here!” she cries with delight, as she pulls herself from his lap, scurrying in my direction, until only the bars separate us. I can hear Kaplan chuckle at what he perceives to be her mistake. Out of the mouths of babes…

She stands on the outside of the cell, looking in with perplexity at me, before turning back to her father. “Daddy, why is Jesus in jail?” she asks, and I can see the question flusters him a little, as he comes up behind her, putting his arm around her, looking at me.

“No, Sarah,” he says patiently, “this is Mr. Stone. He’s a visitor, for a little bit, that’s all, he isn’t Jesus, he just dresses like him, honey, that’s all…” His wife has joined them now. She offers me a sweet smile of her own, even as the confused Sarah continues to look me up and down, not entirely pacified by her father’s explanation, as evidenced by the look on her face. Tearing away from his grasp, she comes closer to the bars, reaches her hand through them, seeking mine. I take her hand, and hold it within my own. She smiles at me most knowingly, before turning back to her father, almost in triumph. “He is Jesus, I can tell.

Mommy, can he have lunch with us?”

I think Kaplan is too shocked to make an immediate reply, but his wife doesn’t hesitate. She takes her daughter’s place at the bars and extends her own hand through them. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Stone,” she says, a slight hint of a southern drawl in her words. “I’m Kathy Kaplan, won’t you please join us for lunch?” There is something so simply compassionate about her that I find myself unable to turn down her request. Before I realize how it has come about, the four of us are seated in my cell, sharing fried chicken and small talk. Perhaps the Sheriff isn’t totally comfortable with the arrangement, but his wife and daughter are, so he goes along with their wishes. He even leaves the door to the cell open, perhaps to give the illusion of freedom. That’s all it is, though, an illusion. If I were to walk through the door and attempt to leave this place, the illusion would be quickly shattered, I know. I can see Kaplan loves his family very much, and he rises that much higher in my estimation. I believe him to be a good man, an honorable man.

He’s simply doing his duty, as am I.

I’m not really hungry, but I make a show of eating, in order not to hurt Kathy’s feelings. She’s a good cook, and I appreciate her desire to share her repast with a stranger such as myself. Young Sarah has stopped referring to me by my real name. I can see she hasn’t changed her mind, but she finds it silly to argue with grownups. The conversation is kept deliberately lighthearted; we talk about the weather, the countryside, even the local market. Although when the Sheriff alludes to the arrival of the circuit court judge in two days, my reply to the question of bail is deliberately vague, and I feel his wife’s eyes upon me. I look at her and she meets my glance evenly.

“I’m sorry I missed your first night,” she says quietly, “will you do another?

I’d like to bring Sarah.”

“Kathy, I don’t think…” her husband begins, and I know I must say something, but I have no wish to lie, and I know there won’t be another night, nor any bail. Of course I cannot explain that either. So I simply content myself with, “I’m unsure what will happen.” Which is true, I don’t really know. I just know I won’t be here in two days’ time. I can feel it.

Once lunch is eaten, and everything has been restored to its normal order, Sarah climbs into my lap, despite her father’s protests. “Tell me a story,” she insists.

“What kind of a story?” I smile at her. Kathy Kaplan is glowing at both of us, as she takes her husband’s hand, and leads him from the cell, placing a finger against her lips as if to say not a word—and he doesn’t. Pretty brave of them considering the charges against me, but of course I know I’m innocent. It pleases me that they trust me with their child.

Sarah considers the question for a moment, as if mulling over choices in her head, before replying, “Tell me about Noah and the animals.” So I tell her the story of how God came to Noah and told him there was a flood coming, and how he was to gather the animals, two by two…She is spellbound by my words, resting innocently against me, and in a short while, a combination of my voice, and the lunch she’s ingested, she is sleeping the sleep of the innocent. For a while no more is said, while I’m content to merely hold this young one, and think about many things.

This is peaceful, very peaceful. I love the little ones so very much, for they are all my children, and my father’s. They’re so very precious. I feel a certain calmness steal over me, a quietude of spirit. Into my mind comes, unbidden, the image of my Judas. A tremendous warmth flows through me at the very thought of him. I wonder what he’s doing, how he’s feeling. My previous agitation has been replaced by a new resolution, as I realize what I must do. I’ve come to a decision, a very important one.

I’m going to make a bargain with the devil—but it’s going to be on my terms.

And at just that moment, the door opens, and in walks the holder of my heart, with my two Marys in tow. My heart beats faster at the sight of him, and I cannot contain the smile that springs to my lips. I’d gladly die for him—and more—I realize that now. Whatever it takes to keep him safe—I’ll do.

I don’t think I’m getting through to the guys, for once. I mean, I talk, and they listen, but it’s like the signal isn’t really reaching them or something. Or they’re just changing the channel and tuning me out. They’re not real open about what they’re thinking, at least not to me, not right now, but I can just feel their resistance to the idea that we need to work
with
Judas, not
against
him. Especially Peter. I’ll have to keep working on them, I guess, but right now I have other fish to fry.

Mary is amazingly calm considering they not only arrested her son, but they did it earlier than we expected them to. A lot calmer than I’d be. I admire her so much. I wish I could be more like her, but I don’t think I have it in me. I need to see him so badly, make sure he’s all right, reach out and touch him again, while I still can. When I suggested to Mary that we go see Jesus, she simply said we will, it’s being taken care of. Then the next thing I know Judas is back, and he’s telling us we’re going to go see Jesus in a little while. How did she know? Somehow she just did. Like maybe she has inside information, or something. I guess it’s got to do with her having a special connection to God.

Judas seems like he’s a lot more focused now since he’s been to see Jesus. Like he’s got a plan, or something. But he isn’t exactly talking about it, either. Whatever it is, he better not fuck things up. Part of me doesn’t trust him yet, not completely.