Revelations (24 page)

“See him go to Hell.”

Not quite what I was looking for. “Your son won’t go to Hell for being who he is.” I think I’m remarkably calm considering the stupid thing he just said. “At least talk to him, see how he’s feeling, and what he thinks before you condemn him for it. Jesus would never do that. Jesus listens to people, and he loves them all.”

“What do you know of Jesus?” he queries me, incredulity written on his countenance.

“A great deal,” is my honest reply. “We preach God’s words, we convey his message of love, it’s what we do. He loves your son, trust me. He loves him for who he is, not who you want him to be. Can’t you love him, too?” I’m not sure, but I think he’s at least not completely shutting out my ideas, which is a start.

“I’m sure you’re a good man, caught in a difficult situation, but let me say this, before I leave you alone. We’re only given so much time in this world, and we never know when that time will end. Don’t waste any time with your son. You just never know when it will be gone.” I know, I’ve gone and done it now. I’ve just reopened that wound, and my voice is thick with emotion I was trying not to show.

Time to be on my way.

“Thank you for listening,” I manage to choke out, before I leave him there, a thoughtful expression upon his face. I catch up with Mary and we continue our shopping. She doesn’t say a word, simply pats me on the arm and gives me one of her enigmatic looks.

When she can’t think of anything else that’s either needed or wanted, we purchase a bottle of wine and fill up the tank (the car’s and ours) and we drive around the countryside. She tells me where to go, and I drive there. I have to admit I barely see the scenery, my mind being filled with other things and all, but from her comments she thinks it’s rather pretty, so that’s sufficient reason to be doing this. That, and staying out of trouble.

We don’t bother to worry about where we’re heading. We take any road that strikes our fancy—or hers, actually. She’s the navigator, I’m simply the obedient chauffeur. Sans livery. When you have GPS, you can go anywhere you like; it’s an amazing thing, actually, and very handy. Moses could’ve used it in the desert, saved himself from a lot of aimless wandering. Just saying.

By the middle of the afternoon, I know I’m showing signs of restlessness; I want to return to town, go back to the jail to be with Jesus, even though I know we have a couple of hours left ahead of us before we can even think of doing so, and with good reason. Or bad reason, depending on one’s point of view. Not that I mind her company, far from it. I enjoy it. She’s like a mother to me. And being his mother, she’s doubly so mine, if that makes any sense. But the point is we can’t go back yet, so I have to be a good boy, and grin and bear it.

Mary directs me to pull the Humvee off of the winding pink road we’re traversing—pink because of the type of stone that went into its construction—and we drive for a few more miles before we stumble across a small, secluded park.

Devoid of occupants, it wears the appearance of being little frequented, which makes it perfect, as I’ve no wish to be bothered with other company at the moment.

Don’t tell me I’m growing bitter in my old age, because I never achieve it. Old age, that is. Bitterness, maybe. All right, probably.

“What now?” I ask, looking between her and the empty park, which consists of a single bench, a small drinking fountain, and a lot of grass.

“Now we go sit.” She smiles and points at the empty bench. Before I can think of a good reason why not, she’s out of the vehicle and walking, too fast for me to come around and open the door for her. I’ve no choice but to grab the bottle and follow.

We take a seat upon the bench, on the back of which a metal plaque is affixed.

SELENA M. ROBERTS MEMORIAL PARK
it reads.
A HAVEN FOR THE WEARY

TRAVELER. ESTABLISHED ON THIS 11TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, 1986
. The bench is a wooden one, a bit weathered with the passage of time. I’ve sat on worse.

Offering the bottle to Mary, who refuses it at the moment, I take a good long drink. Then I pull my phone from my jacket pocket, having gotten a sudden burst of inspiration, and I text Mary M—yes, I have all their numbers in my address book, and Jesus is number one on speed dial, of course. But I know he doesn’t have his phone, so I’m forced to go through her.
Is it safe to come back yet?
I message to her. After a brief moment, I receive my reply.
NO!
I scowl, and tuck the phone back into place. Dammit. I had to try, I reason. Even though I expected just that response. My own response is to drink more wine.

I look to Mary. She returns my look, smiles at me rather mysteriously and serenely. The usual. Please be patient, Judas,” she counsels, “all in good time.” How I wish that were true, that all I’d have to do is wait, and I’d get what I want. But I know better. I know how this story ends. How it’s supposed to end. But at least I’ve managed to change all that. At least I’ve made sure he’ll be safe.

Although I can’t exactly tell her that. I know her too well to think she wouldn’t tell him, so that doesn’t become an option. I wish I could tell her, try to ease some of her burden. But she’ll find out soon enough, I reason, and then they’ll be together again, for a good long time. Mary M, too. The other apostles. And maybe he’ll think of me once in a while. At least I hope so. All right, I know he will, just as I know he loves me. What I’m doing, I do for his own good. That’s what I keep telling myself.

My heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise, like breathing is no longer an autonomic function. I know it’s for his own good, even if he’ll be angry I’ve done this behind his back. But I won’t be here to yell at. He’ll have to wait and do that when he dies a more natural death later on. Hopefully of old age. At least I know I’ll be able to watch him from there, even if I can’t speak to him, or touch him.

That’s the price I’m willing to pay for his life and his freedom. A small one, indeed, in the scheme of things.

So why do I feel like my whole world is shattering around me, like I’m losing the only thing that makes it worth living? Not that I’m going to go on living. I’m not afraid to die, certainly not, I’ve done it far too many times to think twice about it. Pain and death are abstract concepts that have come to mean nothing to me. Pain is something to be endured, but it does end. Death is but another stage of life. It’s just that… it’s just that…

Dammit, I have him now. I have what I’ve always wanted. He’s all I’ve ever wanted or needed. And I’m greedy—I want more of him, more of his time before I have to let go of him, before I have to go. I want
him
. That’s all. Just him. Just Jesus. The injustice of the situation washes over me, along with the sharpest pain I think I’ve ever felt, far worse than anything inflicted by mere man. A pain that sears my very soul. Mary holds out her arms to me and I fall into them, releasing the tears that threaten to choke me. She holds me close while I cry out my pain and sorrow in gut-wrenching sobs that contain no words. When I exhaust myself in her compassionate arms, I work at catching my breath, but at least the tightness has eased a little bit.

Mary takes a Kleenex from her purse and dabs at my cheeks and eyes, before handing it to me, so I can use it for the relief of my nose, which is streaming, dammit. She waits patiently for me to pull my sorry act together into some semblance of dignity. Or whatever I have that passes as dignity, which isn’t a whole lot right now, I know. “Please, don’t say anything to him,” I murmur, not wishing him to know I’ve had some sort of a breakdown. It’d be most distressing to him, I know, and I’ve no wish to cause him any distress on my account. Vain hope, however.

“You must know that he’ll know,” she says, stroking my cheek soothingly.

“You’re tied to him even more now than before, Judas, and he to you. He knows how you feel, and he’ll feel your pain.” The truth of her words is punctuated by the sudden buzzing of my phone. A text from Mary M.
Judas, what is going on? J is
convinced you’re in trouble. M
.

Damn. Just what I didn’t want. I try to bluff my way out.
I’m fine, tell J not to
worry.

It doesn’t work. Did I really think it would? The phone rings instead, mere seconds later, and I know who’s bound to be on the other end of the line when I answer. Mary rises, whispers, “I’ll be in the car,” before removing herself to the Humvee, allowing us our privacy. How I do love her for her very kind heart. I try to hold it all in, for his sake, as I press phone. “Hello?” I make it a question, although I am quite sure it’s him.

“Judas, what’s wrong?” he asks, his voice pitched low, the pain in it quite audible to my ears.

“Nothing’s wrong.” I stoically maintain as I deflect his concerns, forcing my voice to something closely approaching its normal timber. “How are things there?

Everything going well?” I’m only concerned about his welfare, the rest can go hang themselves. Except maybe Thomas.

“Things are well,” he replies, hesitantly. I can tell he isn’t convinced, and he’d like to delve into the question in more depth. “Very well,” he adds, pausing for a moment, then, “Jude, I know something’s wrong, please tell me…”

“Nothing other than I miss you terribly,” I confess, which is the truth, if not the entire truth. I lower my voice even more, although Mary cannot possibly hear me.

As if my doing so will draw us closer together through the medium of the phone.

“I miss you, too,” he confesses softly. “Soon, Jude, soon,” he promises, “we’ll have tonight together. Just you and me. All of tonight.”

“We will,” I echo, grateful he cannot possibly see the expression of pain that crosses my face, one which I refuse to let him hear. Our last night together. I can feel it. Tomorrow he’ll be gone, and I’ll be dead.

I can hear voices behind him. Demanding, petulant voices. I know who they are and what they want—they want him with them. They want him to hang up on me, and spend this time with them. If they only knew that soon they’ll have more of his time than they can possibly imagine—well, they still wouldn’t care, and they’d still interrupt us. Bastards.

“Jude, I’m so sorry…”

“Shhh, don’t be.” A pause, a heartbeat in time. “Go on,” I urge him, “it’s okay, really, don’t worry about it…”

“Come back soon, I need you…”

“I will,” I promise. “Just as soon as I can, believe me. I need you, too. I love you…”

“I love you, too.” And then the phone goes dead. Probably snatched out of his hand by one of the petulant princesses. I close my own, and sigh.

So, how do I propose to fill the rest of this overly long afternoon?

Driving, driving, and more driving…

Everything’s happening so quickly. It feels all wrong. I don’t understand. It’s too soon for this, why is it happening this way?

Last night was just wrong. I felt bad for Judas, and I’d’ve helped him if I could’ve. But it all happened so fast. And then he ran off before I could do anything. I ran after him, to see if he was hurt very badly. I know that had to hurt.

But when I saw Mary M taking him to her car, I just let him be. I guess they don’t really hate each other, I don’t know. I’m glad. She’s nice, and they should get along. There’s no reason they shouldn’t.

Today, she’s arranged for us to spend time with Jesus. It’s hard to see him like this, but it could be worse. I remember worse places he’s been. He hasn’t been beaten, that’s a good thing. She takes us into his cell in two’s. She said that’s the Sheriff’s idea. The rest of us talk amongst ourselves, play on our cell phones or whatever. We’re all excited about tonight, about the chance to play with Mary M.

That’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. This is definitely the best incarnation that ever was. But it’s also the saddest. I can’t explain it.

I know Judas ended up sleeping out by the pond last night. I thought about going out to him, but I didn’t think he’d like that. He’s got a really nasty looking bruise today. No one will admit to doing it, and I didn’t see who threw the bottle. I wish I had. I hope whoever did it is ashamed of himself, but I doubt it.

Mary M said tonight we can use real flashing lights, she’s made the arrangements. It’s so exciting. Tomorrow, some judge is coming, and we’ll get to take Jesus with us. That’ll be good. I don’t know for how long, but we need him to be back with us for as long as we can.

I just had a thought. If we feel that bad about losing him, then how bad must Judas feel? I saw them together, just before Judas left with Mary. I knew it, I said it before—Judas totally loves Jesus, and Jesus loves him back. That’s just gotta hurt, right? This has to be what they call a “lose-lose” situation. For everyone.

Today’s the last day I shall spend with them, my beloved disciples. The last one for a long time. I know the routine, of course. In a matter of years, once they’ve each lived out their lives, we’ll reassemble for the next coming. A new time, a new place. Perhaps different issues, perhaps the same, depending upon what’s needed, and what changes have occurred in the interim. Assuming anything does change. I try to remain optimistic in man’s ability to learn from his mistakes.

In the meantime, I’ll return to my father’s house, spend time with him, and concentrate on watching Judas be happy. To see him live out his life will make everything I do worth the sacrifice. That is the price I’m willing to pay for him.

I’m grateful to Sheriff Kaplan for allowing this day to be, and to his kind and lovely wife for speaking to him on my behalf, and to Mary M for organizing everything so efficiently. To Jude, for his patience in allowing me this time with the others, even though it detracts from our own time together. And to my mother, for taking the time to be with him for my sake. The only thing that sustains me during this day is the thought Judas and I still have tonight, and I’m determined this will be a most memorable night for us, as much as I can make it so, although I’m limited in what I can do from here. I don’t think it matters what we do, though, just being together will be enough for me. I pray it is for him as well.