Revelations(19)

He’s looking past me, over me, through me, into the crowd, grinning quite mischievously now. And such a self-satisfied smirk he wears. With a growing apprehension, I turn to see what the fuck he’s staring at, scanning the backs of the heads between me and the stage.

And then I see her. When the fuck did she get here? And who is that tramp with her? They’re dressed like the whore plate special at the country buffet.

Dammit! What is she trying to do? Is this her idea of fucking discretion? And is that why Jesus was walking among us, was he with her? My jealous fingers itch to simply grab hold of her, to tear out those ridiculous weaves she wears, snatch her baldheaded, and send her flying out the door so fast it’ll make her goddamn head ring. Only the knowledge of the spectacle that would make—and an unseemly one, not at all conducive to Jesus’ well-being—keeps me from doing so.

As if he can read my very mind, Lucifer is leaning into me again, whispering heatedly in my ear, “You know she’s here to see Jesus, don’t you? She really does his cause no good, her association with him just makes him look cheap. Like a trashy little boy toy who jumps at her every command. I’m surprised they haven’t made the cover of the supermarket tabloids yet. Everyone thinks they’re lovers, you know. Think he’s fucking her six ways to kingdom come. He might as well do what he’s accused of doing, don’t you think, why put off the inevitable?” Without thinking, acting upon sheer instinct (and yes, blind jealous rage, I admit it) I draw back my hand in preparation to strike those words from his filthy lips, rid him of any such disgusting notion, only to find I have been arrested in mid swing, and I’m being held carefully away from the vicinity of that devil’s face.

Lucifer is smirking openly at the figure that holds my wrist in his tender grasp, and I don’t need to look to know who stands behind me—I’d recognize his touch anywhere.

“Are you coming to my defense, Jesus, or his?” Lucifer chuckles lightly, blows his savior (no pun intended) an air-kiss, as he touches my face with his fingers, running his thumb over the corner of my lips softly. “Judas, darling, never play poker, your face gives everything away, my pet.”

I swat his annoying hand away, irritated beyond belief at his impudence, his bellicose brashness—how dare he fucking touch me like that? Then Jesus takes that very same hand also into his grasp, and I am too dumbstruck to do anything else other than simply stand there, helpless in his grip, melting into his touch. The fight drains from me just that quickly, like snow on hot asphalt, replaced by another, far stronger emotion. Kyrie eleison, I pray to myself, please don’t let me fall apart right here and now. Stand strong, Judas, stand strong.

“You only wish to exacerbate him,” Jesus rebukes him, his voice gentle, yet tempered with his disapproval, “why do you take pleasure from his aggravation?

Harass me, if you choose, but please leave Judas alone.” I’m quivering now. In righteous indignation. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. Why don’t I do something, release myself from Jesus’ hands, take control of this situation, force Lucifer to accord me some modicum of respect? Maybe because I like his touch too much to risk losing it? Oh Lord…

And then there is another country heard from. A very welcome intrusion indeed, though, truth be told. She sounds so much like him.

“Jesus, I think Judas could benefit from some air, if you would…” The rest of the words hang unspoken but understood. Diffusing the situation, I believe it’s called.

“Yes, of course,” he immediately agrees, and just that quickly he’s released my hands; he grasps my sleeve instead, tugging at the cuff to indicate I should follow him. As if I could do otherwise?

The last glimpse I get of them before the crowd swallows us whole on our way out the door, is the image of Mary, mother of Jesus, squaring off against Lucifer. I have to admit he’s the one I feel sorry for. How I wish I could hear what will be said in that conversation.



Go Mary! You can do it!

But for now, first things first. Just where are we going? And then what?





Chapter Nine: Mary


My son is a good man. A very good man. Let there be no doubt in anyone’s mind about that. Not that I think there is, but I’m not one for leaving anything to chance.

It’s not that I think he needs help dealing with the situation. Far from the case.

Jesus can, and has, held his own against the Devil on more than one occasion.

Many times, in fact. No, I don’t worry about that. It’s the other situation I think he can’t handle at the moment, the one with Judas, which is why I stepped in, in order to remove both of them from here, for now. I don’t consider myself an interfering mother by any means. I’ve stood aside many times when it would have been so easy to try to do something to help him.