It’s enough to give a deaf man a headache.
Children…simpletons…complete and utter fools…I cluck my tongue in remonstrative disapproval as I take up a cross-legged position beneath a nearby shade tree—close enough to see what’s happening, but far enough away to feel myself removed from this cacophony of stupidity—theirs, not his, of course. My eyes are for him and him alone, watching his every move, as he gambols and cavorts with a great childlike glee, in all of the innocence which is his. They don’t appreciate him, they never have. I’m the only one that sees him for who he is; that sees the man, not the myth, not the heavenly presence implicit in his very bearing and mien, the glow which surrounds him at all times. The aura of his faith. I’ve long ago ceased to care about the mumbo jumbo lip service that is paid to him, the requests with which he’s bombarded at all hours of the day and night. “Heal me, Jesus!” “Jesus, perform a miracle or two for me!” “Jesus, bring back my mother from the dead (or father, brother, sister, lover)!” “Jesus, show us your divinity and walk on water for us!” “Jesus, save me!” Jesus effing Christ, it’s enough to drive a man mad. If he were any other man, I’ve no doubt he’d weaken underneath the strain—but he’s not, he is who he is, and damned if I can’t help loving him the way that I do, and for all the good it does me. If only…
I’m startled from my solitary reverie, which has begun its usual loop about its well-worn course—the how much I do love him and can’t have him refrain that wears a rut into my very brain with its constant repetition—by a soft hand upon my shoulder, and a brown plastic squeeze bottle being pushed gently at me. I glance at it in some surprise. It’s sunscreen, with more SPF than the law allows. My eyes travel upward to divine the identity of the bearer. I should have known. It’s his mother—Mary herself. The only one who sees and understands how I feel about him, and does not condemn me for it.
I start to rise, albeit awkwardly, as I become cognizant of my state of au natural; she shakes her head, and sinks gracefully onto the grass beside me, giving no indication she is uncomfortable in any way. Not surprising—she’s used to the lot of us, after all. She’s like our den mother, watching after us, caring for us diligently. She’s there to pick us up when we stumble home drunk, hold back our hair when we worship at the porcelain altar, and bathe our foreheads when the world spins about us far too quickly. And yes, I’m amongst that number. I’m no saint, after all, merely a disciple. The bad one, remember?
“I know, we should’ve called,” I say softly, perhaps a bit guiltily, for I’m aware her time with him is growing just as short as our own, and perhaps she begrudges us this. I shouldn’t worry so much about such things, I know. Jesus likes to tell me I’m rather anal in that way and I cannot deny it. As well as other ways I won’t go into here and now.
“I wasn’t worried, I know he’s safe with you.” Her smile—there is no other word to describe it other than beatific, trite and overused as that word may be, especially with regard to Mary. But she really does exude serenity from every fiber of her being. She makes you feel as if nothing in the world can be truly bad because someone like her exists. I find myself behaving for her in a way that I do for no one else—except Jesus, of course. There’s nothing I’d not do for that man, and he knows it very well.
I nod my head, acknowledging the truth of her words.
“Hand me that,” she commands in her gentle voice—still a command nonetheless—indicating the sunscreen; I hand the bottle to her without question, although I manage to raise my eyebrows at her.
“Aren’t you afraid they’ll get the wrong idea?” I tease her.
“I think they know you too well,” she replies with a knowing look, as she squeezes the viscous white cream into her hand, motioning me into position between her legs, applying the lotion to my bare back in gentle soothing circular motions. Her touch is very nice, and I resist the urge to close my eyes and simply relax, for then I’d be unable to watch him, which wouldn’t do at all.
“You’re wasting your time, you know.” I decide to try a different tack.
“Shortly it will be all over, and whether I depart this particular place and time with a case of sunburn or not will be totally immaterial—”
“Judas, don’t,” she cautions me, “it does matter. To me. To him. To the others, whether you acknowledge their friendship or not.”