Revelations(57)

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.