Revelations(58)

I seat myself beside Mary, albeit reluctantly. Of course they all home in on her with delight—they adore her so very much, and she doesn’t fail, even now, to return their light banter with ease. She makes everyone around her feel good about themselves and one another. Even me. Surprising, isn’t it? It is to me, especially at a time like this, when I’m sure she’s upset over what’s happening to her beloved son. There’s no doubt she’s the finest woman I’ve ever known.

On the other hand, the others amaze me with their seeming indifference to what’s going on. I’m trying to quell my growing irritation with them. They sit here, eating and drinking and chattering as if it were any normal day, as if we don’t have this life and death situation going on around us, as if this isn’t the end again, and as if we aren’t about to lose Jesus again, too fucking soon. I know they love him, and I also know they don’t give a rat’s ass what happens to me. I don’t care about that.

I just wish they would focus on Jesus, instead of on getting drunk.

Taking advantage of their disinterest in me, I turn to Mary. Having no desire to eat, I have simply been sitting here among them, my fingers shredding a mutant buttered biscuit. And yes, I’m brooding, I admit it. “Mary.” I lower my voice for her ear alone for there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask her. “You said something about…Jesus and me…earlier…how did you know? About us, I mean?

Is there something you aren’t telling me? Something important?” My eyes plead with her for her candor, which is more important to me now than ever.

She smiles at me serenely; nothing ever ruffles that woman. “How did I know you’ve been in love with my son for a very long time? I have eyes, Judas, and I can see.” She pats my arm gently. “And I know he loves you as well. Even if it took him longer to figure it out.”

Her words bring nothing but joy to my heart, and yet they don’t exactly answer my question either. The one about what does she know? I find that ominous. “I’d never hurt him, I only want him to live a real life, to be happy, to—” She stops my words, placing one of her fingers against my lips as if to stem them. “What will be, will be, Judas. Everything in its time.” And then she turns to whoever’s sitting on her other side, and I know she won’t tell me anymore, no matter how much I ask, so I don’t even try.

Maybe Mary subscribes to the que sera sera theory of life, but Judas Iscariot believes in taking the bull by the horns and ramming them down someone’s throat to get what he wants. And what he wants is for Jesus to live. End of story.

It’s time we got their heads out of the booze and began to work together. I clear my throat, in order to gain their attention. It doesn’t work, naturally, but at a single glance from Mary M, they at least stop talking. That’s a start. Even if it leads nowhere.



“Look, “I begin. “We have to prepare. Jesus will be back with us the day after tomorrow, we have to get back on track—”

Jeers of laughter interrupt my words. Snickers. “We know that. Tell us something we don’t know.” Words of similar ilk.

I restrain my temper, with difficulty, determined to say what I have to say. “In the meantime, we have to make sure our behavior is circumspect. We can’t give them any reason—”

Another interruption. “Look who’s talking! It’s your fault he’s been taken away from us already, betrayer!”

I flinch involuntarily at the harsh words; they only serve to echo my own private recriminations—that I’ve brought this about, whether intentionally or not. I try to move on, knowing this won’t do any good, ignoring the personal attack.

“So, seeing as I’m in charge during Jesus’ absence—” I can get no further as they all begin to howl, banging their cups and bottles on the table, some laughing, others simply angry. No one listens, at least not to me. Should I really be surprised?

“Shut up, Iscariot.” “Asshole!” “Your fucking fault!” The insults fly about me, and I dig my nails into my palms, my fists clenched so tightly I fear I may draw blood. It doesn’t help.

Peter’s voice makes itself heard above the rest, the thickhead. “ —your fault Jesus is in trouble, you shouldn’t have touched him like that, it isn’t right. You should die in his place!”

Thomas stands beside me now, protectively, a bottle in his hand. He offers it to me, encourages me to drink. “Don’t listen to them,” he whispers, his hand enfolding one of mine for a moment. I know he’s simply trying to help; it’s not his fault this situation is beyond his ability to repair. “I know it’s not your fault, what happened, I know you love him.”