I return the pressure of his hand briefly, rejecting the offer of the beer or whatever it might be. He’s very sweet to even care, but I’m done here. Done wasting my time and my breath. Damn them all to hell anyway. I pull away from him, trying not to be too brusque. I push aside the bottle and shake my head. He sighs, but he makes no move to stop me. I rise from the table, my intention being to leave peacefully. At least that’s the idea. Suddenly Thomas pulls sharply on my arm, as if to move me out of harm’s way. “Don’t do that,” I hear him scream just as I feel something hit my head—a beer bottle, I think. It hits my temple with a dull thunk, falls to the table and shatters, scattering brew in its wake. This only produces more laughter as I put an uncertain hand to my head. What the fuck?
Bastards.
Someone else tosses a glass of something in my direction, forgetting who my dinner companion is. I shield her the best I can, taking most of the spray upon myself. The entire table’s in bedlam now. Thomas is yelling at them, they’re yelling back at him, and Mary M’s screaming for everyone to calm down.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up with this. Unperturbed, Mother Mary catches my arm, whispers words of wisdom. “Go on,” she urges me. “I’ll handle this. Please let it be, for now.” I jerk myself away from Thomas, away from the table, and away from everyone there. But of course I cannot resist getting in the last word, as I give them my most scornful look, my hair dripping with alcohol, my temple throbbing. “You don’t deserve him,” I say simply before I exit the tent. I need to get away from them, I need to think. I need to plan.
“Here, let me look at that.”
I turn to snap at whoever’s dared to follow me, but Mary M disregards my foul look, too busy examining my head in a clinical manner. She leads me to the Humvee and makes me sit in the passenger seat while she roots around among some things in the console between the seats, emerging with a first aid kit. How handy. I should be grateful she’s so well prepared. I certainly wasn’t, was I? What the hell did I expect from them, though? Seriously? I should have my head examined. I know, irony. I’m about to, just not in a psychiatric way.
“You got lucky, Judas. It didn’t break the skin, but it’s gonna swell. You’ll have a pretty good goose egg by morning,” she predicts, wiping at the area, pushing my wet hair out of the way. “Nothing I can really put on it, but I can give you something to take the edge off the pain.”
I shake my head. It doesn’t hurt at the moment, just throbs, not the same thing.
And right now I don’t want to lose that; it’ll keep me focused more clearly, if that makes any sense. “Not now,” I reply, and she doesn’t argue, putting everything away, and taking a seat behind the wheel.
For a few minutes, nothing is said. I collect my wits about me and prepare to simply walk away, but she lays a hand upon my arm. I give her a questioning look, saying nothing. “Judas, you know we haven’t exactly gotten along very well over the years…”
“That’s an understatement,” I mutter, which produces a chuckle from her.
“I admit I’ve called you a whole passel of names, most of them not very flattering. And you’ve done the same for me. No question about that.”
“No question,” I agree, wondering just where this true confession is going.
“I’ll be honest,” she continues, her hand picking at the steering wheel, looking at it as she talks, rather than at me, “I haven’t liked you much for what you do to Jesus. For betraying him. Actually, I’m lying. I hate you for that. And for being an arrogant, know-it-all, stupid prick who spends most of his time with his head shoved up his own ass.”
“Thanks, I love you, too,” I mutter, wondering how long I intend to sit here and take this. Especially when I have things to do. But I wait. I know there must be more to this than that. And I’m right.
“I’ve always known you had a thing for Jesus. It isn’t exactly a secret, you know. And I admit, I liked aggravating you about it, ’cause frankly, you’re a whole lot of fun to tease. You need to lighten up a bit, don’t take things so damn seriously, Judas. You’d get along better, if you did.” What can I say to that?
Nothing, so I do.
Another few minutes tick by and I begin to think maybe there is no point to her words. I shift my weight on the seat, as if I’m about to leave. “No, wait a minute,” she says, taking my arm again—what is it with people grabbing my arm lately? I pause, but a bit impatiently, I admit.