I’ve been observing him for a very long time. I think I’ve always known how he feels about Jesus; it’s rather obvious. And I had a pretty good idea those feelings were reciprocated, knowing my son as I do. But there’s only so much a mother can do. I had to let nature take her course. I’m just glad she finally did. It breaks my heart to think they’ll be ripped apart so very soon. But I haven’t given up on them.
I never will. Love is a very powerful force. And so is prayer.
Chapter Thirty-Five: Judas
I have to hand it to her, his mother is something else. And I mean that in a very good way. She’s as wonderful, kind, and loving as her son. Which stands to reason, as she raised him to be the man that he is. Which is perfect. She shows great perception in defusing a potentially dangerous situation by simply removing me from the scene. If I’d had to spend any time with them, I don’t think I’d have been able to stand it. I simply want to choke the life out of whoever threw that bottle at me. I know, I know, I should turn the other cheek, forgive and forget, it’s what he preaches. I know that, how could I not? That doesn’t mean I’m not still angry about it. I’m just not as good as he is, and that’s the God’s honest truth. I’m not perfect, far from it, and if I want to be really honest with myself, I have no idea what he sees in me. I’m just grateful he sees it.
Mary’s certainly kept me busy all day. Once we skirt the dodgy members of C.O.C.K. upon leaving the jail—and their numbers seem to be swelling, if I’m not mistaken, although I see no sign of their fearless leader—we begin by doing errands in and about the town, running everything she buys back and forth between here and our camp. As if we’re preparing for a siege or something, although I know better. At least I think I do. Personally, I think it’s just busywork, something to keep me from causing trouble. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to her for removing me from harm’s way, just not the reason why it needs to be done.
We’re pushing a shopping cart around a large discount store—or rather I’m doing the pushing, Mary’s checking the shelves for the items she’s searching for—
when I spot one of Lucifer’s faithful. I guess they take shifts or something so they can keep our dangerous asses under observation at all times. It’s the one I yelled at before, the man who said we queered up his son. All right, I’m paraphrasing.
Suddenly I remember where I’ve seen him before. He was there on our first night
—our only night, this time. He was the one who was talking to Thomas. Never did get a chance to ask him what that was all about. Now I wish I had.
I mumble something to Mary along the line of be right back, heading toward the man. I tap him on the shoulder. He’s so engrossed in what’s on the shelves he hasn’t noticed me yet. He half turns and a suspicious look crosses his face. All I can think at the moment is to follow what Jesus teaches, what he tells us to do, how to act, something I might’ve been a little remiss in doing lately.
“Wait,” I entreat him as he tries to walk away. “Just a moment of your time, that’s all.” I hold up my hands in the universal sign for peace. He stops, but he looks as though he could bolt at any moment. “I’m not looking for trouble, I assure you. I just wanted to apologize for the way I talked to you before. I was upset and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” He looks surprised to be on the receiving end of my apology, but at least he’s still listening.
“Look, I won’t keep you, I just want to tell you that being gay isn’t a choice, it’s how people are born. Your son, he’s a good boy, right?” The father nods. “I think I saw him at our concert. You, too. You came with him because you’re concerned about him, didn’t you? You wanted to make sure he was all right?” Again he nods.
“The best thing you can do for him is to talk to him.” I gaze directly into his eyes in my earnest desire to make myself understood. “If he’s getting into trouble, find out why. Maybe he just wants your attention. Kids do stupid things to get their parents to notice them.”
“I love my son,” the father maintains, “very much. I don’t want to see him…” He hesitates.
“See him hurt?” I try to fill in the blank.
“See him go to Hell.”
Not quite what I was looking for. “Your son won’t go to Hell for being who he is.” I think I’m remarkably calm considering the stupid thing he just said. “At least talk to him, see how he’s feeling, and what he thinks before you condemn him for it. Jesus would never do that. Jesus listens to people, and he loves them all.”