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Revelations(69)



“What do you know of Jesus?” he queries me, incredulity written on his countenance.

“A great deal,” is my honest reply. “We preach God’s words, we convey his message of love, it’s what we do. He loves your son, trust me. He loves him for who he is, not who you want him to be. Can’t you love him, too?” I’m not sure, but I think he’s at least not completely shutting out my ideas, which is a start.

“I’m sure you’re a good man, caught in a difficult situation, but let me say this, before I leave you alone. We’re only given so much time in this world, and we never know when that time will end. Don’t waste any time with your son. You just never know when it will be gone.” I know, I’ve gone and done it now. I’ve just reopened that wound, and my voice is thick with emotion I was trying not to show.

Time to be on my way.

“Thank you for listening,” I manage to choke out, before I leave him there, a thoughtful expression upon his face. I catch up with Mary and we continue our shopping. She doesn’t say a word, simply pats me on the arm and gives me one of her enigmatic looks.

When she can’t think of anything else that’s either needed or wanted, we purchase a bottle of wine and fill up the tank (the car’s and ours) and we drive around the countryside. She tells me where to go, and I drive there. I have to admit I barely see the scenery, my mind being filled with other things and all, but from her comments she thinks it’s rather pretty, so that’s sufficient reason to be doing this. That, and staying out of trouble.

We don’t bother to worry about where we’re heading. We take any road that strikes our fancy—or hers, actually. She’s the navigator, I’m simply the obedient chauffeur. Sans livery. When you have GPS, you can go anywhere you like; it’s an amazing thing, actually, and very handy. Moses could’ve used it in the desert, saved himself from a lot of aimless wandering. Just saying.

By the middle of the afternoon, I know I’m showing signs of restlessness; I want to return to town, go back to the jail to be with Jesus, even though I know we have a couple of hours left ahead of us before we can even think of doing so, and with good reason. Or bad reason, depending on one’s point of view. Not that I mind her company, far from it. I enjoy it. She’s like a mother to me. And being his mother, she’s doubly so mine, if that makes any sense. But the point is we can’t go back yet, so I have to be a good boy, and grin and bear it.

Mary directs me to pull the Humvee off of the winding pink road we’re traversing—pink because of the type of stone that went into its construction—and we drive for a few more miles before we stumble across a small, secluded park.

Devoid of occupants, it wears the appearance of being little frequented, which makes it perfect, as I’ve no wish to be bothered with other company at the moment.

Don’t tell me I’m growing bitter in my old age, because I never achieve it. Old age, that is. Bitterness, maybe. All right, probably.

“What now?” I ask, looking between her and the empty park, which consists of a single bench, a small drinking fountain, and a lot of grass.

“Now we go sit.” She smiles and points at the empty bench. Before I can think of a good reason why not, she’s out of the vehicle and walking, too fast for me to come around and open the door for her. I’ve no choice but to grab the bottle and follow.

We take a seat upon the bench, on the back of which a metal plaque is affixed.



SELENA M. ROBERTS MEMORIAL PARK it reads. A HAVEN FOR THE WEARY

TRAVELER. ESTABLISHED ON THIS 11TH DAY OF FEBRUARY, 1986. The bench is a wooden one, a bit weathered with the passage of time. I’ve sat on worse.

Offering the bottle to Mary, who refuses it at the moment, I take a good long drink. Then I pull my phone from my jacket pocket, having gotten a sudden burst of inspiration, and I text Mary M—yes, I have all their numbers in my address book, and Jesus is number one on speed dial, of course. But I know he doesn’t have his phone, so I’m forced to go through her. Is it safe to come back yet? I message to her. After a brief moment, I receive my reply. NO! I scowl, and tuck the phone back into place. Dammit. I had to try, I reason. Even though I expected just that response. My own response is to drink more wine.

I look to Mary. She returns my look, smiles at me rather mysteriously and serenely. The usual. Please be patient, Judas,” she counsels, “all in good time.” How I wish that were true, that all I’d have to do is wait, and I’d get what I want. But I know better. I know how this story ends. How it’s supposed to end. But at least I’ve managed to change all that. At least I’ve made sure he’ll be safe.