Necessary Heartbreak Page 19
Watching Judas, Michael felt the fury that had raged within him only a few moments ago evaporate. He had not only just watched the greatest betrayal in mankind’s history take place, but had even played a part in it himself. With that realization came pity, despair, and a surprising sense of mercy.
Judas continued to weep as Michael slowly approached. The sound of his sandals alerted Judas, who raised his head to look at Michael, his face red. “Are you here to stone me?”
“I was.”
“Then do it now.” Judas fixed his gaze, searching Michael for a reason. “If it’s the money you want, you can have it.” He pulled the satchel from his belt and threw it to him, hitting Michael squarely in the chest. The bag dropped to the ground with a loud thud, spilling its contents in a pool at his feet.
Michael flinched with disgust. “I don’t want your money.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“An answer.”
Judas looked away. “I have nothing for you then.”
Michael stepped over the fallen money and stood above him. “Why did you do it?”
Judas pulled himself upright to look Michael in the face. “The others will come for me soon. You should go.”
“Tell me why you did it and I’ll leave.”
Judas wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. “Why would I betray him, my friend, my rabbi? Why would I hurt him when my life has only been about me doing whatever he willed?” Judas glanced up into the night sky, a bitter smile curving his lips. “Maybe I’m the devil?”
Michael felt his skin crawl as Judas’ smile spread across his face. He stepped back and shivered involuntarily.
Judas’ smile vanished, replaced with a pained sneer. “Maybe I am. I feel like I am.” His eyes filled with fresh tears. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“What do you mean?”
Judas jerked to his feet. “I mean, he wasn’t supposed to let them take him. I thought he and the others would fight back. Finally, it was time for him to fight, to defeat them, to stop the Romans. To rise up and defeat our oppressors!”
Michael shifted uneasily. “Did you really think he would?”
Judas hunched his shoulders and didn’t reply.
Michael continued, “Look, I’m the last person to preach, believe me. But I do know that Jesus’ teachings always seemed so nonconfrontational, so selfless, so kind. He was all about love and peace, not violence and hate. He’s not someone to use a sword.”
Judas glared back. “You don’t know him like I do. I saw him do things that no other man could do. Things that were impossible to believe, and yet I did and so many of us did. He said he was the Son of God, the King of Kings! He’s more powerful than anyone, anything. Everything bad can be changed. Every wrong righted. He is the Son of God. Or I thought he was.”
“But now you’re not sure?”
“He went without a fight! He surrendered! They’re just going to kill him. He won’t rise up now and defeat anyone. They will beat him, destroy him. The crowd will only see him as weak. No one will stand up for him. No one is that brave.”
Judas paused a moment, then continued in a whisper. “We can’t stop them from killing him.” His head dropped into his outstretched hands, and he began to weep again. “I’ve killed my friend.”
Michael grabbed him by the shoulder, shaking him. “Come back with me, Judas! It’s not too late. We can give the money back. Tell them you’ve made a mistake. He isn’t the one. Tell them he isn’t claiming to be the Son of God. Just tell the soldiers he isn’t the one.”
Judas glanced at Michael with sorrow. “You don’t understand. He is the one.” Judas’ shoulders rounded as he sank to the ground.
Michael fell to his knees frantically, pulling at Judas. “Stop it! It’s not too late. We can still do something about this! Get up and at least try!”
Michael seized him by the arm, but Judas pulled away from his grasp. “Stop your crying! We’ve got to do something. We just can’t let this happen.” Michael snatched at him again, but still Judas would not budge.
“Just go,” Judas mumbled. He lifted his head to look at Michael. “The others are coming for me. You will be in jeopardy. I am nothing. Worse than that: I just betrayed my friend.”
“Don’t say you’re nothing. You helped me when I was in need. Let me help you.”
Judas was resigned. “I’m about to feel God’s wrath. It’s best I face this alone.”
“The God I believe in loves everyone. I thought you said you believed?”
Judas stood up. “My faith has never wavered. I believe in my whole heart. He is who he says he is.”
“All right, let’s go back then.”
Judas laughed harshly. “It’s too late. I have nothing to live for. I have lost everything, by my own hand.”
He suddenly began to tear at the hem of his robe, glancing around. As he started toward a nearby tree, Michael grabbed his arm.
“I’m not going to let you do that.”
Judas slapped at Michael’s hand, but caught him instead on the cheek and freed himself. Michael fell back, bewildered. “Leave me. Be my friend or become my last enemy.” Judas continued on, stopping under the tree, its gnarled branches arching over them. He started to reach up with the torn piece from his robe. Michael raced over and tackled him to the ground.
“Even your life is important.”
The two wrestled in the dirt, each struggling to gain an advantage. Finally, Michael pinned his knee on Judas’ chest.
Judas looked up at him, pleading, “Please, go. You know you will lose your life.”
A loud noise in the distance startled them. Michael rolled off as they both looked toward the commotion, listening intently.
Judas pulled himself up on his elbows. “See? You’re going to get killed if you don’t leave.”
“Well, I’m not—”
Whack. Dazed and with pain searing from the base of his skull, Michael was thrown forward on his hands and knees and collapsed in the dirt.
The screens that covered the porch were tearing, and their flapping had become a constant distraction to his daily meditation. Trying to find a reprieve, he moved out to the small, thin cement stoop in front of the shabby three-story house. Michael tried to focus but his mind was overwhelmed with new problems.
Usually he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off to a boat bobbing on a calm ocean during a hot summer day. He tried several times to place himself on that familiar sailboat, but each time he opened his eyes, anxious, angry, and bitter.
Michael watched the kids swat at a Wiffle ball up and down 191st Avenue. He smiled, then closed his eyes once more. Almost instantly he heard the bang, followed by a screeching, cyclical whir. The alarm on the Stewarts’ blue Chevy pierced the Richmond Hill neighborhood in World War II fashion. Oh, jeez.
Glaring at the kids who were giggling, he stormed over to the 1975 model and cracked the side of the passenger door with his foot. The noise waffled to a halt. He sighed and sat down again.
The kids continued to play. Whack. The street’s biggest kid belted a drive off a tree that careened off the top of Michael’s head. A burst of laughter erupted from the other kids.
Michael opened his eyes. He looked at Ian, who had his hands over his mouth, waiting for a reaction. Usually he would joke and play sports with Ian and his friends. Today he was in no mood.
“Do you want to hit?” Ian asked, rubbing the top of his crew cut nervously back and forth with his hand.
“Not today, Ian,” Michael replied sternly.
“Hey, kids, I’ll play for Mr. Grouchy,” said a voice from down the block. It was Michael’s friend Chuck, who lived on the far end of the street. He tossed the ball to Ian, then pulled at the tips of his own hair, exaggerating its spiky appearance. Ian smiled.
Chuck could always do that to the kids. His big smile and gracious demeanor endeared him to the youngsters. “I’ll be with you guys in a second,” he shouted.
“Just wonderful.”
“I’m guessing things aren’t wonderful.”
“You guess right.”
Chuck squirmed unconsciously before changing course. “Hey, I thought you were going to the club in the Rockaways to meet my sister last night.”
Michael looked skyward. “Oh, God . . . I forgot.”
Chuck’s sister, Jeanette, was the cutest thing in the neighborhood. She loved sports and was one of the few girls on the block who was close to Michael’s age. He had liked Jeanette for a long time but could never muster up the nerve to ask her out. But when she finally sent him a cryptic message to meet her at a club, he had blown it.
“She’s a little confused,” Chuck said. “My sister waited for you.”
Michael took a deep breath. He picked up a rock from the grassless garden behind him and flung it across the street. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do anything about it. I feel terrible.”
“What happened?”
“My mom.”
“Again?”
“Yeah. She went back to the hospital last night. My father brought her home this morning.”
“How is she?”
Michael shook his head.
Before Chuck could respond, the screen door behind them slammed. “Michael, go upstairs and spend some time with your mother for a while,” his father ordered.
“Got to go, Chuck.”
“I’ll be around if you need to talk. Let me know if you need anything.”
Michael gave his friend a playful pat on the shoulder before scurrying up the peeling, wooden steps. He walked gingerly into the house and even more cautiously up the stairs to the second floor.
He cracked the door and peered in to see if his mom was awake. Rebecca was silent, lying on her back. Michael moved a few steps closer and settled his body near the windowsill, watching her, wondering what had happened in such a short time.
He knew she had a beautiful heart—he knew this with absolute certainty—but as she lay motionless in front of him, that seemed to be the only thing about her that had remained untouched. Trying not to disturb her, Michael walked quietly over to her bed. Who would have expected that it would be this quick? Drawing nearer, he rested his hand on her knee for a moment before recoiling in horror. Through the heavy blankets, he could only feel bone—no muscle, no fat, no softness—just bone.
He wondered where all her beauty had gone. The thick brown hair that was her trademark was gone, replaced now with bare skin and clusters of radiation burns by her brow. Her once muscular arms were withered and small. Worst of all were her eyes. Those luminous hazel eyes were dull, her eyesight nearly gone. His sister Sam had said that she might recover her sight, but staring down at her now, he knew that was just wishful thinking.
She was still sleeping, and for a moment Michael considered how easy it would be to leave undetected. This wasn’t what he wanted. Watching her waste away ripped his insides apart. But something pulled him closer to her and he sat gently at the foot of her bed. Michael cleared his throat quietly, so as not to startle her. Leaning down, he whispered into her ear, “Mom, I’m here. It’s Mike.”
His mother opened her eyes, a faint smile registering across her face.
He began again. “Hey, what happened here? You were walking around just two weeks ago.”
“God is asking me to leave, Michael,” she said softly, before he could finish.
“No. No, I prayed, Mom. I asked God to stop the sickness. Every night I did. It’s not time. You just have to keep going, keep fighting. This is only your fifth inning. We’ve got more baseball games to go to . . . this isn’t the end.”
“Mike, I wish it were up to me now. You know—”
“Mom, who am I going to go to baseball games with?” His voice trailed off the instant he felt a wet tear spill onto his cheek.
“I don’t have the strength anymore.”
He couldn’t stand her talking like this: resolved, giving up. He stood up abruptly, walking over to the St. Jude statue she kept on her bureau. He wanted to break it in half.
I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming. “Is this the way God wants you to leave, Mom? Look at what he has allowed to happen.”
“A lot happened in this house, didn’t it? I’m sorry, Michael.”
Michael glanced back over his shoulder at her, his eyes catching the cross hanging over her bed. “We have to do something. We’ve got to get you back to the hospital. Now.” He walked over to her, reaching down to lift her up.
Rebecca started to groan. Her face tightened as Michael wedged his hands under her legs. “Michael, no . . . no . . . no . . . Please don’t. I’m in so much pain. Please.”
He fell to his knees beside her, his head coming to rest on the edge of the bed. He could feel her fingers straining to touch his hair. He lowered his head slightly so she could reach him, but then heard her soft sobs. He lifted his head to look into her eyes, seeing the tears that dripped to the sides of her cheeks. He reached for a tissue on the nightstand to wipe them away.
“Mom, I really need you to stay. You have to fight. I need you here.”
Michael touched her thin fingers. He leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Mom, I’ve got to do something, I just can’t sit here and watch you die like this.”
Rebecca’s sobs grew more defined.
“Oh, Mom, I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry for doing this to you.”
He looked at his mother in amazement, before closing his eyes and bringing his head down close to hers so that their foreheads met. “Why are you sorry? Why? You have nothing to be sorry about.”
Rebecca moaned and jerked her head sideways.
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
“The pain, Michael . . . the pain . . . it’s so bad . . . please do something . . . please . . .”
“What? What can I do?”
“Take the pillow, Michael . . .”
“Do you want me to put another under your head? Under your feet?” he asked as he grabbed a pillow from the far end of the bed.
“No. No. Please end my pain.” Rebecca squirmed. Her ravaged face tightened as another wave of pain engulfed her fragile frame.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Put the pillow over my face and hold me.”
“What?”
She groaned again. “I can’t take this anymore. Please do it.”
Michael stood up, horrified. “I can’t. Let me take you to the hospital, get you some painkillers.”
“No. No, please, no more hospitals.”
Rebecca thrust her hand out toward him, struggling to find him. Losing strength, Michael crumpled down beside her, taking her hand gingerly into his own.
“Please, Michael, let me go to God without any more pain.”
“God, Mom. Why don’t you ask Dad? I can’t . . .”
“He would never do it. Oh, please, I can’t bear this anymore.” She squeezed his hand in a halfhearted attempt to underscore her feelings.
“Oh, Mom, I don’t want you to be in pain anymore but . . .”
“Hold me when you do it. I’ll go straight from your hands to God’s.”
He leaned again near her left ear. “I love you, Mom. You’ll see, someday we’ll be together in heaven. We’ll both be there with Jesus.”
Michael stood up. He looked down and memories of his mother flooded his mind: her gleaming smile that outshone his beautiful red bike that Christmas morning, her favorite chocolate-crunch bars she filled their Easter baskets with, his surprise and complete delight at hearing her guttural cheer when Billy Martin returned to the Yankees on Old-Timers’ Day, her peaceful countenance that greeted him when he stepped off the stage at his Molloy High School graduation, and the colorful birthday cakes she baked for him the first of each March.
His body trembled and shook. He held the pillow in both hands and tried to compose himself. He watched
as his mom fended off another round of piercing pain. Michael buried his face in the pillow to silence his sobs.
He removed the pillow from his face to look at her. He edged forward. As he lowered his arms, the door flung open.
His father stopped abruptly, scowling at him. “What are you doing?”
Michael was unable to speak. His father ran at him, and he suddenly relaxed, allowing himself to be pushed against the wall.
“What were you doing!?” his father demanded.
Michael dropped the pillow and pushed his father away. “I was trying to help her. She’s in a lot of pain.”
His father spoke in a hushed, direct tone. “You don’t think I know that? Don’t you think I’m trying my best here?”
Rebecca moaned. His father instinctively dropped his grip from Michael’s arm and moved quickly to her side.
“Please, Jim, I’m in so much pain,” she whimpered.
“Okay, honey, we’ll get you back to the hospital.”
With the receiver to his ear, Michael was already dialing 9 on the rotary phone.
The throbbing in his head mimicked the rhythmic beat of a phone dial, reminding him first of those late mornings after a night spent at one of the university bars. But the smell of death was what fully roused him. Rolling onto his back, Michael found himself in the shadow of a tree, his lungs heavy with dust. Unsure of himself, he looked around slowly trying to remember where he was.
The distant sound of crickets chirping their love song across the mountainside was his only response. The sound seemed to sear through his skull, resonating far too deeply in his ears. He winced as his fingers found the raised bump on the back of his head.
Then he broke from his reverie, finally remembering the circumstances of his meeting with Judas. Michael struggled to sit up. He tried to take a deep breath, but a spasm of dry coughs overwhelmed him. The full moon cast a perplexing shadow on the ground before him. Looking up, he immediately recognized the limp, motionless body of Judas, suspended from a tree branch, his head hanging at a grotesque angle.