Part 20 (2/2)

I took a deep breath. ”Remember when you were little, a kid-and you'd fall asleep in the car? And someone would carry you out and put you into bed, so that when you woke up in the morning, you knew automatically you were home again? That's what I think it's like to die.”

”That would be good,” Shay said, his voice deeper, groggy. ”It'll be nice to know what home looks like.”

A phrase I'd read just an hour ago slipped into my mind like a splinter: The Father's kingdom is spread out upon the earth, and people don't see it. The Father's kingdom is spread out upon the earth, and people don't see it.

Although I knew it wasn't the right time, although I knew I was supposed to be here for Shay, instead of the other way around, I leaned closer, until my words could fall into the sh.e.l.l of his ear. ”Where did you find the Gospel of Thomas?” I whispered.

Shay stared at me blankly. ”Thomas who?” he said, and then his eyes drifted shut.

As I drove away from the prison, I heard Father Walter's voice: He's conned you. He's conned you. But when I'd mentioned the Gospel of Thomas, I hadn't seen even the slightest flicker of recognition in Shay's eyes, and he'd been drugged-it would have been awfully hard to keep dissembling. But when I'd mentioned the Gospel of Thomas, I hadn't seen even the slightest flicker of recognition in Shay's eyes, and he'd been drugged-it would have been awfully hard to keep dissembling.

Was this what it had felt like for the Jews who met Jesus and recognized him as more than just a gifted rabbi? I had no point of comparison. I'd grown up Catholic; I'd become a priest. I could not remember a time that I hadn't believed Jesus was the Messiah.

I knew someone, though, who could.

Rabbi Bloom didn't have a temple, because it had burned down, but he did rent office s.p.a.ce close to the school where services were held. I was waiting in front of the locked door when he arrived just before eight a.m.

”Wow,” he said, taking in the vision in front of him-a red-eyed, rumpled priest clutching a motorcycle helmet and the Nag Hammadi texts. ”I would have let you borrow it longer than one night.”

”Why don't Jews believe Jesus was the Messiah?”

He unlocked the door to the office. ”That's going to take at least a cup and a half of coffee,” Bloom said. ”Come on in.”

He started brewing a pot and offered me a seat. His office looked a lot like Father Walter's at St. Catherine's-inviting, comfortable. A place you'd want to sit and talk. Unlike Father Walter's, though, Rabbi Bloom's plants were the real thing. Father Walter's were plastic, bought by the Ladies' Aid, when he kept killing everything from a ficus to an African violet.

”It's a wandering Jew,” the rabbi said when he saw me checking out the flowerpot. ”Maggie's little idea of a joke.”

”I just got back from the prison. Shay Bourne had another seizure.”

”Did you tell Maggie?”

”Not yet.” I looked at him. ”You didn't answer my question.”

”I haven't had my coffee.” He got up and poured us each a cup, putting milk and sugar in mine without asking first. ”Jews don't think Jesus was the Messiah because he didn't fulfill the criteria for a Jewish messiah. It's really pretty simple, and it's all laid out by Maimonides. A Jewish mos.h.i.+ach mos.h.i.+ach will bring the Jews back to Israel and set up a government in Jerusalem that's the center of political power for the world, for both Jews and Gentiles. He'll rebuild the Temple and reestablish Jewish law as the governing law of the land. He'll raise the dead-all of the dead-and usher in a great age of peace, when everyone believes in G.o.d. He'll be a descendant of David, a king and a warrior, a judge, and a great leader ... but he'll also be firmly, unequivocally will bring the Jews back to Israel and set up a government in Jerusalem that's the center of political power for the world, for both Jews and Gentiles. He'll rebuild the Temple and reestablish Jewish law as the governing law of the land. He'll raise the dead-all of the dead-and usher in a great age of peace, when everyone believes in G.o.d. He'll be a descendant of David, a king and a warrior, a judge, and a great leader ... but he'll also be firmly, unequivocally human human.” Bloom set the cup down in front of me. ”We believe that in every generation, a person's born with the potential to become the mos.h.i.+ach mos.h.i.+ach. But if the messianic age doesn't come and that person dies, then that person isn't him.”

”Like Jesus.”

”Personally, I've always seen Jesus as a great Jewish patriot. He was a good Jew, who probably wore a yarmulke and obeyed the Torah, and never planned to start a new religion. He hated the Romans and wanted to get them out of Jerusalem. He got charged with political rebellion, sentenced to execution. Yes, a Jewish high priest carried it out-Caiaphas-but most Jews back then hated Caiaphas anyway because he was the henchman for the Romans.” He looked up at me over the edge of his coffee mug. ”Was Jesus a good guy? Yeah. Great teacher? Sure. Messiah? Dunno.”

”A lot of the Bible's predictions for the messianic era were were fulfilled by Jesus-” fulfilled by Jesus-”

”But were they the crucial ones?” Rabbi Bloom asked. ”Let's say you didn't know who I was and I asked you to meet me. I told you I'd be standing outside the Steeplegate Mall at ten o'clock wearing a Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt and that I'd have curly red hair and be listening to Outkast on my iPod. And at ten o'clock, you saw someone standing outside the Steeplegate Mall who had curly red hair and was wearing a Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt and listening to Outkast on an iPod ... but it was a woman. Would you still think it was me?”

He stood up to refill his coffee. ”Do you know what I heard on NPR on the way over here today? Another bus blew up in Israel. Three more kids from New Hamps.h.i.+re died in Iraq. And the cops just arrested some guy in Manchester who shot his ex-wife in front of their two kids. If Jesus ushered in the messianic era, and the world I hear about on the news is one of peace and redemption ... well, I'd rather wait for a different mos.h.i.+ach mos.h.i.+ach.” He glanced back at me. ”Now, if you don't mind me asking you you a question ... what's a priest doing at a rabbi's office at eight in the morning asking questions about the Jewish Messiah?” a question ... what's a priest doing at a rabbi's office at eight in the morning asking questions about the Jewish Messiah?”

I got up and began to walk around the little room. ”The book you loaned me-it got me thinking.”

”And that's a bad thing?”

”Shay Bourne has said things, verbatim, that I read last night in the Gospel of Thomas.”

”Bourne? He's read Thomas? I thought Maggie said he-”

”-has no religious training to speak of, and a minimal education.”

”It's not like the Gideons leave the Gospel of Thomas in hotel rooms,” Rabbi Bloom said. ”Where would he have-”

”Exactly.”

He steepled his fingers. ”Huh.”

I placed the book he'd loaned me on his desk. ”What would you do if you began to second-guess everything you believed?”

Rabbi Bloom leaned forward and riffled through his Rolodex. ”I would ask more questions,” he said. He scribbled down something on a Post-it and handed it to me.

Ian Fletcher, I read. 603-555-1367. 603-555-1367.

Lucius

The night Shay had his second seizure, I was awake, gathering ink that I planned to use to give myself another tattoo. If I do say so myself, I'm rather proud of my homemade tattoos. I had five-my rationale being that my body, up until three weeks ago, wasn't worth much more than being a canvas for my art; plus the threat of getting AIDS from a dirty needle was obviously a moot point. On my left ankle was a clock, with the hands marking the moment of Adam's death. On my left shoulder was an angel, and below it an African tribal design. On my right leg was a bull, because I was a Taurus; and swimming beside it was a fish, for Adam, who was a Pisces. I had grand plans for this sixth one, which I planned to put right on my chest: the word BELIEVE BELIEVE, in Gothic letters. I'd practiced the art in reverse multiple times in pencil and pen, until I felt sure that I could replicate it with my tattoo gun as I worked in the mirror.

My first gun had been confiscated by the COs, like Crash's hype kit. It had taken me six months to ama.s.s the parts for the new one. Making ink was hard to do, and harder to get away with-which was why I had chosen to work on this during the deadest hours of the night. I had lit a plastic spoon on fire, keeping the flame small so I could catch the smoke in a plastic bag. It stank horribly, and just as I was getting certain the COs would literally get wind of it and shut down my operation, Shay Bourne collapsed next door.

This time, his seizure had been different. He'd screamed-so loud that he woke up the whole pod, so loud that the finest dust of plaster drifted down from the ceilings of our cells. To be honest, Shay was such a mess when he was wheeled off I-tier that none of us were sure whether or not he'd be returning-which is why I was stunned to see him being led back to his cell the very next day.

”Po-lice,” Joey Kunz yelled, just in time for me to hide the pieces of my tattoo gun underneath the mattress. The officers locked Shay into his cell, and as soon as the door to I-tier shut behind them, I asked Shay how he was feeling.

”My head hurts,” he said. ”I have to go to sleep.”

With Crash still off the tier after the hype kit transgression, things were quieter. Calloway slept most days and stayed up nights with his bird; Texas and Pogie played virtual poker; Joey was listening to his soaps. I waited an extra few minutes to make sure the officers were otherwise occupied out in the control booth and then I reached underneath my mattress again.

I had unraveled a guitar string to its central core, a makes.h.i.+ft needle. This was inserted into a pen whose ink cartridge had been removed-and a small piece of its tip sawed off and attached to the other end of the needle, which was attached to the motor shaft of a ca.s.sette player. The pen was taped to a toothbrush bent into an L shape, which let you hold the contraption more easily. You could adjust the needle length by sliding the pen casing back and forth; all that was left was plugging in the AC adapter of the ca.s.sette player, and I had a functional tattoo gun again.

The soot I'd captured the previous night had been mixed with a few drops of shampoo to liquefy it. I stood in front of the stainless steel panel that served as a mirror, and scrutinized my chest. Then, gritting my teeth against the pain, I turned on the gun. The needle moved back and forth in an elliptical orbit, piercing me hundreds of times per minute.

There it was, the letter B B.

”Lucius?” Shay's voice drifted into my house.

”I'm sort of busy, Shay.”

”What's that noise?”

”None of your business.” I lifted it to my skin again, felt the needle working against me, a thousand arrows striking.

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