Jesus Jackson

by James Ryan Daley

  “I know, I know. I just think we need a slightly more sophisticated set of arguments against a religion as corrupt and self-righteous as Catholicism.”

  “But Ryan, you were the one who said that we’re not supposed to be focusing on things we don’t believe. We’re supposed to be trying to find something that’s actually real.”

  “Of course,” he said quickly. “You’re right. I mean…we are looking for things that we can believe in, it’s just that…It’s just…”

  “It’s just what?”

  He dropped his pen and put his head in his hands. After a long while of silence, he whispered, “It’s just that I don’t think I can take it there, Jonathan.”

  Instantly, I knew he was talking about St. Soren’s. Up until that point he hadn’t spoken about starting school there much at all (except in the usual ways: he would miss his old friends, he wanted to try out for the football team, he heard the food there was awful…), but I knew it must have been freaking him out.

  “I figured you were dreading it. But all you’ve talked about is joining the football team and making friends and stuff.”

  He ran his palm up and down the back of his head, staring at his socks. “All that will be fine, I guess. But I’ve been talking to people. People who go there. They have these masses…and assemblies…and prayers, God, prayers before every goddamned class. The Our Father, and Hail Mary, and whatever, and you have to say them over and over and over, like it’s some kind of a brainwashing technique, and even that wouldn’t be so bad, except that everyone I’ve talked to just accepts it all. All of it. They just eat that god shit up like they’ve never thought about what it all means for one second in their whole lives.”

  Ryan seemed genuinely pained. I tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to me. After a while, he continued: “I don’t know, Jonathan. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it does go against the basic idea of what we’re doing here, and maybe we do already have more than enough reasons to not believe in this one god…but I just feel like I need more. Like if I’m going to spend the next four years surrounded by this one religion—if we’re going to sit down for an hour with a priest tomorrow—that I need every reason I can find for why this god isn’t the right one. Does that make any sense to you?”

  I thought about it, trying to put myself in his shoes. I was just facing down one meeting with Father Kevin, but Ryan was facing four years at St. Soren’s—four years of sitting in that school all day, four years of listening to those prayers, of forced confessions and communions. Four years of being an outcast—different from everyone else at the core of his personality.

  Finally, I said, “Of course, it makes perfect sense. Whatever you want to do, Ryan, I’m right behind you.”

  Now, in retrospect, I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t added those last four words; if I hadn’t promised him my complete and utter allegiance. Surely having me behind him must have bolstered his confidence, must have been a large part of egging him on to the things that he would say that next day to Father Kevin. Perhaps if I hadn’t gone along with it, things would have been different. His actions, and his philosophies, wouldn’t have descended so quickly. Perhaps everything would be different. Maybe he’d still be alive

  Twenty-three

  By my estimation, I had learned exactly three things in my first six days at St. Soren’s Academy.

  One: If I entered the school through the cafeteria loading dock exactly thirty seconds before the start of first period, I could make it all the way to my class without having to make eye contact with anyone.

  Two: Jesus Christ (or God, or the Holy Spirit, or whatever) really fucking loved my brother but decided that he should totally die anyway.

  Three: People generally seemed more comfortable the further away I was from them.

  So, considering all of that (and the fact that I really didn’t want to face Cassie), I decided not to bother with school at all on the morning after my night of espionage at the St. Claire house. It turned out to be fairly easy to get out of, luckily—no faking of nausea or headaches or fever required. I just wandered down to the kitchen in the morning and told my mom that I wasn’t quite up for it. She started beaming like it was fucking Christmas, and launched right into the preparation of yet another elaborate breakfast. I wasn’t actually hungry, but I figured it was a small price to pay for a free day off school.

  She was so excited that she forgot to call my father to tell him not to pick me up for school. So about twenty minutes later I heard a knock on my bedroom door, and his voice calling, “You ready, champ?”

  I shuffled over and cracked the door. “Champ of what?”

  He looked uncomfortable and confused, but only for a moment. “I don’t know…whatever you want. Why are you still in your pajamas?” He gave me a little pretend punch in the arm. “Let’s get this show on the road, little buddy!” This was just like my father. It was as if he picked up all of these catch phrases and behaviors from watching fake fathers on TV, but could never quite get the timing right.

  “I’m not going to school today,” I said, shuffling back to bed. “Didn’t you notice Mom making breakfast?”

  He shook his head, taking a few steps into the room. “No, I didn’t notice.”

  “Didn’t she tell you anything?”

  “She mumbled something…about something…but I didn’t really catch it.” He wandered over to my desk and began inspecting the piles of junk, books, and magazines, as if he actually knew, or cared to know, anything about them at all. “So are you not feeling well?”

  “I just don’t think I can deal today.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  There was a long pause.

  “So…,” I said, waiting for him to take the hint, and leave. “You don’t have to, you know, drive me anywhere.”

  “Were you aware,” my father said, clearly pretending not to have heard me, “that the Buddhists believe that when someone close to you dies you should do good works? That is, you should work hard—or a lot, rather—to, I guess, help them along.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m just saying…that’s what the Buddhists believe. That you should work, hard…or good…I think they’re the same thing.”

  “Since when do you care what Buddhists think?” My father had never once uttered a word about religion that didn’t fall somewhere between sarcasm and disdain. That’s not to say that he’d ever professed himself an atheist, exactly. He just seemed to think the whole subject was a pointless waste of time…like video games or celebrity gossip. So frankly, it was a bit worrying that he’d chosen this particular moment to start preaching to me about Buddhism.

  “I just find it interesting,” he said, looking even more uncomfortable than usual. “And helpful. That’s all. I think they have some good points, especially about death.”

  “You? Think the Buddhists have good points? About death?” This was too much to comprehend at such an hour of the morning. “What’s next, are you going to start saying the Pope has some good theories on birth control?”

  He shot me a slightly annoyed, sidelong glance. He looked as if he was about to reprimand me, but thought better of it. Instead, he walked over and sat at the foot of my bed, giving the mattress a tap (which was a major sign of affection, for him). “Do you think Ryan believed in God? I mean, really believed?”

  “No,” I replied, although of course I had been obsessing about this question for the entire past week. “Why, do you?”

  “I don’t know. He seemed to. He told me he did.”

  I propped myself up on my elbows. “He did? Really? When?”

  “About a year ago, after a game. They had been down by twelve for most of the first three quarters, and pulled off a win with just a few minutes to go. He told me the coach prayed with them during halftime, and that’s why they won. At first, I thought he was jok
ing.”

  “He wasn’t?”

  “He said he wasn’t, and acted sort of annoyed when I thought he was. It’s just that…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know…it was probably nothing.”

  “What was it? What happened?”

  My father paused, seeming unsure how to put his thoughts into words. “I just didn’t believe him. It just felt like he was giving me a line.”

  I lay back down and stared up at the ceiling, unsure what to make of any of this. Ryan never said anything like that to me, and I just couldn’t picture him saying it to my father. And if he had, what did it mean? I could understand why he’d lie to Mom about believing in God, and even Tristan. But our father? The only sense I could possibly make of it was that Ryan was lying to himself as much as he was lying to our dad. But why? Is that faith? Just lying to yourself without questioning anything? Is that what Jesus Jackson was trying to “build” for me?

  “But anyway,” my father continued, interrupting my train of thought. “Forget about all that. Do you want to go get some breakfast or something?”

  “Mom’s making me some already,” I pulled the comforter up tight around my neck. “I already told you that.”

  He stood, nodded. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, okay?”

  “Yup.”

  And then he walked out the door, leaving me reeling, lost. So my father’s a Buddhist? Is this really what’s happening? And my brother—the person who first told me that God doesn’t even exist, who taught me how to doubt and question and deny every religion on Earth, especially Christianity—my brother believed that God had won his fucking football game?

  I couldn’t take it anymore. It was one thing for a bunch of relative strangers at school to make assumptions about Ryan’s faith, but for our own father to do it? That was just too much.

  It seemed pretty clear that I needed to talk to Jesus Jackson.

  Twenty-four

  The obvious problem, however, was that having stayed home from school, I couldn’t just go waltzing past St. Soren’s front door and onto the football field. For a few minutes I considered waiting until three, but then, of course, there would be people all around, with practice until six…and this just couldn’t wait an entire day.

  I decided to take the stealth route. After sneaking out the back door, I skateboarded up to the school, stopping just at the edge of the far fields. The main drive up to the front steps was too obvious, so I looked around for a slightly more hidden entrance. Unfortunately, the only thing I could find was a narrow pathway between the chain-link fence and some large, prickly bushes. I’d clearly have to crawl for a long way if I took it, but from where I stood it seemed that it would lead me right to the gate of the football field unseen.

  So I went for it, crawling and squeezing and scratching my way along. By the time I emerged out by the bleachers, my shirt was ripped, my jeans were muddy, my hair was a mess, and I had tiny scratches all over my forearms.

  But, at last, I walked out onto that empty field to find…nothing. No Jesus. Not even Nino.

  I took a moment to consider what was happening. After all, thus far, every time I’d come to the football field to look for Jesus, he’d been there, so it never occurred to me that maybe I had just been fortunate in my timing. I mean, he probably had other clients, a home, or maybe even another job to go to.

  But then again, maybe not. Maybe he just waltzed into town, snagged as much deposit money as he could, and waltzed right out when he had his fill.

  I walked out onto the field, staring out toward the woods and all around, but I didn’t see anything. Eventually, I wound up lying down flat in the end zone, staring at the lazy autumn clouds. Well, I thought, I guess this is what’s become of my big plan. I had nothing on Alistair, Henry hated me, I made a fool of myself with Cassie, and to top it all, I got ripped off by Jesus.

  Oh yeah, and my brother was still dead. I didn’t want to forget about that one.

  I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into the damp grass, feeling the wind blow right over me. And just as I was really getting comfortable with my self-pity, I heard a rustling just beyond the edge of the track. I peeked one eye open, strained my head up a bit to see, and there was Jesus Jackson, walking straight at me from the other side of the field.

  I realized right away, though, that something was wrong. Jesus was limping. At first, I assumed he was just walking funny, like he was almost dancing, with a little beat in his step, but as he came closer I realized he was dragging his left foot behind him. Then when he got closer, I began to see that there were rips and scuffmarks and grass stains on his suit, and that his right hand was dangling as limply as his left foot.

  I hopped to my feet and ran across the field to help him walk. And as I approached I saw that his face was haggard and beaten: his right eye swollen and black, his cheekbones bruised and puffy, and there was dried blood around the outside of his mouth and in his beard.

  “Jesus,” I yelled as I ran up and put my arm around his shoulder, supporting some of his weight. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Some…,” he began, struggling for breath. “…hooligans…in the woods…I was just walking…jumped me….”

  “Who were they? What did they look like? Was it Alistair?”

  Jesus stopped walking, shaking his head as he bent over and put his palms on his knees. “No…they were…older, I think…definitely not high school…kids.”

  “What did they want? Did they steal anything?”

  “I don’t…have anything.”

  “Well we need to get you the emergency room. You could have internal bleeding or something.”

  Jesus stood upright, or as upright as he could. “No,” he said sternly. “I’ll be fine. Just…help me over to the bleachers.”

  So we walked the last few yards across the football field, and up into the stands. Jesus sat down, very slowly, clutching his right knee and wincing as he lowered himself onto the bleachers. He wiped some sweat off his brow and some blood off his lip with the sleeve of his tattered suit, and he said, “So, Jonathan. What’s up?”

  I still wanted to hear more about this mysterious assault, but since Jesus didn’t seem very open to talking, I sat down and filled him in on my own depressing circumstances, starting with Cassie in the cafeteria, and going all the way through Tristan outside the St. Claires’ house. It’s funny, but as I recalled it all for Jesus, it seemed so improbable (and even impressive) that I’d actually done all of that stuff. For my whole life, I’d been the guy standing on the edge of everything, never diving in with more than a sarcastic comment or joke. And now I was right in the center of the action. Hell, I was the action. Of course, my self-satisfaction only lasted until I finished telling the story…when I had to admit that, of course, I was no better off than when I started.

  After I finished, Jesus looked at me, nodded sincerely, then struggled to his feet, holding on to my shoulder for support.

  “Good,” he said. “So things are going well. Keep it up.” Then he began to limp back toward the field, as if he was just going to walk off and leave me there.

  I jumped up and took off after him. “What are you talking about? Things are going horribly. I’ve made no progress, I’ve alienated Henry, and I’ve ruined my chances with Cassie!”

  Jesus stopped and snapped his head around. “Chances for what?”

  “For…well, you know…the investigation. To get any information.”

  “Ah,” he said, clearly suppressing a smile. “Well, you have two options, the way I see it.” He wiped a fresh drop of blood from under his nose onto his soiled white sleeve. “Your first option is to give up. Consider yourself beaten, and just go on with your life. Finish high school, go to college, get married, have babies, and die without ever resolving anything, and try your best to ignore that nagging doubt that you did the wrong thin
g, or that persistent feeling that you’ll never know the truth.”

  I chuckled. “That’s about what I was thinking I would do.”

  “Or you could take plan B.”

  “Which is?”

  “Seize the opportunity.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Pick yourself up and make something happen! Take charge of the situation, use your resources, find the truth!”

  “And how do I do that, exactly?”

  Jesus began to pace, growing excited. His injuries seemed to be fading right in front of me. “First of all, I doubt you’ve ruined anything with anyone. I would bet cash money that it won’t take anything more than a simple apology to get Henry back on your side.”

  I kicked at the grass. “I guess.”

  “And what about Tristan?”

  “What about her?”

  “She seems to be pretty sympathetic to your plan. Why don’t you put her to work? Use her as a distraction for Alistair, or something?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean, maybe? Now is not the time for maybes. Now is the time to act!”

  “Sure.” I said. “Fine. But how exactly do you propose I do all of that?”

  Jesus stopped pacing. “I haven’t the slightest idea. You’ll have to figure out that one for yourself.”

  I put my head in my hands. Figures. This Jesus was turning out to be about as much help as the other one. “Well what are you going to do, then?” I asked him.

  “About what?”

  “Getting all beat up. I guess you’ve got the same two options as I do, right?”

  A sneaky little smile crept onto his face. “Oh, I’m choosing plan B.”

  “And what is that?”

  His smile turned into a frown—chilling, terrifying, dangerous. “Oh, I’m going back into those woods,” he said. “But don’t you worry about me. You’ve got your own plan to worry about, young man.” And with that he turned and walked back across the field—not even the hint of a limp in his stride—until he disappeared into the trees.