Джон Литтл - The Murder of Jesus Christ
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- Название:The Murder of Jesus Christ
- Автор:
- Издательство:Cemetery Dance Publications
- Жанр:
- Год:2020
- Город:Baltimore
- ISBN:978-1-58767-782-3
- Рейтинг книги:3 / 5. Голосов: 1
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The Murder of Jesus Christ: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация
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What David doesn’t expect is for Jesus to reappear today as a 19-year old girl in upstate New York.
Would he believe? Would you?
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“How did it happen, then?”
I think I was about fifteen when I asked her that, and her answer reminded me how little I knew about her life.
“I was raped.”
Those three words were all I ever found out about my heritage, and as soon as she said them, I felt a confusing shame come over me, as if it was somehow my fault. I went to hug her, but she stood and went to the bathroom. She stayed there for more than an hour, and the guilt grew in me, both for how my mother was conceived in the first place and for falling into this conversation with Grandma that was obviously so hard on her.
Even now, a decade later, it weighed on me. I finished my egg salad sandwich (which included Ariela Adelman’s secret ingredients of mustard and a pinch of sugar) while I thought more about my mother.
Her name was Molly. She was a big woman, quite obese. I hate saying that, but it’s true. I’ve seen a couple of photos that Grandma had of her, and she must have been close to 250 pounds.
My mother was another of my grandmother’s secrets, things she didn’t like to talk about. Almost certainly that was partly to do with how she was conceived, but there was something else I never figured out.
I find it odd to call her Mom, so I’m going to call her Molly. She died when I was five years old, and I don’t remember anything about her.
The few other things I know from Grandma: Molly was thirty-nine years old when I was born. She also was never married. Grandma never mentioned any steady boyfriends, so it’s a mystery how Molly got pregnant with me. I hoped it was a happier story than Grandma’s, but I have no idea.
Five years after I was born, Molly Abelman was rushing down the street, with me in tow, rushing to her mother, Ariela. There was urgency to the trip, because Molly was late for work and had to drop me off for the day. Grandma would babysit.
My mother worked at a factory that made automobile tires. I don’t know anything more. I don’t know what job she did there, what the name of the company was, whether she liked what she did or hated it… nothing.
She rushed, though, and… well, it’s not really a surprise, is it? She had a massive heart attack and died on the street.
Every once in a while I try to think back to that event. Why can’t I remember anything about it? Five is old enough to have that burned into my memory forever. At least that’s what should have happened. Now, though, the only images I have of my mother are vague yells and some thumps as she walked through our home.
I don’t remember ever having a hug from her, and one question had bothered me for many years: Did my mother love me?
If she had loved me, surely I would have retained some sense of that, even now. Wouldn’t I? I’d remember her holding me, lying beside me to comfort me if I was sick, playing games or going to the beach together. Why didn’t I remember any of that?
Thinking of it made me realize how little I knew of my entire family history.
Ariela had left me the family tree over on the kitchen table, and once we were past the funeral and the grieving, I planned to research some of my family, starting with my mother. I don’t know why I never googled her name before, but it was time to find out my heritage.
Then I snapped to attention.
Why would I bother searching online for my mother, when all I had to do was go back to when she was still alive?
After all, my dead grandmother was a working time machine.
I closed my eyes and forced myself to relax. It was getting faster each time to find the right way to meditate and find the secret area of my brain that allowed me to use the Shelljah magic.
Soon, I felt the now-familiar experience of taking control of my body as a passenger. I pressed the brake pedal, and time slowed to a halt. Pressing the imaginary reverse pedal moved my body backward, backward, faster and faster. Time travel was a magical science. I had a long journey, and as I concentrated more, my body ended up blitzing into the past, my life an unfocused stream of fractional images, bright and dark flashes, and in my gut I knew how long to keep going, even though I couldn’t really understand a damned thing I was seeing as the years scattered by.
It felt like intuition, knowing the right time to stop, and when I halted travel, the images morphed to real life again.
I felt light, small, almost fragile.
My body hadn’t yet reached its fifth birthday. The consciousness that controlled it was awkward, not always knowing how to do anything. I didn’t interfere, since the shock of being a child was overpowering. I felt both my twenty-five-year-old mind and my four-year-old mind at the same time. The younger self frightened me. I wasn’t sure he had any idea what he was doing.
It didn’t occur to me to look in a mirror to find out what I looked like. I didn’t have to. I was in my own body with my own set of memories and experiences, limited though they were. I’d looked in the mirror every day to brush my teeth, and those experiences were as real as any others. I knew exactly what I looked like because I was that four-year-old.
We were outside, a nice summer day. I had a red rubber ball with a blue stripe circled around it. It was about the size of an orange.
The ball felt clumsy in my hand. I threw it against the side of our home, and when it bounced off, I almost tripped with every step I took to recover the ball again. Over and over, I played the game, because it was one of the few things I could do for fun. I had no friends, because they all laughed at me for having such a fat pig for a mother.
I wanted to hug myself and tell little David everything would turn out all right. Eventually.
My adult self didn’t remember any of this. The memories of my childhood were gone, and even re-living them didn’t help me recall anything.
After about twenty minutes, the younger me grew tired. We were sweating and our T-shirt was wet.
“Oh.”
My younger self was worried, but I didn’t know why. He hung our head in shame and thought about peeing his pants, but thankfully he didn’t.
We were worried about sweating.
Everything was confusing. It was hot, we sweated. So what?
He turned our head to stare at the back door to our home. He was afraid to go in, but he had to find the bathroom or things would be a lot worse.
One step, then slowly, another. Little David kept his head bowed down. I wanted him to lift his head and smile, to realize childhood is a privilege that doesn’t last very long, but he carried a dark cloud around with him.
As much as I wanted to, I didn’t really like my younger self.
He was scared and beaten. It shocked me to realize the “beaten” part wasn’t about him being verbally knocked down. We had been abused physically, too. Many times.
We pushed onward and finally opened the back door. The house smelled like dirty laundry and rotten fruit.
“David.”
“Hello, Mommy. I have to—”
“Come here.”
“I have to pee.”
“I said come here!”
Molly Abelman was sitting on a couch in the living room watching some TV show I didn’t recognize. She had a cigarette hanging from the side of her mouth and three empty beer bottles on the table beside her.
I knew Little David wanted to do anything at all except go to our mother. The only thing that kept him moving forward was knowing what would happen if he disobeyed her.
“Yes, Mommy?”
“You were sweating again.”
“I’m sorry.”
Our legs were weak and Little David couldn’t help himself. He grabbed his crotch with one hand to help relieve the pressure of having to urinate.
“What are you doing grabbing yourself like that?”
“I have to pee.”
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