Finally she got Jesus alone for a minute.
"You look great," he said.
She tried to pull the door shut, but it jammed on the rug, and anyway there were costumes hung over the top of it, a robe dragging from the doorknob. Saints and believers crowded around in the hallway outside, cackling and babbling and craning their heads. Jesus smiled sympathetically at her in the mirror; she shrugged, and gave up on the door. He squeezed her hand again as she took the seat next to him.
"I'm sorry to keep bothering you," she said, but he stopped her.
"You know you're always welcome." He sat back, rested his cheek on his hand. "I've been thinking about you."
"I was talking to one of the kids at work about you," she said.
"I saw that. Julian."
"Well, he needed it. He's been driving me crazy."
"I like Julian," Jesus said. "He has a hard time."
"I know," she said. She watched him ruffling his hair, with his collarbones weathered over the rough weave of his peasant clothing; feathered masks and trinkets hung from pegs on either side. She tried not to look too hard at his hands. His face was exactly the right sort of face--perfectly masculine, powerful and tanned and bearded, and at the same time irresistibly gentle. He always looked straight back into her eyes, with his perfect total sympathy, his infinite attention focused all on her, as long as she needed it. Here, at last, was a person to trust. And there at the door behind them was a false god peering into the room, blue and with too many arms. Jesus waved him back out. Even here! "Jesus," she said, "can I ask you something?"
"What's up?" He turned to face her, eyes brightly curious. She hesitated.
"I don't mean to criticize--"
"Everybody does it," he said.
"It's just--I don't understand why you'd let this kind of thing go on," she said, flapping her hand at the hubbub outside the door. "Have you seen what's happening down there?"
"Sure."
"Everybody has a different story. And they all claim to be speaking for you."
"I know," he said. "I can't even keep them all straight any more." He cocked an eyebrow at her. His every movement was graceful, exact--he poured her a glass from a cut glass decanter--and his fingernails were arched and smooth. The skin over his knuckles was darker and rougher than the wood of the table. It was hard to concentrate at all, he was so charming. His eyes sparkled: "They mean well by it, you know."
"Look," she said, "I'm not just talking about Mohammed and Krishna. I'm talking about Paul, too, to tell you the truth."
"Well, Paul," he answered chuckling; "well, I know."
"And a lot of people. It's impossible to sort out."
"I think they keep things fresh," he said reasonably.
"What?"
"Maybe they have truths of their own to offer. Maybe they're seeing different parts of the same picture."
"Well, if it's like that, then tell us so," she insisted. "Can't you just tell us? Once and for all, tell us what is your word and what isn't?"
He looked away for a second, then back into her eyes, serene. "I told you once."
Christine, Dreaming