Book of Judas--A Novel

by Linda Stasi

  Too bad there’s not an off-the-job-firefighters calendar because my boy Roy would be Mr. February—everybody’s fantasy valentine, I thought.

  Before I left, I asked the librarians—yes, newsrooms still have librarians who can help you with research—to collect whatever they could find on the Judas Gospel. And there was a ton. What I was interested in—and what turned out to be confirmed in the digital clips—was that yes, the Gospel had been found in the same Citibank branch where I knew Morris had in fact been the manager. And yes, it had moldered into thousands of pieces—some totally unrecoverable.

  I told Bob I was leaving to get Roy before he spilled to someone else—which was true in a way—but I actually headed home first on the subway. I needed to spend an hour with Terry if I was going to be out that night, and I needed to see if the sitter could stay late.

  As I was climbing down the slippery subway stairs—it had started to rain—I called Roy. “Don’t say a frigging word to anyone. If you talk to any other reporter, you drunken sot, I will make sure you end up with Morris!” I was joking, but not really.

  “Like I would.” He laughed. “Anyway, I’m heading back to my own place. My fifteen minutes appear to be over already. The news vans thought it was more interesting to follow the corpse than to follow me.”

  “Fickle bastards. Thank you, Jesus! And I say that with all due respect to Orthodox Morris. I’m going home to spend an hour with Terry and get my car. I’ll be out to you in two hours max.”

  I knew this was a bigger, hotter story than the other news fiends realized because I knew Roy and I knew Morris Golden and they didn’t. I needed a good look around that bad house.

  It would be weird to see the place—we’d lived next door to each other when we were growing up—but Roy spent most of his time at our house, since his dad didn’t want kids around.

  Like I said, Morris was as mean as he was tight. He had been the bank manager of that Broadway branch of Citibank in Hicksville, Long Island, for as long as I could remember. There was nothing fancy or even interesting about the branch—just a regular dumb suburban kind of place, where my parents had their account and where I even had my first savings account. It might have moved and changed since, but it was definitely the same branch back then.

  Mr. Golden was one of those men who were tyrants at home and to his employees at work but managed to be so obsequious to his bosses and anyone with money (of which there were very few in Hicksville) that he rose from teller to branch manager. He had the job for at least twenty-five or thirty years until he retired. I knew him to be dull and gray. What I never ever figured him to be, however, was a bazillionaire international black market antiquities dealer. That was as likely as my having had a secret life as a Brazilian butt model.

  It was all as unlikely as Roy surviving at all, and managing to even become a legendary surfer out of Atlantic and Gilgo Beaches on Long Island’s South Shore, while being gay among all those Irish Catholic macho surfer boys.… But that had happened, so who knew what else those Golden men were capable of?

  I was the first—and only one—Roy came out to when we were fourteen. I came out to him at the same time and admitted I would now have to stay a virgin forever since I’d planned our lives up to and including four kids. Well, between my stints as a war reporter and his as an astronaut, I mean. I did become a war reporter anyway.

  Roy taught me to surf; I taught him to shop. We taught each other how to kiss. I (we) fantasized about killing his father when I wasn’t planning out the rest of our lives. I grew out of that fantasy. I sincerely hoped Roy had.

  I hopped off the subway and walked the six blocks home to my bundle of a baby boy, Pantera “Terry” Russo. Big name for such a little guy.

  Terry had my last name, Russo, which left everyone wondering who his father actually was. My ex-husband, Donald Zaluckyj, swore it was his, because we’d had one, just one, relapse, after crying in our margaritas over missed stories. And that had happened just before I was handed the biggest story of my life, ironically. But Donald was wrong about Terry’s parenthood. So wrong.

  I didn’t need (and didn’t take) a DNA test to know that Terry was the son of my one true love, Yusef Pantera. OK, yes, I had only known Pantera for less than one week before he was killed by a sixty-eight-year-old crazy-ass female former assassin for the CIA (don’t ask), but the love we shared didn’t die when he did. I still loved him. Dead or not, I pined for the man. Always will, I thought. Who was I kidding? Life with Pantera would never have been normal. He would never have been a good father, not really. Always running off to do whatever the hell he did.

  Seeing Pantera gunned down was the worst moment of my life, but during that earth-shattering week we’d shared—uncovering such a gigantic story—we managed not only to fall in love, but to produce our miracle baby. I grieved that Terry would never know his father, but I rejoiced that he did have such a man as his father.

  Back when I was married to Donald I had been told that I could never conceive and I guess that was what eventually drove us apart. Without the glue of a child to hold us together, we—Donald is a wild man photojournalist, and I, a risk-taking reporter who’d had my share of ups and downs—were each too driven, too hungry for the great “get” (exclusive story) to stay in one place with each other long enough to make it work. We were always off to cover some war or other tragedy, usually separately.

  How in hell did we ever think it would last? We met during the invasion of Iraq, got married with bombs in the background, a few of our drunken reporter friends as witnesses in what was left of the only decent bar in Baghdad. It was a wild, passionate, and dangerous marriage. Of course it was destined not to last. But it was fun while it did. Sort of.

  Now I found myself with the infant I was never supposed to have, with acclaim I never expected to get for a story that I could never have imagined would have happened, and yet still fighting to stay on top of the game.

  In the olden days—like ten years ago—a reporter had time to research a story, get to the truth. Now we’re all so worried that someone else will grab it and get it up online before we do that, too often, we rush to write and upload before all the facts are in. It’s just the way it is.

  As soon as I got home, I grabbed up my Terry as he laughed his wondrous baby laugh, and swirled him around the room. My glee was short-lived though as my sitter/nanny, Anna, had some news of her own. All bad. Her mother in Guiana had suffered a stroke and was in critical condition. Anna had to fly home ASAP.

  Great. My sitter had to leave for who knew how long, my parents were off on some do-gooder mission in Africa (my mom’s a pediatrician and my father, a social worker), and I was sitting on the biggest story to come my way this year and had no one to watch Terry.

  Let me backtrack a sec. Sure I’d been a Pulitzer finalist, and sure I was a hard-nosed reporter, but the truth was that newswomen just can’t take maternity leave and expect to come back to the same position. The news doesn’t wait for a mother to bond with her baby. Period. Men usually don’t take maternity leave but if they do, people think they’re sensitive and special. When women do, we need to fight to get back to where we were before we left.

  But the cold hard facts right that second were that I had a baby to support and I had to get back on top—and stop being viewed as the “older” reporter in the room. I was forty-freaking-three, not ninety-freaking-three!

  And now I was a forty-freaking-three-year-old reporter without a sitter. “Of course, Anna,” I said, hugging her so that the three of us were in a circle embrace. “Do what you have to do.” I wasn’t going to put her in the position I’d been put in—for taking time with her family. At the same time, I was freaking out. I mean, Terry was six months old, and I was sitting on a hot story, which I might not be able to pursue, and I could actually lose my job for taking another leave.

  As I was walking down the hall to throw out a bag of garbage in the compactor room, I ran into my neighbors, a retired couple, Raylene and Da
ne Judson. They’d been my neighbors for nearly a year, and I liked them a lot, within reason. Raylene was kooky and dressed like an old hippie, which she was. Ditto Dane, who had a long, gray ponytail. They could often be seen meditating out by the East River path next to our apartment building. They’d even gotten me into the practice. Sort of.

  They knew all kinds of interesting, esoteric stuff, and seemed to be loaded—they had made their money in an herbal alternative-medicine company—and were always jetting off to some exotic locale here or there. I’d water their plants and collect their mail. In a way they were similar to my parents—also aging hippies. Imagine being in your late seventies and still spry and curious and healthy and fun. And yes, in love.

  Why they didn’t live in some high-end condo I didn’t know, but I was glad they had decided to move here and was even happier that they’d ended up just down the hall from me, modest as our building was compared to what they could have afforded.

  They were approaching the elevator when I came trudging down the hall with the garbage bag. “Alessandra! We just saw the story you broke online! Wow. Good for you,” Dane said. He was dressed in one of those short-sleeved Caribbean suits that never look good outside of the Caribbean.

  “You go girl!” chimed in Raylene, apparently channeling Janis Joplin today, her curly hair loose and crazy. “We’re so proud of you! Where do you go with this story now? I always find that reporter process so interesting!” She tended to talk as though every sentence ended in an exclamation point.

  I shrugged. “It’s a problem, unfortunately, but one I’ll figure out I’m sure.”

  “Whatever do you mean, dear girl?” Dane asked. “This is huge. Even I know that and I’m just a guy who spent half my life looking for herbs in the jungle!”

  I pursed my lips. “Anna’s mother had a stroke and my parents are in Africa. I don’t want a stranger babysitting.”

  “What about your ex-husband? He seems like a nice enough fellow,” Raylene said.

  “Yes, he is. Sometimes. But he has as hectic a job as I do,” I answered, “but hopefully he can pitch in once in a while.”

  Just then the elevator came, and as she was getting in Raylene added, almost pleaded actually, “Let us know if we can help you out. We’re usually free as birds!”

  Could I? Nah.

  I thanked them and heard her saying to Dane as the door closed, “I think she figures we’re a couple of old potheads.”

  The elevator went down before I could hear his answer.

  4

  I called Roy to tell him about the Anna situation.

  “Hicksville no, Quijote sí,” I said, not knowing really if I’d “sí” or not see him later. He could always just come over to my apartment for some takeout.

  Next I called Donald the ex, of the too-sexy long hair and new ridiculous handlebar mustache. I was hoping he’d help me out by watching Terry later.

  “Hey, babe,” he said. “You knocked it outta the park today with the ten mil story! Great get.”

  “Who could imagine Roy of all people could be part of such a story,” I said, still shocked myself.

  “Ah, your pal Roy,” he said, and I smiled to think how Donald would be shaking his shaggy head. “I swear that guy just pretends he’s gay so he can grab your ass without getting in trouble. I should try that. But damn! Now the guy’s rich, so he can come out of the closet, admit he’s straight, and sweep you off your feet. Come to think of it, I’d even go gay myself for ten mil.”

  “You are such a jerk! He’s my best friend—or my best guy friend, anyway—as you know.”

  My best girlfriend was Dona Grimm, who was seven years my junior in age and almost a foot my senior in height. She was a cocoa-skinned beauty who was a helluva reporter, even though at over six feet (not counting her spikes and towering retro Afro) she could have been walking the catwalks of Europe. I would have asked her to babysit, but I knew that I’d be leaning on her heavily to help me with Terry in the coming days.

  “So Donald—”

  “Let me guess,” he cut me off, “you must want something or you wouldn’t be calling me. The answer is no.”

  I could hear music and glasses clinking in the background.

  “Are you in Afghanistan or just some dingy bar somewhere unspeakable?”

  “Dingy bar yes, Afghanistan no, unspeakable probably.”

  “Dear God. A strip joint in the daylight? Are you insane, or more importantly are you in New York?”

  “Yes, I am, and I’ll have you know it’s not just any strip joint. Clippers. I’ve got a credit here. Joey the owner owes me three K. I’m having their breakfast special, steak and eggs.”

  “Breakfast is over,” I reminded him. Then, “They cook breakfast there?”

  “No.”

  “Never mind, I’m terrified to go further with this conversation. I need a favor.”

  “I hate to repeat myself, but no.”

  “It involves Terry.”

  “Oh, my son! Well, that’s different.”

  “No, I mean, the one who isn’t your son. That Terry. Are you by any chance free tonight to help me out by watching not-your-son?” I knew I was pushing my luck here. Adding, “Anna has to fly back to Guiana and I need to meet Roy about the story.”

  “This is the kind of person you leave my son with—someone who just up and leaves?”

  “Her mother had a stroke, for God’s sake, and I’m leaving him with you, am I not?”

  “What time?”

  “Six thirty? But have you been drinking?”

  “No. I’m sober as a judge.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Of course I’ll be sober. You’re trusting me to babysit our son, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, Jesus. You’re like a child yourself—always have to get the last word. Not your son…”

  “He is,” he said and hung up, getting the last word, of course. The guy does have a certain charm, which is how we ended up together in the first place. Bad boys have always been bad news for me.

  Take Yusef Pantera. I knew Donald had always been my excuse for not ever getting involved with anyone of any substance. Then Pantera happened to me.

  Astrophysicist by training, assassin by birthright (hey, nobody’s perfect). He had also been the appointed guardian/father of the baby who became the man who became the accused terrorist/savior Demiel ben Yusef. Pantera became my lover because, well, because it happened. Fate. Oy. I had turned into my mother, after all, with all that silly fate stuff.

  But the thing is, I had no intention of ever falling in love with Yusef Pantera. I mean, at first I mistook the guy for a German, or a Seventh Avenue garmento with his bespoke suit and slick haircut. Worse, I thought he was trying to kill me. When a man blows up your car, you can’t help but assume he’s trying to kill you, right?

  But then Montségur happened. And Carcassonne happened. And the relic with the DNA of Jesus happened.

  I never really accepted Pantera’s death. Not in my heart. Of course I saw the pillar fall on top of him, followed by a collapsing, burning wall. I saw him get shot. But the thing is, I never saw him die, and I never found his name on the Red Cross’s rolls of dead-and-missing in the unit set up in the mountains of Manoppello after the earthquake.

  Yes, I knew he was dead, he had to be, but I didn’t accept the fact that he was dead. One thing I did absolutely know though? If he were still alive, he would have come when his son was born no matter what shape he was in.

  Stop! This isn’t helping anyone. You can’t whine over what can’t be when you have to deal with what is right this second. And right this second you don’t have baby backup.

  After my daily self-slap for pining for what couldn’t be, I did what I could: I reserved Anna a seat on the next flight to Guiana (check), convinced Roy—again—not to talk to any other news outlet (check), called Bob several times to assure him I was on the story like black on pavement (check), and did my mommy chores (check, check).

>   After Anna left in tears despite my assurances that strokes weren’t fatal like in the old days, as though I really knew anything about it, I got Terry ready for a walk in the beautiful late spring air. Why not? I’d earned my keep for the day and was going to be working that night.

  “Who wants to go for a walk with Mommy?” I tickled Terry’s tummy, just so I could hear him laugh again.

  I kissed his face, fed him his bottle, then changed his diaper and sang, “Don’tcha pee on me, little Terry, don’t pee on me!” at which point he of course sent a giant stream right into my face.

  Laughing, I cleaned us both up, bundled him up, put him in the stroller—which was about the size of a 1970 Buick—and walked out, babbling to him the whole way.

  “So Terry, here’s the place where you will probably get your first ice cream cone,” I said, pointing out the Mister Softee truck. Terry looked over, intrigued by the jingle, which the driver wasn’t allowed by NYC proclamation to continuously play anymore. Terry was apparently the only person in New York who loved it. We walked from Twenty-Third Street to Forty-Second Street, crisscrossing from First Avenue to Second Avenue. Then, “Here’s where Mommy used to work,” I said, pointing out the old Daily News building with the giant globe built into the floor. As we walked on, and approached Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza, abutting the United Nations, memories, good and bad, came flooding back. It was, after all, the park where I first laid eyes on Yusef Pantera.

  Dona met me and we bought a couple of hot dogs and split a knish. As we were catching up on the bench, our food on napkins between us, I looked up and saw the Judsons walking arm in arm, apparently coming from the U.N.