Lamb: the Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal

and it happened and it was marvelous. And when we finished we lay there holding each other, half dressed, breathless, and sweating, and Maggie said, “I love you, Joshua.”
    “I love you, Maggie,” I said. And ever so slightly she loosened her embrace.
    “I couldn’t marry Jakan without—I couldn’t let you go without—without letting you know.”
    “He knows, Maggie.”
    Then she really pulled away.
    “Biff?”
    “Uh-oh.” I thought she might scream, that she might leap up and run away, that she might do any one of a hundred things to take me from heaven to hell, but after only a second she nuzzled close to me again.
    “Thank you for being here,” she said.

    We left at dawn, and our fathers walked with us as far as the gates of Sepphoris. When we parted at the gates my father gave me a hammer and chisel to carry with me in my satchel. “With that you can make enough for a meal anywhere you go,” my father said. Joseph gave Joshua a wooden bowl. “Out of that you can eat the meal that Biff earns.” He grinned at me.
    By the gates of Sepphoris I kissed my father for the last time. By the gates of Sepphoris we left our fathers behind and went out into the world to find three wise men.
    “Come back, Joshua, and make us free,” Joseph shouted to our backs.
    “Go with God,” my own father said.
    “I am, I am,” I shouted. “He’s right here.”
    Joshua said nothing until the sun was high in the sky and we stopped to share a drink of water. “Well?” Joshua said. “Did she know it was you?”
    “Yes. Not at first, but before we parted. She knew.”
    “Was she angry at me?”
    “No.”
    “Was she angry at you?”
    I smiled. “No.”
    “You dog!” he said.
    “You really should ask that angel what he meant about you not knowing a woman, Joshua. It’s really important.”
    “You know now why I couldn’t go.”
    “Yes. Thanks.”
    “I’ll miss her,” Joshua said.
    “You have no idea,” I said.
    “Every detail. I want to know every detail.”
    “But you aren’t supposed to know.”
    “That’s not what the angel meant. Tell me.”
    “Not now. Not while I can still smell her on my arms.”
    Joshua kicked at the dirt. “Am I angry with you, or happy for you, or jealous of you? I don’t know? Tell me!”
    “Josh, right now, for the first time I can remember, I’m happier being your friend than I would be being you. Can I have that?”
    Now, thinking about that night with Maggie behind the synagogue, where we stayed together until it was nearly dawn, where we made love again and again and fell asleep naked on top of our clothes—now, when I think of that, I want to run away from here, this room, this angel and his task, find a lake, dive down, and hide from the eye of God in the dark muck on the bottom.
    Strange.

P art II
Change
Jesus was a good guy, he didn’t need this shit.
JOHN PRINE

C hapter 9
I should have had a plan before I tried to escape from the hotel room, I see that now. At the time, dashing out the door and into the arms of sweet freedom seemed like plan enough. I got as far as the lobby. It is a fine lobby, as grand as any palace, but in the way of freedom, I need more. I noticed before Raziel dragged me back into the elevator, nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process, that there were an inordinate number of old people in the lobby. In fact, compared to my time, there are inordinate numbers of old people everywhere—well, not on TV, but everywhere else. Have you people forgotten how to die? Or have you used up all of the young people on television so there’s nothing left but gray hair and wrinkled flesh? In my time, if you had seen forty summers it was time to start thinking about moving on, making room for the youngsters. If you lasted to fifty the mourners would give you dirty looks when they passed, as if you were purposely trying to put them out of business. The Torah says that Moses lived to be 120 years old. I’m guessing that the children of Israel were following him just to see when he would drop. There was probably betting.
If I do manage to escape the angel, I’m not going to be able to make my living as a professional mourner, not if you people don’t have the courtesy to die. Just as well, I suppose, I’d have to learn all new dirges. I’ve tried to get the angel to watch MTV so I can learn the vocabulary of your music, but even with the gift of tongues, I’m having trouble learning to speak hip-hop. Why is it that one can busta