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118 LYNN DOMINA Thursday Crowded among the others, Judas despairs at food, at his hunger, at Peter’s huge hands tearing off strips of bread, at Thaddeus spinning his cup and trying to listen. Andrew nudges a knife toward his brother. Thomas begs be quiet, glancing toward John, ever-beloved and ever-young. Eager John. All twelve fidget tonight. Judas imagines ants biting at his wrists. Thomas strains to hear, can’t. His brooding annoys Peter, who trembles as if afraid. Andrew sighs, losing hope, and waits for wine. Then James, son of Alphaeus, goads the other James, arrogant once and since ashamed. Still John hasn’t said a word all night, even to Andrew, the other younger brother. Judas forces himself to swallow. He thinks Peter knows; perhaps they all know—though Thomas surely still trusts him. A fiend, Thomas is, for evidence, unlike Simon the Zealot who’s ready to believe the worst. Peter, determined to get through this, motions to John to whisper their question. Suddenly Judas leaves, half sad it seems but spilling Andrew’s wine in his haste. Righting the cup, Andrew remembers the Red Sea, the lamb’s blood Thomas splashed on the door posts. Always Judas pled poverty muses Bartholomew, though he kept the purse, scandalizing John with that cheap deformed lamb until Peter finally put his foot down. Passover, Peter exclaimed, Passover. Almost secretly, Andrew fears this feast, confiding his awe only to John, whom he too loves. Skepticism, Thomas knows, betrays him each pained day. Earlier, Philip urged him to drop his guard, until Judas snapped without cause at Matthew. Even Jesus could betray him, Jesus leaving, Jesus afraid, Jesus rising to leave, his, their Jesus. ...

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