The Book of Longings(36)

I said nothing.

“I know the betrothal was a yoke for you,” he continued. “But now your condition is worse. You will be treated as a widow.” He shook his head. “Yours is a stigma we will all bear.”

In the curve of my ear I heard the rush of wings. I saw the ibis lift away.





xxviii.


In the aftermath of Nathaniel’s death I was required to wear a robe the color of ash and go about with bare feet. Mother put dust on my head and fed me the bread of affliction and complained that I did not cry with loud and bitter wails or rend my clothes.

I was a fifteen-year-old widow. I was free. Free, free, free! I would not enter the chuppah with despair and dread over what my husband would do to me. The cloth of virginity would not be placed beneath my hips and paraded around afterward for witnesses to inspect. Instead, when the seven days of mourning ended, I would beg Father to let me resume my writing. I would go to the cave and dig up the incantation bowl and the goatskins stuffed with my scrolls.

At night when I lay still in my bed, the knowledge of these things would break over me and I would laugh deep into my pillow. I assured myself the curse I’d written played no part in Nathaniel’s dying, but still, my jubilation often brought on bouts of guilt. I rebuked myself for rejoicing in his death, I truly did, but I would not have wished him back.

O blessed widowhood.

At his burial, I walked with his sister, Zophar, and his two daughters at the forefront of a throng of mourners, as we accompanied Nathaniel’s body to the family’s cave. His linen shroud had been poorly wrapped and when he was carried to the cave entrance, the hem of it snagged on a thornbush. It necessitated a laborious effort to extricate him. It gave the impression of Nathaniel fighting his interment, and it struck me as comical. I pressed my lips together, but the smile broke through, and I saw Nathaniel’s daughter, Marta, not much younger than I, glare at me with hatred.

Afterward at the funeral banquet, remorseful that she’d observed my amusement, I said, “I’m sorry you’ve lost your father.”

“But you are not sorry you lost your betrothed,” she snapped and turned away. I ate the roasted lamb and drank the wine, unconcerned that I’d made an enemy.





xxix.


On the first day of mourning, Mother found a tablet at her door inscribed in Judas’s hand. Not able to read it herself, she sought me out and thrust the message at me. “What does it say?”

My eyes flowed over his terse script.

    I can remain no longer in my father’s house. He has no wish for me here, and while Simon ben Gioras is imprisoned, the Zealots have need of a leader. I will do what I can to rally their spirits. I pray you will not blame me for departing. I do what I must. I bid you well, your son, Judas



Then, set apart at the bottom . . .

    Ana, you did your best for me. Be wary of Herod Antipas. With Nathaniel gone, may you be free.



I read it aloud to her.

She walked away, leaving the tablet in my hands.



* * *



? ? ?

THAT SAME DAY MOTHER dismissed the spinners and weavers who’d spent the past two weeks creating garments for my dowry. I watched as she folded the tunics, robes, shifts, girdles, and head scarves and stacked them in the chest of cedar that had once held my writings. Atop the clothes she placed the bridal dress, smoothing her hands over it before closing the lid. Her eyes were wellsprings. Her lower lip trembled. I couldn’t determine whether her sorrow was over Nathaniel’s death or Judas’s departure.

I regretted my brother leaving, but I felt no anguish over it. I’d expected it, and he’d made peace with me in his note. I stood there trying to look impassive, but Mother sensed my gladness over Nathaniel, how it made a small brightness on my skin. “You think you’ve escaped a great misfortune,” she said. “But your tribulation has only begun. Few men, if any, will want you now.”

This she thought to be a tribulation?

Her misery had been so great since learning of Nathaniel’s death, it was a miracle she hadn’t shaved her head and dressed in sackcloth. Father, too, had gone about withdrawn and glum, not over the loss of his friend, but over the forfeiture of their bargain and the land he would never own.

Feeling pity for Mother, I said, “I know men are reluctant to marry a widow, but I can only be counted as one by the strictest of interpretations. I’m a girl whose betrothed has died, that’s all.”

She was on her knees beside the chest. She got to her feet and lifted one brow, always a poor sign. “Even of those girls, men say, ‘Do not cook in a pot in which your neighbor has cooked.’”

I flushed. “Nathaniel did not cook in my pot!”

“Last evening at the banquet Nathaniel’s own daughter, Marta, was heard to say you’d lain with her father in his house.”

“But that’s a falsehood.”

I minded little if betrothed couples lay together. It happened often enough; some men even claimed it was their right to lay with the woman to whom they were already legally bound. What I minded was the lie.

Mother laughed, a throat rattle of condescension. “If you had not despised Nathaniel so thoroughly, I might believe the girl’s words to be true. But it doesn’t matter what I think, only what others believe. The gossipmongers saw you roaming all over the city, even beyond the walls. Your father was stupid to permit it. Even after I confined you again to the house, you slipped out. I myself heard people talk of your roving. The men and women of Sepphoris have spent weeks speculating over your virginity, and now this girl, Marta, has thrown a log on their fire.”