The Book of Longings(48)

James and Simon took fun in mocking our devotion, which Jesus took in stride, laughing with them. There was truth in their teasing, but I didn’t find it as good-natured as my husband. They taunted him out of jealousy. Simon, two years from having a wife, was eager for the intimacies of marriage, and James and Judith’s union was like that of two yoked oxen.





iii.


One hot day in the month of Elul, while the courtyard baked, I milked Delilah in the stable, then placed the ewer of frothy milk outside the gate, where the sheep couldn’t capsize it. When I turned back, Delilah was in the water trough again. She’d taken to standing and sometimes sitting in it for long periods. I made no effort to deter her. I thought of climbing in myself. As Mary approached us with a basket of grain, however, I tried to lure her out.

“Leave her,” she said, chuckling. She looked tired and flush with heat. Now that Judith’s time was near, we’d taken over her portion of the chores, the bulk of which fell to Mary, since I was still an apprentice.

I took the basket from her. Even I could toss grain to chickens.

She leaned against the gate. “Do you know what we should do, Ana? Just the two of us? We should go to the village mikvah and immerse ourselves. Yaltha can remain here with Judith in case the baby decides to come.”

I gestured at Delilah. “I know, I envy her, too.”

She laughed. “Let’s shirk our work and go.” A lovely impish light had come into her eyes.



* * *



? ? ?

A LINE OF WOMEN had formed outside the stone enclosure that housed the pool, not because they’d suddenly grown devout, but because, like us, they craved a respite from the heat. We joined it, clutching our drying rags and clean tunics. Mary called out a greeting to the toothless old midwife who would soon attend Judith, and was greeted in return, but without enthusiasm. The women ahead of us stole glances at me, whispering and holding themselves stiffly, and I realized that my ill repute had followed me from Sepphoris. I couldn’t tell if Mary noticed or if, for my sake, she pretended not to.

When we stepped inside the cool dwelling and descended into the mikvah, the women’s undertones grew louder. Yes, it’s the chief scribe’s daughter, the one sent away for promiscuity. . . . They say she was nearly stoned for thievery. . . . What reason could Mary’s son have for marrying her? Overhearing their gossip, the women behind us, including the midwife, refused to enter the water after me, preferring to wait until I’d vacated.

My cheeks stung with humiliation. Not because I cared what this puerile gaggle of women thought but because Mary had witnessed the indignities. “Pay them no mind,” she told me. “Turn the other cheek.” But the lovely light had gone from her eyes.

As we walked home, she said, “Jesus and I have also been the recipients of this kind of malice. They called me promiscuous, too. They said Jesus was conceived before my marriage and some said he didn’t belong to Joseph.”

I didn’t tell her Jesus had spoken to me of these things. I waited for her to refute their accusations, but she said nothing, refusing to defend herself.

She took my hand as we walked and I felt how difficult, how bold, how loving it was for her to bare herself to me like this. “Jesus suffered more than I,” she said. “He was branded as a child who was born outside of marriage. Some in the village shun him to this day. As a boy, he would come home from synagogue school with bruises and scrapes, always getting into a fight with his tormentors. I told him what I told you, ‘Pay them no mind and turn the other cheek. Their hearts are boulders and their heads are straw.’”

“I’ve heard Jesus use those same words.”

“He learned well, and his suffering didn’t harden him. It’s always a marvel when one’s pain doesn’t settle into bitterness, but brings forth kindness instead.”

“I think the marvel has a lot to do with his mother,” I told her.

She patted my arm and turned her concern back to me. “I know you suffer, too, Ana, not just from gossip and scandal, but daily at the hands of Judith. I’m sorry she makes it difficult for you.”

“I can do nothing right in her eyes.”

“She envies your happiness.” Abruptly, she guided us off the path to a fig tree and motioned for me to sit in the green shade. “There’s a story I must tell you,” she said. “Last year, when Jesus was close to twenty, well before you came along, Joseph attempted to betroth him. My husband was ailing then—weak and short of breath with a blue hue about his mouth.” She paused, closing her eyes, and I saw the freshness of her grief. “I think he knew he would die soon, and it spurred him to fulfill his duty and find his first son a wife.”

A memory stirred. That evening Jesus had asked me to become his betrothed, he’d said his father had tried to arrange a marriage for him, but he hadn’t agreed to it.

“Judith’s father, Uriah, owns a small parcel of land and keeps sheep, even hiring two shepherds,” Mary said. “He was a friend to Joseph, one who paid no attention to lingering stories of Jesus’s birth. Joseph intended to seek a betrothal for Jesus with Judith.”

The revelation dazed me.

“Of course, it never happened,” she continued. “Our son had some notion he wouldn’t marry at all. That was a great shock to us. Not to marry would’ve made him even more of a pariah. We pleaded with him, but his reason had to do with God’s wishes, and he asked his father not to approach Uriah. Joseph complied.”