The Last Man at the Inn

by R. William Bennett

  Simon thought about his answer. “I don’t know for certain. It’s just that . . . a cave . . . Bethlehem—not that there’s anything wrong with your city . . .”

  The man smiled. “Stop worrying so much. I am an Idumean. And . . .” The man looked over his shoulder at the other family, lowered his voice slightly, and with noticeable sarcasm, said, “According to these sons of Jacob, I am not a real Jew. If I was taken aback by insult, I would spend my life going backward.” He laughed at his own joke, then became pensive again. “So, I ask you again, why are you so sure? Is that so much more fantastic than, say, the parting of the Red Sea? How about manna? Jericho? All these things are quite fantastic, are they not? The birth of a baby seems trivial compared to these miracles, and a baby must be born somewhere. Why not here?”

  The man smiled, lifting his eyebrows and waiting for an answer he knew would not come. He laughed, then leaned forward, folding his large arms in front of Simon.

  “A child is born unto us, a son is given unto us; and the government is upon his shoulder and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. That the government may be increased, and of peace there be no end, upon the throne of David, and upon his kingdom, to establish it, and to uphold it through justice and through righteousness from henceforth even forever.” He then slapped Simon’s forearm warmly. “That was our prophet Isaiah speaking, my friend.”

  And without another word, he went back to his business.

  Simon rested better that night. In fact, he rested better than he had in a long time. He was quite perplexed about the talk surrounding these last two days. But, somehow, when he slumbered, he fell into a state of peace he had not known for ages. Was it the stew? The cool evening air? Perhaps it was thinking about Isaiah’s prophecies. Whatever it was, he was grateful. He felt refreshed and renewed.

  He stepped out of the home quietly and was surprised to see the householder.

  “Did I wake you?” Simon asked.

  “No, no. You didn’t,” the man replied. “I just wanted to speak with you before you leave. Would you allow me to speak boldly?”

  “I am not sure you know any other way,” Simon said wryly.

  The man laughed. “See, we are friends already.” He then became more serious and looked Simon in the eye. “I feel I need to tell you—I know you are searching for something. I believe it is not a coincidence that you were here in our village at this time. I believe you were led here, to this village, and to my home, for a reason. My friend, seek out that reason. It is important. I feel it.”

  Simon was annoyed. Whatever was going on his heart, which even he did not seem to understand, was his business. He walked deliberately past the man and said, “Thanks again. It was pleasant staying in your home,” not giving time for response.

  “Shalom,” he heard him say. He turned to reply, but the door was closed, the householder having disappeared behind it.

  Soon, Simon had loaded his things and was walking north, out of Bethlehem.

  Simon’s work required that he make his way from a port city to inland markets and back again, sometimes walking more than twenty miles in a day. As he traveled, he never failed to appreciate the good Roman roads and sea traffic. The Romans had crisscrossed the Empire, building well-paved highways that made travel quick and painless. And in each port city, Roman ships came and went multiple times a day, carrying everything from everywhere to everywhere. A traveler need wait only a few hours, and he would have an opportunity to pay passage to any place accessible by what the Romans called Our Sea.

  As common conventions had evolved, the whole system worked even better. When he left his home, Simon would pay a camel owner to carry his packs of spices and herbs down to the shore, a journey of ten miles. He would find a ship going the direction he wished to travel and make arrangements. When he landed at his desired city, he would disembark, purchase donkeys or camels, and begin his journey selling. When he was done, he would reverse the process: meet incoming merchants like himself, sell them his animals and sometimes even his empty bags, and then board a ship for home. When he arrived back home, he would make the half-day walk up the into the hills to return to his family.

  This day, he was on that last step. As he approached his village, he was met at the outskirts of town by little children, always excited to see newcomers. Upon recognizing him, they ran to him. A few were nephews and nieces who jumped up to hug him; others were simply their friends who thought the leap and hug looked fun and joined in.

  “Aaron!” he said as he swung his nephew from side to side. He put him down and got on one knee. “Would you do your uncle a favor?”

  “Yes!” the young boy squealed, feeling quite important.

  “Run ahead and find Mara and tell her I am back. It will be more exciting if she knows I have arrived and comes out to greet me.”

  He started walking again, this time more slowly to give Aaron time to find Mara. By the time he passed through the village gates and came to the first street, Mara was walking up to him, arms outstretched. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. They stood there, and then he leaned back, surveying her. He was shocked at her protruding belly. He knew it would happen, but he still stared in amazement. She smiled as she held her hand beneath her stomach.

  “I’m glad I’m not later!” he said. “Will we have time to get back to the house?”

  She laughed. “You man,” she said derisively but jokingly. “Yes, we will. We have at least a week. I was so hoping you would make it back in time to be with me.”

  They locked arms and walked back to their home.

  It was a humble place. In fact, it was just a room in a building that housed several other one-room abodes. It had been partitioned with a small table to one side, a place for their bed at the other, and—always a little disconcerting to him—a small, carefully kept shelf, almost shrine-like, on which Mara kept their Sabbath candlesticks.

  Mara was devout. He’d known that when they married. They never discussed it, though. As it seemed with most couples, one person was more devout than the other. It’s just that she was more devout than most and he less so. When he wasn’t traveling, they observed the Sabbath together and ate according to the commandments, but only because she ensured they did. He loved his wife—dearly—and all this was worth it to please her.

  Another feature of their home was a small stairway inside that led to their roof. On warm evenings, it provided a cooler place to sleep. He and Mara enjoyed sitting there after sunset, looking at the sky and talking. Tonight, they did just that and were fortunate they had the space to themselves.

  They had eaten earlier, and she had caught him up on the unimportant but interesting events that had transpired in their village in the three months he’d been gone. He shared a few stories of his own travels. They then talked of names for their baby.

  Then, after a comfortable period of silence, he said, “Something interesting happened when I was in Bethlehem that I want to tell you about.”

  She turned toward him with great effort. “Bethlehem? You never go there. What took you to Bethlehem?”

  He shook his head. “The census. Apparently, nobody lives in the town of their birth. The entire population seemed to be going somewhere else all at the same time. There was no room for me in Jerusalem, so I moved on to Bethlehem and, even there, got one of the last places to sleep.” He paused and got more serious. “There was a child born while I was there.”

  She laughed. “It is good to know that life goes on in Bethlehem. I believe there were children born in many places that night.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But this one was . . .”

  She waited. “Yes?” she prompted him.

  He searched for the words. “This one . . . was typical but seemed to attract such attention. It was a young couple, younger than us, who must have been having their fi
rst child. They were travelers to Bethlehem, I suppose for the census. They tried to stay in the pace where I was, but I had gotten the last space . . .”

  She stopped him. “You saw them?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s how I know they tried.”

  “You saw she was pregnant?”

  He stopped. He was so intent on getting to the core of the story he did not realize he had just incriminated himself. He knew what was coming next.

  She waited before she spoke. “You know what I am going to ask you.”

  “I do. I still feel guilty. I cannot believe with you pregnant I was not more unselfish. Another night under the stars would not have hurt me. It still bothers me.”

  She said nothing else but patted his hand lovingly and looked back at the sky as he continued.

  “Anyway, they eventually found a cave. There are dozens of them there, and it seemed each one had travelers in it. I know this because that night I went out for a walk, and I passed their cave and saw them.”

  “How could you be sure it was them?”

  “That’s what I want to tell you. Normally I would not have been able to tell from a distance, and honestly, would not have cared. But I happened upon this cave, and out in front were at least a dozen shepherds, just quietly staring into the opening.”

  She sat up, swung her feet to the ground, and turned toward him. “Go ahead.”

  There was something she seemed to be listening for.

  “Well, they were just looking. There were animals about too. I suppose this cave served as a pen for a local man. There was a cow, the donkey they had ridden, and some sheep.”

  “I don’t need to know about the animals!” she said.

  “It’s part of the story. They—the animals, the shepherds—were all quiet. They were just looking in. I didn’t want to get close, so I stood at a distance and walked until I could see in. There was this couple, and the woman had obviously just given birth, and she was holding the baby.”

  Mara still watched him intently.

  “I am not sure why it was so unusual. The quiet, I suppose. The shepherds not with their flocks in the middle of the night—that was strange. But more than all that, it was just . . . peaceful somehow. It was like they, and for a minute me as well, were removed from the rest of the world. It was almost like I was in a synagogue.”

  The two of them sat there quietly for a moment. When he said no more, she said, “I think there is more?”

  He had no idea how she did his. When he was with her, his thoughts seemed to be written on his face.

  “Yes, the next day I was in the marketplace selling my spices, and everyone seemed preoccupied talking about this birth. I hesitate to even repeat what they said—it seems almost inappropriate. But they kept saying it was the fulfillment of prophecy.”

  “It is,” she replied simply.

  “You know this?” he asked. Then he felt foolish again. Of course she knew it; she listened to the scribes.

  Either his wife did not want to embarrass him or she was lost in thought. She stared but seemed to be seeing nothing. Suddenly but softly she just started speaking: “‘A child is born unto us . . .’”

  She turned to look at him, eyes moist. “That’s the one,” she said quietly.

  He sat back and stared at the wall around the edge of the roof. He was filled with feelings of inadequacy. Inadequate that he did not know this prophecy well. Inadequate because he could not quote more than a few verses of scripture. Inadequate that this remarkable woman had married him, clearly a sacrifice for her.

  She seemed to read his thoughts. He felt her hands on his cheeks, gently turning his head toward her. “I love you,” she said, “and I love that you love me. I feel blessed every day.”

  They sat quietly for a while, arms entwined and hands clasped, just pondering. Their heads were only an inch from each other, but he supposed their thoughts were miles and miles apart: his focused on his shortcomings, hers, perhaps, in Bethlehem.

  Seven days after Simon’s arrival home, early in the morning, Mara asked him to run and find the midwife. When he returned just minutes later, he heard his wife trying unsuccessfully to stifle her groans of pain. The midwife, an older woman with whom no woman or man would argue, opened the door to their home, entered, and pushed him back out in one fell swoop. There was no explanation needed. He was a man, and his place was outside.

  He sat on the ground, leaning against the wall. He could hear most of what was going on inside and became disturbed when he heard the midwife’s voice grow suddenly anxious. She ordered the young girl that had come with her to get something. The girl came rushing out and ran a few doors up the street to her home, went in, and came out no more than a minute later, running back toward him.

  He stood to block her way. “What is it?” he demanded. But the old woman had trained the girl well. She said nothing, just dodged him and ran into the home with whatever it was she carried.

  “What is it?” he yelled into the house.

  The midwife yelled back. “Quiet! Leave us alone.”

  He again sat on the street, knees up, as he leaned against the house. Suddenly he had a thought. He clasped his hands and rested his arms upon his knees. He put his head down for privacy. He spoke softly.

  “Dear, God,” he uttered, speaking waveringly, “I am not a good man, and I do not know you. But my wife, you know her well, and I am asking you if you would help her. Whatever is wrong, would you . . .” He paused about to use a word he rarely used. “Would you . . . bless . . . her? Bless her, please. She is a good woman, a better woman than I am a man. I know you are all-powerful and can do anything. Would you please protect her and our baby?”

  He had not realized he was crying, but as he raised his head, he felt tears run down his cheeks.

  A moment later, he heard the midwife begin speaking in soothing tones. “That’s it, that’s it, that’s it. Perfect, Mara!” He heard Mara offer a short scream of effort, and, then, there it was. A baby began to cry.

  He did not hear Mara, but he listened intently to the midwife. Her voice was calm, if not happy. And then he heard Mara laugh and cry at the same time.

  He stood and started to push open the door.

  “Not yet!” the midwife managed to yell in between her soothing expressions of affirmation to Mara. He took his hand off the door but kept his ear close to hear.

  Several minutes later, the midwife opened the door. “I did it.” And without looking at him, she started up the street, women running to her to hear the news.

  He heard his wife call to him. He stepped in and walked carefully to their bed. She was weary, her hair sweat-stained and her eyes tired but glistening. She saw him looking at her and motioned with her head to look down. Against her chest, a perfect baby was held tight.

  She looked up. All she said was, “A son.”

  He was in awe. He reached out to stroke the little head but stopped short and looked inquisitively at Mara.

  She laughed. “Of course you can. He is your son. You won’t hurt him.”

  He touched him. His skin was so soft that somehow the word soft seemed insufficient. His features were perfect, and he could see that his little nose turned up just like Mara’s. He kept staring, looking for words that would not come, words he did not even seem to know.

  This morning there had been one person he loved beyond words. And now, where there had been one, there were two.

  Suddenly he saw the image of the cave and the child the shepherds had gathered to see. He contrasted the two experiences—that night and this morning. They were different, but they were connected too.

  There had never been anything more perfect to him.

  Eight days later, in the temple, the rite of circumcision was performed, and their son was given a name: Alexander.

  It was an unusual name for a Jewish son, though no
t unheard of. And despite what others thought, Simon and Mara both loved the name. Simon stayed with Mara and Alexander for as long as he could, but after a month, they could not afford for him to be without work. They needed the money, and so Simon reluctantly left again, with a promise to Mara that he would make the trip as short as possible.

  Perhaps it was the birth of his own son that made him pay such close attention, but it seemed everywhere he went on his travels, he heard talk of only one subject—the child born in Bethlehem. He listened attentively but never revealed that he had been there at the time; and he certainly did not divulge the guilt he carried. As he thought of Mara’s situation at Alexander’s birth—comfortable in her own home, the midwife just doors away—he considered what it must have been like for the mother of the other baby. Was she uncomfortable in the cave? Was she nervous with only her husband there to help her? He chased the thoughts away because he couldn’t bear to think of the answers. Creeping at the edge of his consciousness was a wave of shame, held at bay by refusing to give the thoughts any time. He knew the love he felt for his son. He was sure they felt no less for theirs. He hoped their joy was not marred by his selfishness.

  Simon understood the awe of birth—the wonder it invoked—but he was still amazed at the talk. Everywhere he went, in hushed tones, people would speculate, looking over their shoulders as they did to keep the talk among faithful Jews. He was intrigued. They so want their rumors to be true, he thought, they seem to give them more credibility by repeating them again and again.

  In the evenings, he would treat himself to thoughts of Alexander and Mara. He, Simon, had a family, a real family! He had never felt so in love with his wife, and each day, he surprised himself with the growing affection he felt for his son.

  It took Simon almost a month and a half to make his sales and wind his way back home; but it felt like a year. On the evening he returned, he alternately walked and ran the ten miles up from the seashore. His town was not small, but the Jews huddled in one section of town on the port side, exposing the gate most closely to the path he was on. They mixed comfortably with the Gentiles in the rest of the town, but when it came to homes and traditions, the Jews were most comfortable keeping to themselves. He could see their homes on the horizon as he rushed forward. The young boys and girls playing nearby saw Simon coming and ran for Mara without being asked, to tell her he had returned.