I used to wonder about that. But now that I knew scandal in a new way, now that I myself was a topic for whispers, I took pleasure in that gravesite. I felt closer to Mother, as though we shared a secret gift that others mistakenly believed a flaw. And witness to their mistake was the family of doves that raised their brood there as the tree leafed out each spring.
Now I went to the mikvah regularly, as well — once each month. I walked across town to the baths after sunset. There I descended the stone steps completely free of garments. Women shed everything, including rings, necklaces, earrings. I wore no jewelry. So all I had to doff was my veil, my shift, my underclothes, and sandals. I entered the water covered only with the goose bumps that came from anticipation. I immersed myself deep, until the very tips of my long loose hair finally surrendered their attachment to the surface of the water and sank below with the rest of me. I hurried home feeling light and happy and grateful just for being alive.
During the days my blood flowed, I did not walk around town or in the valley with Abraham. I read beside him in the house. But when I came home from the mikvah every month, I gathered Abraham into his cart and we went about our way until the next blood came. Life had rhythm.
Only once was this happy rhythm interrupted. Abraham had taken an interest in carpentry. There were two furniture makers in town, Caleb and Shiphrah’s husband Jacob. Jacob had the larger shop, large enough for Abraham and me to find a spot in a corner where we could sit and watch.
Jacob was a successful businessman. Maybe more successful than Father. Shiphrah’s arms were spangled with jewelry. And three full-grown men were employed as helpers in Jacob’s shop. People said that if you wanted something special, if you had a task that required true skill, then Jacob’s was the only shop to go to.
We sat silent as the workers made everything from an infant’s cradle to a roof parapet. Abraham watched attentively and later he would explain to me why they’d cut the notch just so or what made them reject one piece of wood in favor of another. He delighted in understanding the process.
Jacob’s shop became our first stop of the day. And it started our day right, until the morning when Jacob came into the shop late. His face was ruddy with excitement and he looked angry. I had heard the workers talk amongst themselves before of Jacob’s bad days. I should have remembered their words then.
Jacob’s helpers had already started in on the tasks they’d been working on the day before. They hardly looked up when he entered. In retrospect it was clear they didn’t want to acknowledge his mood and thus, perhaps, fan his anger. There were clues all around me, if only I had given them their due, for Jacob never forgave me that day’s error.
Jacob stomped over to the pieces of wood for the cabinet he was building. He picked up a board and set it on a table. He measured it with a cubit and prepared to cut.
Abraham quickly grabbed my sleeve. I leaned my ear close to his lips. He whispered, “Stop him, Miriam. He’s used the wrong measurement.”
I’d never spoken to Jacob before. A woman didn’t address a man needlessly outside the home, even a man who knew her husband or father, as Jacob knew mine. But this wasn’t needless. I had to speak before Jacob cut the board through and wasted it. I cleared my throat. “May I speak?”
All four men looked at me, their faces amazed.
I flushed behind my veil and spoke loudly. “Are you sure that’s the right measurement?”
Jacob put down his tool and crossed his arms at the chest. “What did you say?” His face was grim.
I panicked. I leaned toward Abraham. “Are you sure?”
“That piece is to go into the back,” hissed Abraham in my ear. “It has to be longer.”
“Isn’t that the piece for the back?” I pointed. “Shouldn’t it be longer?”
“That’s right.” One of the helpers nodded. “The cripple told her.”
Jacob spun around and faced his helper. For a moment I thought they would fight. Over what? What offense had Jacob taken? But I didn’t wait to find out. I tugged on Abraham and got him into his cart.
Jacob turned back to us. “No idiot can come in here and tell me what to do. Get out!” He was shouting now. “Out!” He lifted his thick arm in threat. But we were already backing out the door.
I raced through the streets, bumping the cart along as fast as I could. I was angry and frightened and angry at being frightened. This was worse than the Roman foot soldier. Much worse. No one had threatened us before. Oh, only a few had ever been friendly. But the others had either pretended to ignore us or, at the worst, avoided us. I had come to believe that Abraham and I were accepted — an oddity, still, but an accepted oddity. How stupid I was.
I seethed at Jacob’s words and actions. Abraham didn’t speak as I let all my feelings pour out. Then he simply said we shouldn’t go back to Jacob’s shop ever again. It was a finished matter, as far as he was concerned.
But it wasn’t finished. Not for me. I had fled the Roman foot soldier in silence. And I had fled Jacob in silence. Yes, his raised arm was heavy as a club. But there were three other men in his shop. If I had stood my ground, they would never have let him strike us. And even if they had, wouldn’t that have been better than fleeing? Fleeing, as though we were the ones who had wronged. Fleeing, as though we were the ones in shame. In that flight I had failed myself — I had gone against all that I had decided after the Roman foot soldier. I sat on the floor at home and counted the beats of my heart, and with each beat I promised myself that the next time, the very next time, I would not be silenced. This matter was not finished in my heart.
And, no, it wasn’t finished for Jacob, either. He came to our home that night. And Father stood before him in the doorway.
“Welcome to my home, Jacob.” Father moved to give his guest the customary welcome kiss.
Jacob jerked his head away. “Keep the cripple far from my shop.”
Father stepped back. I waited for him to turn questioning eyes to me — reproachful eyes — for I had not told him of what passed in the carpenter’s shop. This was my battle, not Father’s.
But Father didn’t look at me. He swept his hand back as if to bid Jacob enter. “Did something happen, Jacob? Come in and talk.”
Jacob remained in the doorway. “Keep him away. I don’t want an idiot hanging around my shop.”
Father lifted his chin. I thought of how I had lifted my chin to the Roman foot soldier. I had learned that from Father, I realized. I could sense him bristle and I watched closely. This was what else I had to learn: how to speak up.
“Abraham is not an idiot.” Father’s voice was soft, but clear. “And even if he were, we should show him generosity and justice, true charity. Magdala is a small town, Jacob. It is easy to know one another. Surely we can find it in our hearts to accept our neighbors.”
“Magdala is a strong town. It is not a town for idiots and cripples. Listen to our Jewish leaders.”
Father clenched his jaw and the hairs of his whiskers moved. “Jewish leaders? Leaders are those whose wisdom earns our ear. Have you not heard the words of Hillel? ‘What is hateful to you, do not to your neighbor.’ ”
“Idiots and cripples would not be my neighbors if people like you didn’t harbor them.”
“Idiots and cripples will always be with us, Jacob. They are part of life. They come from loins like mine and yours.”
“Not mine! Defend your accusation!”
My mouth went dry. I thought of Jacob and Shiphrah’s baby daughter, whom the traveling exorcist had failed to save more than three years ago. Had she lived, would she have been crippled?
But Father shook his head. “Taking offense where it’s not intended won’t change things, Jacob. Nor will pretending to misunderstand. You know what is as well as I do. Cripples are part of humanity. Take Hillel into your heart.”
“You sound like a Pharisee.” Jacob’s top lip lifted slightly to show the tips of his teeth in a smirk. “And you’re the one who had that Zealot Daniel ha
nging about all the time. Don’t think I don’t remember. You give yourself airs.”
“I am a common Jew, like you, Jacob. I am trying to live a just and pious life, like you.”
“You shouldn’t keep him in your house. You shouldn’t let your daughter walk the streets.”
“It’s no concern of yours who lives in this home.” I had never heard Father raise his voice, but now that voice trembled. I knew he fought the urge to shout. “It’s no concern of yours what my daughter does.”
“It’s everyone’s concern when you don’t live like the rest of us.”
“Jacob, we don’t all live alike. Open your eyes. We share this world with many, many who are less fortunate than you or I.” Father gripped the edge of the door with one hand. “But you need not share any of your shop with Abraham and Miriam. Go now. They will never cross your threshold again.” Father closed the door in Jacob’s face.
I ran to Father and threw my arms around his chest.
But he peeled me away from him. “Listen well.” He spoke slowly and decisively, as though his words were the Creator’s law. Yet the tremble was still there. “I disapprove of your actions. Time should be spent in service, not in searchings or pleasures or whatever else it is that draws you. I should have stopped you, Miriam, two years back, when you started these wanderings into town. When you were still a child, under my guidance.” Father laced his fingers together tightly. “Miriam and Abraham, if you are to govern your own actions, if you are to make your own path through this life, then you must be responsible for each step you take. Jacob’s lone voice spoke today. But when one voice speaks, scores of others are in silent agreement. They don’t understand you. I don’t understand you.” He sighed. “I made a promise to Jacob tonight. See that my promise is kept, for your sake. Let caution guide your feet.”
He looked down in silence for a moment. When he looked up again, he turned to the shelf, reaching for his tallith. But there was no need — for I held it ready in my hands. He dipped his fingers in the always ready bowl and sprinkled water on both forearms. I bowed and the fringes that ran the length of the shawl kissed my cheeks as Father threw it over his head and shoulders, those fringes without which the tallith would be unfit for its purpose.
We never did go to Jacob’s shop again. We never even walked down the street his shop was on. As Father had said to Abraham, it was wiser to keep clear of fires.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It wasn’t until several months after my thirteenth birthday that another fit came, a fit I believe I brought on myself.
Hannah had woven me a long dress with many colored stripes the year before, the kind of dress I would have delighted in wearing when I was younger, the kind of dress that made a young woman feel beautiful. It had pleats, a style that had only recently come to Magdala. I admired the dress, but I had no desire to wear it. I wasn’t going to marry, so beauty didn’t matter.
I had come to the decision not to marry purely by logic. First, it was likely that a fit would come while I was in public, for I spent much of my day in public. And if a fit came, no man would marry me. Even if I had the good fortune to convince others that fits were not the sign of demons, they would only be convinced with their heads, not with their hearts. Jacob the carpenter had taught me this. In his head he knew Abraham was intelligent; how could he not, after Abraham had corrected him? Yet he was resolute in casting Abraham as an idiot. There was no reason to expect any different reaction toward me once people discovered my fits. So no one would marry me. How could a sane man risk taking a woman who might be the vessel of evil into his home to bear his children?
And if by chance my fits did not make themselves known to others, I still would not marry. For I was unwilling to keep a secret from my husband. Love between man and woman should be complete, with neither holding back from the other. If there was anything I owed to the memory of Mother, it was the belief in love that she had murmured to me as she plaited my hair or soothed me to sleep. Belief in a perfect love. Now an impossible love.
So I saw no reason to wear the dress Hannah had made for me, though I assured her it was lovely, as lovely as any girl could have wanted. The dress sat in a basket, unused for over a year. Hannah seemed to accept my decision. I believe she had come to the conclusion that I was hard-headed and that there was no fighting it. She backed off quickly whenever we disagreed on even the smallest matters.
She backed off like that until the one warm evening when I came home with Abraham, only to see Judith leaving our home in a hurry. I was blissful that night. After the encounter with Jacob, I thought I might never be blissful again. But time passed and, with its uneventfulness, the memory dulled and my resilient spirit once more reached for the pleasures of this world.
Yes, that evening I was heady with the aroma of the roses a merchant had been selling in the market. Roses from Jericho. I’d never seen a rose before. A petal had landed heavily on my foot and I stooped to touch it. The thick sponginess so surprised me that I quickly rubbed the petal on Abraham’s ankle, dangling from the cart. So he, too, knew the rose’s flesh. Then I let it fall again.
I thought of the market after nightfall, the beggars roaming through on the lookout for wayward vegetables. I imagined a beggar woman coming across this petal, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger, for an instant enveloped in the luxury of the rose, for an instant blissful like me.
The sight of Judith ruptured that image. Judith acted as though she hadn’t seen me, but I had the sensation that she was avoiding me. Vague apprehension replaced the finely outlined vision of the rose.
I carried Abraham through the door, draped over one shoulder. He had grown, of course, lengthened out like a palm frond. But I also had grown. I was perhaps the tallest female in all Magdala, though Father said the old woman Martha had stood taller than me in her youth. Now Martha was so bent it was hard to think of her as tall. I had grown strong, as well. Pushing the handcart, even with Abraham’s lightness, had built up the muscles of my arms and calves. I couldn’t imagine feeling healthier — and I recognized the irony of that thought. I never forgot my fits.
No sooner had I closed the door behind me than Hannah began. “Miriam, we need to talk.”
I placed Abraham in the middle of the pillows Hannah and I had made him years ago and sat on the floor beside him. I looked at Hannah expectantly.
She hesitated. She ran her tongue across her top teeth. Then she got up and fetched the basket with the dress. “I’d like you to wear this.”
“Is there a special event coming up?” Passover was behind us, but perhaps a wedding was coming. I had not gone to a wedding since the onset of my fits. I wanted to go when Deborah got married. And it grieved me to stay at home when Sarah celebrated her union. But though I was no longer trying to conceal my fits by then, I couldn’t bear the thought of possibly convulsing in the middle of a wedding feast, of soiling the celebration of what I ached for — the love between man and woman.
I thought now of the young girls of the town. Who could it be that Hannah spoke of? Who was of age? I had gone my way with Abraham for so long now, it was as though no one else existed. Did I miss the company of those girls? Maybe it was time for me to risk a wedding. I could stay on the outskirts of the crowds, in the shadows. I could watch the dancing. “Is someone getting married?”
“You should get married, Miriam.”
My heart clutched. Was this why Judith had come visiting? “Has a marriage been arranged? That’s not right.” I stood up. “Hannah, I’m too old for an arranged marriage. And Father promised Mother I would never have to marry someone I didn’t love.”
“No one has arranged a marriage, Miriam. But you are thirteen now. Almost fourteen. You are fully grown. It’s time for you to dress like a woman of your class. It’s time for you to appear as the sort of young woman a man would want as the mother for his children.”
“Thank the Lord!” I said without thinking. “No match has been made.” I sank back to the floor.
“No.”
“Miriam!” Hannah put down the basket and sat beside me. She took my right hand, the one with the scars from the fire years before. “Miriam, you must take a husband.”
I looked at her and spoke words that Hannah least of all could deny. “Not all women get married, Hannah.”
“Not all, no.” Hannah didn’t flinch. I was glad; I hadn’t meant to hurt her. I’d meant only to stop her. She didn’t stop, though. She said firmly, “But almost all.” I pulled my hand back, but she held on and squeezed. “Miriam, the Creator put man on this earth to be fruitful and multiply. Every man should have at least two children, one to replace himself and one to multiply. This is a commandment. It is law. You do not have to follow that commandment. This law is made for man, not woman. But, think, Miriam. How can men do that if women stay celibate?”
“There is no shortage of women in our town.”
Hannah nodded. “No. And no shortage of men, either. All our women are needed.”
“I have no suitors, Hannah.”
“But you would, Miriam. You would if you’d act as though you’d receive one.”
I looked away from her.
“What is it? Miriam, tell me.”
I stared at the wall. “The dress you made will be too small by now. I’ve grown, Hannah. I keep growing. Maybe I’ll never stop.”
“Is that all it is? I made the dress with a deep hem. I can have it the right size by the time you wake tomorrow. And there are tall men, Miriam. If you want help finding a tall husband, we can ask for help.”
“That’s why Judith came, isn’t it?”
Hannah patted my hand, as though I were a child. “She has been patient these many years. It’s time for her to come into your father’s bed as his wife.”
“Father could marry her any time he liked. So he must not want to. It has nothing to do with whether I stay here or not.”
Song of the Magdalene Page 5
