Jephte's Daughter (21 page)

Batsheva looked at her friend’s soft, curly hair, her softly rounded woman’s body. If only Elizabeth had been a man—a man with broad shoulders and thick forearms—she would have confided in her. But she was a soft, slight woman who could not help. Elizabeth would only feel more ashamed of her, so ashamed, perhaps, that she would feel the pity and contempt that takes the equality out of friendship and sounds its death knell. You think I am a coward now, my friend. But if I lifted my dress and showed you the black-and-blue marks on my stomach and back, my husband’s discipline, fruit of his hard fists, then you would have no respect for me at all. Not telling, that was the supreme hold she had over Isaac. It was a shiny, sharp blade, the treasure of her collection of things she held against him. He was terrified of her telling someone what he had done. But still, he would do it again. She needed to be very careful. She had no one to protect her. No one she could tell. Her father and mother had made it clear to her, had they not, that they didn’t want to know. “Married religious women just don’t go out drinking in the evening. But I can meet you in the morning.” I’m so afraid of him, Elizabeth, and afraid of your eyes if you knew.

“I’m not sure how long I’m staying.” Elizabeth’s voice was formal, offended. Graham was right. Passivity. What a fool I’ve been! And I was going to convince her to come to another continent with me!

“Please, don’t be mad. Please, Liz. Come with me tomorrow. That is, if you can. What are you doing here anyway?”

“International conference on literary criticism at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Graham MacLeish is speaking.” She lied easily. She was furious at Batsheva, at Graham for being right, and at herself for having accomplished nothing. Then she relented. Poor kid, what had happened to drain out her fire so completely in such a short time? “Sure. We’re at the Hilton. Meet me at eight
A.M
.?”

“Yes. I mean, no. That is, can you make it a little later? I have something I want to do first.” Isaac would not have to know.

“I guess so. Call me when you’re ready to come.”

The Jerusalem Hilton is an elegant continental hotel. Surrounded by date palms, its modern tower can be seen from all over the city, much to the dismay of many old Jerusalemites who feel high rises have no place in the ancient capital of the Jews.

“More wine, monsieur, madame?” The waiter, Elizabeth noted, was very dark and slim. Omar Sharif-ish. He spoke French with a definite accent. Arab? Israeli? But my, the wine was very, very good.

“Yes indeed, indeed.” Elizabeth lifted her glass.

“Gamla. A locally grown and processed wine. Very fine, no?”

“I’ll say.” Elizabeth felt her lips tingle as the dry white wine touched them. Smooth, light. She leaned back and stared at the ceiling. It was covered with dark wood-framed mirrors. Tiny lights in the shape of grape clusters gave the room a soft, luminous glow.

“Feeling better, pet?” Graham leaned over and lightly rubbed his hands up her arms from her elbow to her shoulder. The soft light burnished her hair and skin with a dull gold fire. “You’re ravishing, you know. If only you would smile.”

“I feel like such a fool, Graham. A big damn fool.” She threw her head back and his appreciative eyes followed the graceful curve of her throat as she drained the glass. She had told him what had happened and, while he agreed with her—a big fool was right—he was shrewd enough to understand that women in the doldrums of self-criticism do not want to be agreed with. Anyhow, he was playing the broad-minded, generous-hearted man of learning,
n’est-ce-pas?
Besides, now that the whole plan of taking the little bride back to London was called off, he could afford to be relaxed and generous. “Perhaps she isn’t telling you everything. There could be mitigating circumstances, after all,” he lied convincingly.

“Do you think so? Oh, I hope so. But why won’t she tell me what they are?”

“Lots of reasons. First, maybe it’s one of those Jewish things, you know. Like suffering through Yom Kippur without food or eating those indigestible flat crackers on Passover…”

She eyed him doubtfully. “This has nothing to do with religion. I think. Oh, boy, what do I know? Everything with Batsheva has something to do with religion. But still, she would tell me if there was some law that said she had to suffer in silence. She’s not like that, Graham. You’ll see. Tomorrow when you meet her. But she’s changed so. She was such a lively, beautiful girl, it used to take my breath away. And now…well, you’ll see tomorrow.”

“I take it we’re staying then, my love.” Expensive hotel. But still, he looked at her again, it might be worth every penny.

“Just another day or two,” she entreated. “Something isn’t right, but I can’t figure out what. It’s like those black-and-white pictures by Escher where things seem normal up to a point and all of a sudden they’re all sideways or backwards and you just can’t figure out how they got that way, even though the evidence is staring you in the face. She isn’t passive. She isn’t stupid. She is desperately unhappy. And yet she doesn’t talk of leaving him. You see, if she would bring it up, then I could offer…But this way, I just can’t suggest it to her, not now with a baby on the way…” She looked up at Graham’s relaxed, indifferent blue eyes gazing at the menu, his neatly combed graying hair, with sudden insight. “You don’t give a damn, do you, Graham? You’re doing this for me, aren’t you?”

Leave your guard down for a minute and undo miles and miles of work. “It’s you I care about, and I won’t pretend otherwise. But your little Jewish friend does interest me,” he protested weakly. “I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow I will undertake to find out whatever it is that’s going on. But tonight, please,” he reached out and threaded his fingers through her hair, “let us just have a simple, romantic evening.”

The alcohol had already spread out in warm concentric circles through her body. Her head felt heavy. He was handsome, wasn’t he, in a sophisticated, mature kind of way. He was a scholar too, a brilliant scholar, and she was so lucky to have him, wasn’t she? “All right,” she relented, not completely trusting him.

Batsheva slept badly, her body tense with anticipation, listening for Isaac’s footsteps. He came in, as usual, at about midnight. She heard the water running in the bathroom, the open and close of the medicine cabinet. He took all kinds of pills that he claimed were for allergies. Sometimes they made him fall heavily into his own bed in an immediate deep sleep, and sometimes he seemed newly awakened, full of terrible, frightening energy. The first time he had hit her had been after taking them. He had wanted her to come to the bank with him and take her name off the joint account her father had set up for their household money. It was against the Torah for a woman to have her own money, he said. A husband was the legal owner of everything she brought into the marriage. She had said she needed some time to look into it and he had grabbed her and pulled her out of bed and told her to get dressed. She had looked at him very deliberately and climbed back into bed, pulling the covers over her head. She had not understood at first what was happening. It felt like something had fallen heavily on the bed, a book, or a piece of metal. But when she looked up it was Isaac pounding away with clenched fists, his face red, almost, yes, quite insane. In the end she had done as he asked. And now she was totally dependent upon him for spending money. On his insistence, her credit cards had been canceled. She had no checkbook, only the cash he saw fit to part with.

She wanted some money now to buy some clothes and a wig so that Elizabeth wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen with her. She considered whether it would be better to approach him in the morning or now. He might leave before she got up. But then again, he had taken some pills, and she didn’t yet know which kind. “Isaac,” she whispered, sitting up. She saw his large dark shadow move toward her. He had grown much heavier in the months since the wedding, his slim waist bloating up and spilling out over the waistband of his pants, white, unappetizing flesh. “Isaac, would you please give me some money. I need to buy clothes and a hair covering.” She didn’t say wig, because she didn’t know if he would approve or disapprove. Even though his mother wore a wig, she knew that the more strictly pious women wore only scarves or hats, and lately he had begun to lecture her about using only one of those big ugly scarves all the time. She felt his weight pull down the mattress as he sat down beside her. Wordlessly, his hands reached beneath her nightgown. She fought her revulsion and tried to keep her voice normal—the modest, pleading whisper that she had learned worked best with Isaac. “The baby is growing inside of me and all the clothes I have are getting tight. I need a new dress and a head covering to match.” She felt his hands move up and down her thighs roughly.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, his breath hot. “Yes, of course, my love, my dear wife.” He groaned and lay on top of her for a moment. Dead weight, unmoving. She did nothing, listening to the tick of the clock, the creak of the bed. Then finally he rolled off and got into his own bed.

In the morning, she found the money on the table.

“I’ll get it, pet,” Graham called over his shoulder. When he opened the door he stood still for a moment and blinked.

“Dr MacLeish. Batsheva Harshen.”

With a real effort he wrenched his eyes away from hers—what an extraordinary color, mesmerizing—and realized that she had been extending her hand. He took it warmly into both his own and led her into the room. It did not take him long to see that despite the wig, despite the loose dress, she was a woman of rare and delicate beauty. Perhaps the most beautiful he had ever seen. “You must forgive me. I’m at a total loss for words. I had no idea you’d be such a charming young lady.”

She smiled. “You expected someone fat and squat and bald, I’m sure. Not every Jewish
hausfrau
fits that description.”

“Not at all, not at all,” he shook his head, feeling at a sudden loss. He was not a man who easily rebounded from the disruption of his expectations. And he had expected just that: an ignorant, pregnant, pious girl, heavy with suspicion and inertia, rejecting the outside world. He was not prepared for her vitality and intelligence. Certainly not for her beauty.

“Batsheva, sweetie! You look like a little doll!” Elizabeth hugged her, immensely relieved. She did look much better this morning. She felt a weight roll off her chest. Maybe it was all going to be okay then. Maybe there wasn’t any deep, dark secret. Just the typical rough and tumble of newlyweds adjusting to each other. Batsheva was very young and full of impossible expectations, Lord knew the kind of books she got her information from. “Let’s have a great time today, I’m just in the mood for it!”

They wandered the city. Batsheva led them to all the places she loved, giving them history and folklore, imbuing them with her infectious enthusiasm. They saw the Knesset and marveled at its art and sculptures; the Dead Sea Scrolls in the curious cavelike exhibition at the Israel Museum. Graham was mildly interested in the antiquities, especially the little stone Astartes, fertility goddesses with pointed breasts and round stomachs. But his attention began to wander as the women examined the shards of pottery and diligently listened to the recorded explanations in earphones. He leaned back and looked at them together. Snow White and Rose Red. The exotic Jewess and the flaming colleen. They had nothing in common in culture, history, life-style. A little smile played around his lips. And yet, look at them, the intentness of their expressions, their naïve pleasure in learning. Why, their eyes, unfocused and intense, were shining. The younger girl was so sweet, he thought. Elizabeth had lost that already, that adoring look he so loved in female students. Already he had seen that questioning furrow in her brows, that slight doubt that he knew was the beginning of the end in his relationships with nubile coeds.

They all eventually figured him out. Therese, his first wife, had lasted the longest. But then she had never been more than a C student to begin with. No matter. When she left him, there had always been some other sweet, adorable, impressed young thing to take her place, and then another to take that one’s place. He had avoided the relationship with Elizabeth precisely because he sensed her quick intelligence, her shrewdness. But then he had succumbed to her, to opportunity, to his own vanity. Perhaps he had changed. Perhaps she would find something underneath the veneer worth looking up to, loving. The women defined him to himself. Without their adoration, he was nothing. He looked closely at Batsheva. A face like a Raphaelite Madonna—all sweetness and light. Oh, what he could do with a child like that! I’m a vampire, he thought dryly, constantly in search of new blood to renew myself. He felt a small twinge of regret that she wouldn’t be moving in with them.

“Ready to go, ladies?” he finally asked, growing impatient. “Maybe we should be heading back to the hotel, dears. It’s been an exciting, rewarding, but awfully tiring day.” Graham half groaned in mock exhaustion. A hot bath, some wine and thou, already, love. I’ve paid my dues today. “And we have to leave early tomorrow.”

“Just one more stop,” Batsheva pleaded. “Please.”

She had saved the ride to the Tomb of Samuel for sunset. She had never been back since that first time. They hailed a taxi and sat in the back, three across. Elizabeth on the right, Graham on the left, Batsheva in the middle. As Batsheva got into the car, her dress brushed against the seat and rode up her thigh. Graham glanced down briefly, appreciatively, and was about to say something, then thought better of it. All through the ride he stared at it, puzzled. Black-and-blue marks. Welts. He had once been in an emergency room and seen a child with marks like that. A badly abused, molested child.

The sun was setting. They stood entranced looking at the hills, the white stones, the whole other-worldly ambiance of the city at their feet. “Where is your camera, Batsheva?” Elizabeth suddenly asked her. She asked it casually, but then saw a shadow of pain pass over the girl’s face. Batsheva shrugged.