Second Touch (10 page)

“What were you up to anyway?” Jerusha inquired. “I ¬wasn’t up to anything,” Simon retorted crossly. How quickly Simon’s thoughts of Jerusha’s perfumed throat vanished; the closeness they had always shared was as shattered as the clay pot. Then, realizing he had to supply a plausible account, Simon said, “I was working on a mixture of perfume.” Jerusha regarded her husband with disbelief. “But you’re a landlord and a merchant in wine and fish! Where does perfume fit?” “Are you criticizing me, or calling me a liar?” Simon demanded savagely. The harshness of the assault stopped Jerusha from asking anything else. Her voice cracked a bit when she shook her head and said, “Neither.” “Anyway,” Simon continued, “it’s spoiled now, thanks to Jotham! He’ll have to be punished so he won’t do it again.” Jerusha’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no, Simon!” she exclaimed. “It’s my fault. A messenger came and it sounded important. I gave Jotham permission to go up and tell you about it. He was eager to be useful to you; he’s felt so cut off from you lately.” Simon ignored the twinge of guilt. “Couldn’t it wait?” he insisted. “What’s so urgent?” Jerusha was on firmer ground now, and the evenness of her tone showed it. “Ma’im of Gadara. He sent word he’ll be at the oil press of Hazor tomorrow night. He says he has something you’ll be interested in. You said to me just last week that if any word came from him you were to be told at once.” “Yes,” Simon agreed, all other thoughts instantly banished from his mind. “Ma’im of Gadara. Tomorrow night, you say?” Then recollecting his anger, Simon asserted, “But Jotham still ¬shouldn’t have interrupted me. It was very wrong.” Casting a glance out the window, Simon noted the decreased length of the shadow of the sycamore fig. “I’ll be late for synagogue,” he concluded brusquely. “Get me some linen for this burn. Once inside my glove again it’ll be fine.” Jerusha nodded and retrieved a roll of scrap cloth kept as a bandage. “Would you like me to dress it for you?” she asked. “I’ll do it myself,” Simon replied, taking the linen from her outstretched palm without touching her fingers. “Simon?” Jerusha stopped Simon’s departure with his name. “Ma’im of Gadara? He scares me.” Simon snorted. “Woman’s imagination. He’s a bookseller, a fellow merchant, that’s all.” “And the oil press of Hazor?” she queried. “Why not here or in Capernaum?” There had been a time—much of their life together in fact—when Simon opened his heart to Jerusha about ¬everything. He valued her quick wit, her ability to help him view a problem from a different angle. He shared ¬every confidence with her: his ambition to be recognized as a leading Pharisee, his worries over money, his fears that she might die in childbirth, even the times he found himself attracted to another woman. Jerusha was always ¬understanding, always helpful.

But no longer. It ¬wasn’t possible. Simon thought of connecting his story about the perfume with a greater tale involving a new venture in olive oil. He settled for a gruffly dismissive, “Women ¬shouldn’t trouble their heads about business.” With that, he left her alone and reascended the stairs.

Perhaps he had been too harsh with the boy, Simon mused a while later. He’d make it up in some way. He and Jotham had always been close, ¬ever since Jotham’s birth thirteen years ago. Simon regarded his son as both the present and future blessing of the House of Zeraim, and his ¬only offspring returned the esteem. Since first being able to walk, Jotham toddled after Simon through the cool artificial canyons of the wine-storage caves and among the fish-drying racks. Once, on a lakeshore near Magdala, Simon had laughed out loud at the closeness of the connection. Four-year-old Jotham, one hand on his hip, shook an admonitory index finger in the face of a laborer wielding the salt at the fish-drying tables. The mimicry was perfect; Simon often instructed his workers using such a pose. In those better days Jerusha had teased Simon, cautioning him that Jotham’s regard for his father was akin to idolatry. Simon glanced down at the straps of his phylacteries. There was nothing to be done about the matter at the moment. Simon’s thoughts were concentrated on his one overwhelming secret concern. He could scarcely remember the proper order of the obligatory benedictions, much less deal with hurt feelings. The boy would just have to get over it. Later—not much later, Simon hoped—all would be put right and things would return to normal. It was time for prayers as Simon arrived at the Capernaum synagogue. Today was a market day, not a Sabbath. With no teacher of repute on hand, few worshippers joined the morning readings. Simon reflected grouchily that when Yeshua of Nazareth was present the crowd overflowed the hall and the porch and swarmed around the windows. Such was the foolishness of the am ha aretz. They confused popular acclaim with true piety, clever demonstrations with the weightier matters of the Law. Simon paused to look up at the lintel over the doorway. A pot of manna was carved there, reminding worshippers of Elohim’s provision of bread in the wilderness. Entwined around the sharply incised image of an overflowing amphora was a flourishing grapevine with lush clusters of fruit: Elohim delivering far greater blessings than mere sustenance when His wandering children finally reached Eretz-Israel. The carving was also a metaphor for the Law and the Prophets; the study of Torah was the bread of life given by Moses. The promise of a coming Messiah-King as recorded by the ancient prophets was the wine that gladdened the hearts of the chosen people. Simon grunted with disapproval as he always did when he saw the symbols.

The restoration of the Capernaum synagogue had involved the charity of a Roman centurion. As much as Simon enjoyed praying in the recently refurbished building, it ¬wasn’t right for pious believers to be beholden to a pagan, and a Roman soldier at that! Even worse, this particular pagan was once the lover of the notorious Miryam of Magdala. More odious still, if such a hierarchy of wickedness could be imagined, was the widely repeated rumor that this centurion, Marcus Longinus, was sympathetic to Yeshua of Nazareth. Simon started to sputter and make the sign against the evil eye. He stopped himself ¬only at the last second from actually spitting on the synagogue steps. Once inside Simon made his way to his accustomed place among the chief places at the front. He inclined his head to the other men of note, seated himself facing the audience, and composed himself for worship. Or rather appeared to compose himself for worship. Standing for the two blessings that preceded the Shema, Simon’s lips moved. The appropriate sounds came from his mouth, but he heard nothing of them. Nor of the “Hear, O Israel.” Nor of the morning benediction that followed. His thoughts were both far away and painfully near at hand at the same time. Today it was easy to go into the innermost room of his mind and bar the door. The principal lector was an elderly scholar who mumbled his way through his Torah portion. Rabbi Shamel sat to deliver a confused analysis of the levitical proscription of the forbidden degrees of marriage. He seemingly concluded that a man might not marry his own great-grandmother unless she was also his uncle, but this astounding revelation had no impact on Simon. The service ended, Simon’s mind continued on the subject of Jotham’s message. Might this summons from Ma’im be the answer to his worries? Perhaps by tomorrow night all would be restored, with no one the wiser and nothing lost. What business in Hazor could Simon say called him there? What appointments for tomorrow would have to be put off? Outside again and headed home at an eager clip, Simon’s fellow Pharisee Melchior bar Snoqed caught up with him. “Simon!” Melchior called in an aggrieved tone. “In too big a hurry for an old friend?” Simon paused midstride and fixed a welcoming smile on his face before turning round. “Never too busy for an old friend,” he exclaimed. “You know,” Melchior pontificated, “the scribes say that one should hasten to synagogue in your zeal to learn, but go slowly away after. You seem to have reversed the order today.” Simon flushed, caught by his own distracted mind. “You look well, Melchior,” he said, diverting the subject. “And your voice when reading the passage from D’varim . . . such power and clarity.” “It was from B’Midbar,” Melchior corrected. “Of course,” Simon returned with forced cheerfulness, glowing deeper

crimson in spite of willing himself to remain self-possessed. How much guilt was evident on a man’s face? “You look well yourself,” Melchior observed. “Such a ruddy glow to your skin. But you are obviously busy, so here’s why I stopped you: Can you come to dinner at my house tomorrow? I have a chance to buy a supply of new wine from Ramoth-Gilead, but I’d like your opinion before investing.” “Tomorrow night,” Simon repeated. “No, no. Can’t make it. Sorry. Called away on business.” Melchior’s face displayed frustration. “The day after perhaps?” Simon tumbled calculations and visions of himself laboring over another boiling flask in his upstairs chamber. Best not to agree and then have to break the engagement. He shook his head. “Not then either, sorry. This is a cluttered week for me, ¬I’m afraid.” “Is ¬everything all right with you?” Melchior inquired in an ¬understanding tone. “But I see it’s not. Is it business or family? You can count on me, you know.” Simon’s mind raced, weighing which lie was the better to offer since he could not supply the truth. If he said his investments were in trouble, it might lead to gossip that Elohim was disciplining Simon for wrongdoing. Among Pharisees, business reversals were widely regarded as the sign of God’s disapproval. Simon was too near to advancing upward another degree within the fraternity to have such a tale circulate. A dreadful rumor to start! “It’s my son,” Simon said. “He’s been disobedient and willful. It disturbs me.” Melchior nodded sympathetically. “Children,” he said, raising his eyes heavenward. “Blessing and curse at the same time, eh? But with such a good man as yourself as instructor, he’ll soon get straightened out. If you need my help, you know you have ¬only to ask. Ever since you sponsored me for my first degree as a Pharisee, you know you have no greater ally than me.” “I know and I appreciate it,” Simon returned. “Now please excuse me. A revelation came to me in today’s sermon which ¬I’m anxious to share with Jotham. It may be just what he needs to hear.” Simon did not witness Melchior’s curious stare following him out of sight.

“Use your head,” Yeshua had warned Peniel. “They’re wolves!” For days Peniel laid low, hiding in back alleyways of Jerusalem or mingling among the hordes of pilgrims in the city. He did not return to the camp of the beggars beneath the viaduct. The place was being watched. He longed to speak to Mama and Papa. To tell them he loved them. To ask them to come away with him to meet Yeshua face-to-face. But so far there had been no opportunity to show himself to his family. Peniel kept his head covered, his face concealed behind the hem of his keffiyeh. Only his eyes were visible. No one who knew Peniel would recognize his eyes! At his parents’ house the danger was much worse than Peniel had imagined.

Temple Guards asked questions ¬everywhere about him! Peniel listened. Listened to the whispers among the common folk as they retold the story on the corners and in the marketplace. He saw the watchers standing guard outside his father’s pottery business. If Peniel dared to come home, they would arrest him! One sentry remained on duty during the daylight hours. Another came at sunset for the nightlong vigil. This evening, as the shops of his old neighborhood were shuttered in preparation of Shabbat, Peniel walked the length of the block behind a group of gossiping women. Some had been neighbors. He recognized their voices. He took great care that they not get a good look at his face. Any one of them might turn him in for the reward. Half a year’s wages for each eye of Peniel ben Yahtzar! “Mama. Papa.” Peniel whispered a prayer as he lowered his head. An ache, a longing pierced his heart. If ¬only they could meet Yeshua! Hear Him speak even once! If ¬only they could see His compassion at work among the needy. Could their lives also be changed forever? As twilight fell Peniel set out for home. The city’s twisting lanes teemed with people. Broad-faced, swarthy, suspicious Galileans mingled uneasily with manicured and perfumed pilgrims from Antioch. Travelers from the ¬Jewish settlement of Corinth kept themselves aloof from hot-tempered Syracusans. All were ¬under the watchful gaze of Roman mercenaries hired from Samaria, Syria, and Idumea. Keeping the Temple Mount on his right side, Peniel struggled against the tide. Somewhere beyond the elevated viaduct connecting the Upper City with the Temple enclosure, Peniel realized he was lost. There were so many people, so many turnings. He who could walk its streets without light, who knew Jerusalem better than he knew his own face, was suddenly baffled. Peniel’s senses swirled. Putting out his hand, he leaned against a plaster frieze of vines and grape clusters decorating the front of a wine merchant’s shop and closed his eyes. It came to him that he was still blind in a way. It was more comfortable walking in the familiarity of darkness. He heard the call of the Roman sentries atop the Antonia Fortress, smelled the fresh challah baking in the Street of the Bakers. Through the soles of his sandals Peniel discerned the rumble of carts entering the city by the Gennath Gate, and his whereabouts clicked back into place. Peniel proceeded confidently once more, pausing occasionally to verify his location with his other senses whenever the newfound oracle of sight overloaded with visions. Peniel recognized his home street two turnings before he reached it. The aroma of sun-ripened early figs swirled toward him from the fruit seller’s on the corner. This sensation was overwhelmed seconds later when a shift in the wind brought an avalanche of musk from the sheep pens. Almost home. Keeping to the shadows, he opened his eyes.

The watcher had gone at last. A sense of delicious freedom filled Peniel. He could go home. Speak to his family! Closing his eyes again, he listened for any unfamiliar sound or voice as the lane emptied out. He sniffed the air. No. Everything was as it should be. As it had always been. Darkness fell. Absolute. The flicker of lamps appeared in windows. Peniel swallowed hard and walked the few paces across the street. He raised his fist at the front door, then thought better of knocking. He would go around the side of the house. Like always. Call in to Mama from the side entrance of the workshop. As he rounded the corner Peniel came face-to-face with the squat figure of Mama. Beads of perspiration stood out on her leathery brow. Grizzled hair framed her blotchy face in wild curls. She stood athwart the shop doorway, like an angel with a flaming sword. “Peniel!” A shriek, as if she were seeing the walking dead. “Get back,” she hissed. “Back! You ¬can’t come in here. Can’t! Hear me? You’re a curse! Anathema! Go away!” “Mama,” Peniel implored. “I can see you, Mama. I see your eyes, Mama. You’re afraid.” He put out his hand. “Don’t be afraid.” She slapped it away. “Don’t be afraid,” Peniel began again. “Yeshua sent me—” “Don’t!” Peniel’s mother commanded, flinging up her palm and spitting three times to ward off the evil eye. “You’ll not speak that vile name here. They’ve forbidden it! He’s a son of the devil, that one!” Peniel reeled as though she had struck him, felt more physically sickened than all the times when she had actually delivered a blow. “Mama,” he tried again, “I know you’re afraid of the Temple rulers and the Pharisees, but ¬don’t be. Now ¬everything can be all right, better than before. Come with me. Come on. Just listen to him once and—” “You’ve brought disgrace! On us! Defying the rulers! Where do you think you’re going that I would want to come? Prison! That’s where they’ll put you if they catch you here!” “To meet Messiah.” “Messiah!” she scoffed. “Go against the command of the rulers? You think we want to be cast out of the synagogue too? Ruin our business? Lose our friends?” “But, Mama! Then . . . let me stay awhile. I can help you and Papa. Help you work.” Peniel searched her face for some sign of compassion, a glimmer of kinship, some spark of love. She spat at his feet. “Go on! Before I fetch the Temple Guard back to arrest you myself! They’ve been here all week lurking! Lurking! Driving away good customers. You’re no son of mine!” Peniel’s father appeared. His cheeks were streaked with clay. He mumbled something. “Papa! What?” Peniel implored. “Papa, what?” At an instructive glare from his wife Papa announced, “You ¬can’t come back