Second Touch (23 page)

15 “He’ll come back,” Deborah whispered to Lily. “I know he’ll come back.” It was Shabbat. Just after sunrise on the eighth day the chedel people began to arrive outside the cave to await the circumcision of Deborah’s son. Some carried gifts, precious momentos of their former lives, to celebrate the baby’s Bris Milah, or circumcision ceremony: a square of fabric that had been squirreled away, a coin, a small silver rattle in the shape of a bunch of grapes. Others brought bouquets of wildflowers. Young and old had come to see this wonder! Who could imagine this? A perfect human child born in the Valley of Mak’ob! Those newly scourged by disease and still somewhat intact stood among those so horribly ravaged they no longer seemed human. Chedel arrived in twos and threes, the strong assisting the weak. Some were

carried on stretchers. The crowd grew to one hundred. Two hundred. By midmorning a semicircle of nearly four hundred were gathered in reverent silence. There were, of course, others in the large cave who could not come. Some on the outskirts of the settlement who would not come. But those who still believed that life was possible waited in the hot sun until Rabbi Ahava hobbled out from his hut and called the congregation to order. All was prepared for the circumcision and naming of the baby, but Deborah was not yet willing to present him. She remained in the shadows of the cave, watching, waiting as the sunlight shifted on the hillside. Lily did not speak up, but she knew what was on Deborah’s mind. Where is Jekuthiel? Why ¬hasn’t he come back? Deborah was dressed in the same brightly colored linen gown in which she had been married. She had taken it from the great wooden chest once used for storage when they lived in a home like real people. She stood feebly framed in the light. Her hair was plaited with yellow ribbons and with blue lupines gathered from the hills. Lily stood just behind her, like a servant, holding the precious infant. Waiting. Waiting for Deborah to accept the fact that Jekuthiel would not be coming. Lily’s heart ached for the young mother and the newborn. ¬I’m praying again, Unhearing One. Words pour out from the depths of me, asking ¬only one question. . . . Little Baruch, bathed and dressed, bored with his mother’s preoccupation, nodded off on a mat in the corner. From this angle it was hard for Lily to see that Deborah was chedel. No, no, Lily thought, Deborah was more like a princess in a legend who had been cursed and exiled to a desolate ¬underworld until a warrior would arrive from heaven to rescue her! But still Jekuthiel did not come. Deborah held her head high as she surveyed the silent assembly. Lily was certain she was searching the hills and switchback trails that surrounded Mak’ob for some sign of Jekuthiel’s arrival. But he did not come. Lily questioned heaven. All these, your castaways, heaped together to honor her and the child. A bonfire on this forsaken shore. Lord! From the shadows of the deep ravine do you hide from us? Do you watch as we raise our half hands to you? Our hearts are eaten away by grief. They are gaping wounds where hope has been torn out by the roots of our souls. Do you hear? Perhaps. Yet you dare not come among the unclean! Do you have eyes that see even those of us who are unclean? Then look at her, Lord. Standing there, waiting for him when he’s never coming back. Have mercy! Rabbi Ahava, prayer shawl wrapped to conceal all of his face except his eyes, came forward to the opening of the cave. His words were gentle but firm. “It’s time. Deborah?” “Jekuthiel ¬isn’t here yet,” Deborah argued from the shadows.

“My dear girl—” the old man’s voice quaked—“so many good men of Israel have come here to stand in for him. They’ve been waiting many hours on broken feet. Some can stand no longer.” Deborah pleaded, “Oh, Rabbi! But he promised! Here is his son! He’ll come soon. Please, Rabbi.” The old man did not step into the dwelling. He fixed his rheumy eyes on Lily, then made a gentle inquiry. “Is the baby sleeping, Lily?” Lily looked down into the peaceful face of the infant. “Yes, Rabbi. Fast asleep.” “That’s fine. Fine. Nothing in the world so beautiful as a baby sleeping peacefully, eh? The sight makes even a heart of stone melt.” Then, to Deborah, “Well, yes. We can delay the Bris awhile longer. In case your husband ¬comes back. Yes. Until the sun is setting. But . . . dear girl . . . will you let people see him? The baby, I mean? Not all of them can remain. The sun. So hot. And they all came just to see the baby. Such a treat. Such a sight will never come again for many of us here. They’ve been planning this for days, you know. There’s food. Gifts. Maybe we celebrate before, eh? And circumcise him later? Planning since before he was born even. Will you walk and carry the baby among the chedel and let them see how beautiful . . . how beautiful life is? Even here.” Deborah nodded. By her sigh, Lily knew she was relieved. Deborah turned and took the baby from Lily’s arms. Adjusting the blanket, which was adorned with the pattern of Jekuthiel’s tribe, Deborah called Baruch to wake up and come walk by her right side. Lily remained close in case Deborah needed to lean against her. “Are you ready then, dear girl?” Rabbi Ahava swept his arm toward the gathering. “Yes,” Deborah said. “Yes.” And so they emerged, shuffling with the broken-footed walk of lepers, from the darkness of the cave into the light for all to see. Sunlight shone on Deborah’s mustard yellow robe, shimmered on the bands and flowers in her hair. Tiny, uncertain steps on bandaged feet. No one seemed to notice the hideous lesions on her face. No, Deborah was beautiful again. A collective sigh of wonder rose. The rabbi laid his cheek against his hand as a warning that the baby was sleeping and they must not wake him. And then the old man made a blessing: “Blessed are you, O Adonai, who has preserved us and allowed us to see this . . . baby . . . which you have formed and made in your image.” Absolute silence descended and covered them like a blanket. There was a hushed shuffling as those in the back tried to move forward to get a better look. Deborah steadied herself against Lily. So fragile. So near to collapse. Lily braced her up with a strong right arm. I am praying again, Dormant One. Here they are, gathered, swept together like broken pottery. ¬I’m one of them. What would my other life have been today if I had not been condemned? Ah, well. ¬I’m a clay pot too, shattered

in pieces. Some slight recognition of what I once was, what might have been . . . but useless now. No putting me . . . us . . . back together. This baby. A reminder of wholeness. Our prayers are wind beating against your stony face. Nothing. Nothing now. You do not move or speak to me, no matter how I wail. A trio of tsara’im approached. They were those who had been in the Valley of Mak’ob the longest time, cut off from family, friends . . . virtually all contact with the Outside. They were chedel, the living dead, in the fullest horror of all that phrase implied. By common, unspoken consent, these three had first right to see the miracle of a perfectly formed baby. One was a man whose hands were stumps—his feet also. He walked on a pair of sticks tied to his forearms. His brows were swollen: hairless ridges that overhung his eyes. His misshapen head was a ponderous mass, far too great for his spindly neck to bear much longer. Beside him was a woman. She was blind, her eyes frosted over and opaque. Her face and hands were smooth and unmarred except for her ears and lips. These protruded from her head like strangely coiled hoops of copper wire. Mother of seven children, she had neither seen nor heard from any of her loved ones nor her husband in all her residence in Mak’ob. At the front of the queue was the longest living resident of the Valley. In the cruelest irony leprosy inflicted, some of the stricken lived unnaturally long lives. The Pharisees declared that sins of those who lived on and on in suffering must be especially egregious for Elohim to lay on them such a scourge. No one now living in the settlement even knew the name of the old one; no one Outside cared. He was simply called Choly—“Grief”—because he embodied ¬every sorrow, ¬every fear, ¬every sense of abandonment by man and God alike. His visage was fierce. Hell had etched its image on his features, erasing all semblance of humanity. The stench of his flesh was like an open grave. Lily covered her nose with her hand. She tried to turn her eyes away yet could not help but stare and wonder if she was looking at the future reflection of her own face after the disease took hold. Choly resembled someone who had been burned. Ears gone. Brows, nose, cheeks, and chin all melted together in a horrifying parody of a human being consumed by an inner flame. He shambled forward and bowed his head in deep reverence. From the hole where his mouth had been came this most human entreaty: “Lady . . . dear . . . lady . . . may we who are dead . . . see . . . see . . . this . . . this beautiful . . . miracle . . . this precious . . . life?” What longing there was in the old one’s request, Lily thought. And for a moment, just a moment, she thought she heard a whisper. For a moment, she set aside doubt. Maybe God was watching. Maybe he did care. I am praying again, Eternal One! This is myself! With my half voice I sing to you! Oh, Adonai!

What heartache! For this distorted creature to see this infant and remember. . . . What did he see when he looked at the baby in Deborah’s arms? Was it the memory of his own child, perhaps? his own son? his baby presented to the Lord for circumcision long ago when his world was still filled with hope? before he had awakened to this living nightmare? Deborah could not reply. Profound sadness flooded her eyes as she granted the old man his wish. She turned back the fold of the blanket. “Ahhhhhh! Oh! Look!” Choly raised his stump and exclaimed to his blind companion in an earnest whisper. There was a smile in his voice. Yes! No lips, but Lily heard the smile! Choly’s soul was smiling! “Perfect. Ah! Perfect! The mouth of him, ahhhh! Look! His tiny mouth! Remember? Smooth . . . cheeks, tiny lashes . . . oh! His hands! His hands! Fingernails fragile as a butterfly wing!” I am praying again, El Olam, Eternal God! This is myself! With my half mouth I praise your wonders, O Lord! The woman who had no eyes began to weep at the beauty of Choly’s description. “Baruch atah Adonai elehaynu . . . blessed! Blessed art thou! O Lord, God! Blessed King of the Universe! Blessed . . . who has preserved! Blessed us till this day, and blessed! Allowed us to see! Blessed! Such wonder and miracle in the world.” I am praying again, Living Light! This is myself! With my half sight I see you shining in the face of a newborn! Choly said, “Once we were like this baby boy! Once we were . . . I was! Even I! I was once . . . and once I was a father of such a perfect baby boy! Once! Oh, once I was a father!” Rabbi Ahava cried in a loud voice, “And so your soul is still this child cradled in the arms of the Almighty! The Almighty remembers the day of your dedication! He sees your suffering!” Are you watching, Lord? Good Shepherd? While you stand back from us and wait in the shadow of the ravine? Do you see us down here? Pathetic creatures. Are we still your flock? Am I your lamb? Choly began to weep. Soon the entire congregation sobbed, each man and woman mourning for the child they once had been—for what had been lost. “Oh, Lily! Lily!” Deborah also was clearly in agony. She passed the infant to Lily. “Take the baby up to the platform! Let them all see him! How beautiful he is!” Rabbi Ahava cried, “Yes! Let them all see that the Lord is good! Let them see that the Lord ¬hasn’t forgotten us. That he still has hope for us! Go there, Lily! Yes! Yes! Take this newest son of Avraham! This miracle! Take him up on the boulder. Quickly, Lily! Hold him up. Our blessing! Our reminder!” Baruch, troubled by the tumult, clung to the skirt of his mother. Lily took the baby and climbed onto the flat rock that served as a platform for Rabbi Ahava’s Shabbat teaching. Draping the blanket over her shoulder, she held the naked child high for

all to see. Rabbi Ahava called out to his congregation. “Chadel! You who are rejected and despised by your families! Chedel, you living dead. Look at him! Look at him! Every baby is sent so we can see our souls as the Eternal One, El Olam, sees us!” Yes. Yes! Lily thought, ¬understanding the lesson. After a time the mourning subsided. Lily wrapped the baby in the shawl and carried him back to Deborah. Deborah’s expression betrayed her exhaustion. “I have to go back. Lay down. Think awhile what I should do. What will I do if Jekuthiel ¬doesn’t come back?” “Do? What should you do?” “Jekuthiel ¬isn’t back. I hoped he’d be here to help me decide on a name. But he ¬hasn’t come, Lily. I have to reason it out alone.” Deborah returned to her bed in the cave. Lily helped her undress. The cheerful sunny gown was returned to the chest. The baby awakened and nursed while the chedel celebrated his circumcision, though it had not yet taken place. Outside there was music and dancing. The aroma of food and campfires. Laughter. It was a fine party, Lily thought, almost like real people who lived outside the Valley of Mak’ob. Joy. Even here. Well. It was a good thing. “Jekuthiel will come.” Deborah stroked the baby’s head. “Your papa would not miss your Bris. Your naming. He’ll be here. They’ll see.”

Jekuthiel did not come back. Deborah did not get up even when Rabbi Ahava entered the cave just before sunset. “The eighth day is almost gone.” The rabbi tugged his beard. “Circumcision is so important we perform it even on Shabbat. So. The day is going . . . Deborah?” Lily knew Deborah had lost hope. She was dying. Little Baruch grew weak. He lay coughing on his pallet. In the darkness of the place, with the help of Lily, the old man came to circumcise the boy child. As the rabbi stood with knife at the foreskin, he said to Lily and Deborah, “As you know, circumcision is a future sign of what Messiah will do for us. The letters of the Hebrew word for covenant total ¬only 612. There are 613 laws in Torah. One more than the number for covenant. The Hebrew word for The Light totals 613. Only when Messiah, The Light, is revealed to us will all the Law be fulfilled.” Then he asked Deborah, who seemed disinterested in the ceremony, “And what is his name, my daughter?” It was customary to name a child for some circumstance or event or deliverance. Deborah was at a loss. She raised her head and managed a hoarse whisper, “He is . . . born in exile. To . . . prisoners. Those who are banished to this place ¬don’t ¬ever return to the Outside. This is a