The Handmaid and the Carpenter (11 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nazareth
SEPTEMBER, A.D. 9

Mary

E MOANS, THE SMALLEST OF SOUNDS, AND
she draws him closer. He looks up at her, searching her face. “I fear you will forget me.”

“Joseph. You are my beloved. You run in my veins.”

“Who will care for you now?”

“I shall be cared for by caring for our children.”

He grimaces, then speaks with soft authority. “You must teach them humility. And groom them for their proper roles. Instill in them the need to honor our traditions, for without them—”

“Do not trouble yourself, my husband, do you not understand that I already know what you will ask of me? And that I will gladly do all of it?”

Joseph shivers and closes his eyes. When he opens them, Mary sees that a certain dullness has come into them. He is dying, then; the time has come. She feels a rush of great pain, but overcomes it by looking out at the land and stilling herself at the center. Later will be the time for her private sorrow; now she must take care of him. She looks down at her husband and smiles.

“I cannot help but worry about Jesus,” Joseph says. “I have loved him well, and endured much for his sake, as you have also.”

“God knows!” Mary answers. “And I know also that although you love all your children, it is Jesus who is closest to your heart.”

He smiles wanly. “Only because of my circumstances do I allow you to say such a thing.”

“Is it not true?” she asks.

“I shall ask you now for the truth, Mary. Will you finally tell me?”

“I have told you the truth, Joseph, and I will tell you yet again. On that day, the Holy Spirit—”

“A Roman soldier,” Joseph says.

Mary stops breathing. “What do you say?”

“It was a Roman soldier. Naomi saw you with him, and bound me never to reveal to you what she told me. But I must now betray her confidence in order that I at last come to—”

“It is untrue.”

“Naomi saw you!”

“Oh, Joseph. I know it is easier to believe a lie that makes sense than a truth you cannot understand. But I tell you it was an angel who gave me the message, and the Holy Spirit who planted the seed. Why have you struggled so long with this when you yourself have had such visions? For an angel told you to take me unto you as your wife. An angel bid you move your family to Egypt, then to Jerusalem, and finally back to Nazareth!”

He raises his shoulders, grown thin unto sharpness by his illness. “I had dreams, it is true. But I saw no angels.”

“But, Joseph, you—”

“I ask you again, as I asked you once so long ago: How do we know angels are not a trick of the mind? Or too much drink? Too much sorrow turned to too much hope? As for what you and your mother and Elizabeth saw, women always embroider and embellish the truth. They are natural storytellers. It is part of their nature and part of their charm. But are we to believe all they say? At this time for confessions, I confess my great doubt to you.”

She presses her hand to her breast, astonished. “But
…you
! You who are so true to your traditions, to the dictums of your faith! You who are the most religious man in the village!”

He laughs, one small sound. “It is ironic, I admit. You, who speak never of your faith, have more than I, who speak regularly of it. But I cannot deny any longer what lies deepest in my heart.” He sighs. “I do not believe in angels. Or miracles.”

“Would that I had the words to convince you of the truth of these things!”

He smiles ruefully. “I am afraid it is too late for that.”

“Joseph. That an angel did not come to you does not make false him coming to another. When I spit out the rotten fig, is it you detesting the taste? As for miracles, it is difficult to acknowledge them, it is true. Yet it is through acceptance of such revelations that we come to our true spiritual natures. In truth, you have witnessed miracles all your life!”

He smiles. “When?”

“Always! For miracles are everywhere around us. Sometimes they are small and common: The curl of a child’s ear. The ripening of grapes on the vine. The stretching of a rainbow over the valley in which we live. Sometimes they are larger: That we have inside ourselves the capacity to feel the music we hear. That our people survive!

“And also I admit there are miracles that defy comprehension: my own virgin childbirth. I know how difficult it is to contemplate, how the mind rebels against it. Yet I tell you again that it, too, was a miracle. What have I to gain by being false to you as you lay dying? What terrible retribution do I invite by doing such a thing? What kind of queer pleasure do I hope to find?”

Now, as he looks at her, the faintest of hopes.

“And Joseph, there are miracles you yourself have wrought.”

“I!”

“Yes, you. Shall I recount them?”

“First cover me, Mary, for I grow cold.”

Her heart in her throat, she removes her shawl and lays it over him. Then she says, “Have you not covered me with your own blanket of a cold winter’s night and in summertime given me water that was yours to drink?”

He nods, his eyes shining with tears.

“By this and by countless other acts, you, an earthbound man, have made his wife certain she lives with him in heaven. Thereby do I provide you with evidence for one of your miracles. And there are many more: That a heart so damaged as yours could heal to hold such love, not only for me but for seven children, all of whom are certain of being your special favorite. That despite our often desperate circumstances, not once has any of us been made to want—for you have held your family always in your mind and in your heart, and by your hand provided for us. You have shown by your life’s example what love and forgiveness can transcend. These are examples enough for me. Are they not enough for you, as well?”

“…Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?!”

He shakes his head. “Even on my deathbed, you will argue with me.” He takes her hand, and she is careful not to react to the weakness with which he holds it. “You speak so lovingly of my caring for my family. But I have failed, for I have nothing to leave them.”

“Nothing to leave them! Nothing but ideals of honor and of courage, of integrity and forbearance! Of steadfastness and loyalty! Nothing but those things without which nothing else matters!”

“Ah, Mary. Since the first time I saw you under the table at the wedding, where you most beguilingly bumped your head, I have loved only you—with my body, my mind, and my soul. I shall wait in joyful anticipation for you to be once more beside me. But first, live long and well, that you may care for our children and enjoy this life so rich with the miracles you have described.” Slowly, he rises to his elbows and makes his expression stern. “I order this, my wife!”

“And I shall, as ever, obey.”

He lies down again, takes her hand, and kisses her fingers. “My beauty. From where did you come?”

“I was spun of a spider’s web.”

“It is you who are my miracle.” He starts to say more but then suddenly turns away from her to stare at something in the darkness. “Look, Mary! Who draws nigh?”

She can make out nothing. “What is it, Joseph?”

His face is rapt, and he points with a trembling hand. “See now, an angel comes! Do you see him? Such terrible beauty; do you see how his countenance shines? Oh, I see now that you and the others have spoken the truth, for I see him plainly. But look, he draws near! I am afraid!”

She speaks quietly to him. “Then I shall hold you close to me and wait with you for his warmth to surround and transport you.” She reaches under his knees and shoulders and draws him awkwardly to her. He leans into her, trembling, staring out at the space before them. And then he stills. Slowly, he reaches out an arm. He smiles, and there is in it an eagerness: a child looking with happy anticipation around the corner. And then he moves no more.

She bows her head, then lifts it to stare out at the horizon, where a hint of red signals the rising sun. She pulls Joseph closer to her and rocks him. Always at dawn, as well as before going to bed, he has recited the Shema, and she says it now for him:

“Sh’ma Yisrael Adonai Elohaynu Adonai Echad,” she begins, softly.
Hear, Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.
Then, more surely, she continues:

Blessed be the name of his glorious kingdom forever and ever.

And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.

And these words that I command you today shall be in your heart.

And you shall teach them diligently to your children, and you shall speak of them when you sit at home, and when you walk along the way, and when you lie down and when you rise up.

And you shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be for frontlets between your eyes.

And you shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.

And it shall come to pass if you surely listen to the commandments that I command you today, to love the Lord your God, and to serve him with all your heart and all your soul,

That I will give rain to your land, the early and the late rains,

That you may gather in your grain, your wine, and your oil.

And I will give grass in your fields for your cattle, and you will eat and you will be satisfied.

She stops speaking, and rocks from side to side, her head bent to her husband’s. What does she wish for now? That the whole world could know of this unassuming man’s devotion, and all that it has provided. But they are from a simple village whose inhabitants are looked down upon and scorned. All she can do for him is give him a proper burial, which she will do. She will have her sons carry his body down from the roof and lay him on his pallet. She will wash him and anoint him and wrap him in flax, and then he will be buried, and all the village will mourn him.

She will visit his grave often. She will speak to him of their seven children, and of herself, and of all the people, living and dead, whom they have known. She will speak of the coming of the seasons, of the births and the deaths in their town. She will speak of the way that love endures, for she knows beyond doubt that their love will. But most often she will speak to him of Jesus, whom he so regretted, yet so loved.

It will pain all of her children to learn of Joseph’s passing, but especially Jesus, because of his extraordinary sensitivity. It comes to Mary that he already knows his father has died, that he lies on his pallet below them waiting for his mother to confirm what has already come to his heart.

The night wind picks up her hair and blows it wild about her face. She tucks it behind her ears and bends down to kiss her husband’s forehead, his eyelids, his mouth. Then she pulls herself gently from Joseph and goes down the stairs to Jesus. It is to him she must now attend.

E
LIZABETH
B
ERG
is the author of fifteen novels, including the
New York Times
bestsellers
The Art of Mending, Say When, True to Form, Never Change,
and
Open House,
which was an Oprah’s Book Club selection in
2000.
Durable Goods
and
Joy
School
were selected as ALA Best Books of the Year, and
Talk Before Sleep
was short-listed for the ABBY Award in
1996.
The winner of the
1997
New England Booksellers Award for her work, she is also the author of the nonfiction work
Escaping into the Open: The Art of Writing True.
She lives in Chicago.

ALSO BY ELIZABETH BERG

We Are All Welcome Here

The Year of Pleasures

The Art of Mending

Say When

True to Form

Ordinary Life: Stories

Never Change

Open House

Escaping into the Open: The Art of Writing True

Until the Real Thing Comes Along

What We Keep

Joy School

The Pull of the Moon

Range of Motion

Talk Before Sleep

Durable Goods

Family Traditions