Authors: Marjorie Holmes
Two from Galilee (20 page)
But he was forced to stay, there was no help for it, not when Zachariah appeared and Elizabeth explained why he couldn't voice his welcome. Evidently the thought of reproducing himself at his age had proved too much for the old fellow, he'd been struck dumb! An irreverent, vaguely horrified amusement shook Joachim. He could hardly blame him; he was dumbfounded himself by these happenings. Thus he too could only sit pretty well speechless throughout the long meal and the prayers and the washings to which he was unaccustomed, suffering, praying mostly for escape.
Afterward, claiming that he already had a room at the inn and had many things to do to see about tomorrow's offerings, he made haste to leave. Then it happened as he had feared. Mary accosted him on the steps. But she seemed so small and lost and far from home, and her little white face was so eager as she lifted it to his, her eyes so large with hope, that he couldn't do it, he was forced to lie.
"Joseph is fine," he assured her heartily. "He couldn't make the journey, at least I didn't see him among those who came up from Nazareth. But he sends you greetings." Then he made off fiercely down the hill.
T
O work, to keep building, that was the main thing. For when we cease building, hope dies. And so each evening Joseph plunged doggedly up the path to his unfinished house.
How had it ever seemed beautiful to him? he wondered, gazing at the dull stone walls. They were dead now, no longer suffused with light. They were as a tomb.
My heart throbs, my strength fails me;
and the light of my eyes—it also has gone from me.
My friends and companions stand aloof from my plague,
and my kinsmen stand afar off. . . .
Then he told himself that he must not wallow in such depths. Psalms didn't help, there was no comfort in psalms. And to embrace despair would be to confess his betrayal before the world. No—no, the thing was to work, to mix the corpse-gray mortar and fit the brutal rocks. And the roof—it was essential to get the roof on. So long as these poor walls stood roofless he had a queer feeling of exposure. It seemed to him that once the house were firmly roofed, then Nazareth's mouth would be shut as well.
For there had been talk, much talk. At first a half-merry astonishment that his betrothed, who should be firmly in his charge these months before their marriage, had taken herself off. That had been hard enough to bear, the jests, the thoughtless teasing, but he had managed to grin and return them in kind. Yet as the buds of spring gave way to green burning summer, a new tone came into the questioning, as if scandal-hungry tongues were already beginning to lick their chops.
"Where's Mary? When is she coming back?"
"Oh, any day now," he lied cheerfully, over the coals in his throat. "Soon."
He had not gone up for the Feast of the First Fruits. He had looked forward to it wildly—to see her again, discover that all she had told him was but a fantastic dream, and since she was recovered in mind and body to bring her rejoicing home. But Jacob had fallen ill. He had been given more and more to the hidden wineskins and when they were empty and he was too bloated and breathless to get more, he had begged Joseph in secret to obtain them for him. Timna had been beside herself. "You must stay with us, Joseph, you're the only one who can handle him."
So then he had thought of sending a message to Mary. But there was no money for papyrus or parchment which could be rolled up to keep his words private, and he was ashamed to set them down on ostraka, those broken pieces of pottery that the poor used. His thoughts were too precious, his torment of longings, and the way it was between him and her family—how Hannah scorned to speak to him at the synagogue, and Joachim's look was one of dark reproach. No, there was not room for all this on fragments of clay, nor could he have brought himself to write it. This was his private hell, and until he could be with her again he would have to endure it alone.
Then he began to count the hours until Joachim should return. Perhaps bringing Mary! Or at least a message for him. In his mind he began to fashion it, this letter of love and consolation and explanation that Mary would surely write him, if indeed she didn't come.
Then the spear out of the darkness. The shock of the unprovoked assault, plunging, plunging . . .
I am with child.
... he would rise up from his labors, clutching at his back as if to tear it free. The perspiration stood out on his face ... J
am with child. . . .
yet no. No! The letter would eradicate all that. Or she would give the lie to it herself with her lips pressed against his.
Thus he lived in an agony of suspense until Joachim's return.
Then his mother remarked one evening that Joachim had been home for several days. "Your brothers tell me they saw him in the fields."
Joseph gasped. "Why didn't someone tell me?"
"Your brothers probably wanted to spare you embarrassment."
"And Mary?" Bitterly—though it shamed and sickened him to inquire thus of his own betrothed—"Do my brothers, who are so anxious to spare me, are they also whispering behind my back that they have seen her too?"
"Son, son." His mother's tone was weary; she went on setting food away in the chest. "I'm sure that if Mary were home she'd have been seen at the well. I'm sure all Nazareth would know."
"Haven't the tongues of Nazareth anything better to wag about than the comings and goings of a young girl?"
"Why should you sound so offended?" Again that patient, unutterably weary tone. "There's always interest in such things, it's only natural." Timna continued to arrange the bowls upon the shelves, with a calm so dignified, bland and still it was almost threatening. "Mary's been gone over two months now, it's natural that people wonder."
As Joseph's brow darkened, she turned, and he saw that his mother's composure was breaking. The placid face was struggling against tears, her mouth worked. She who was usually so gallant became pitiably grotesque. "Haven't I enough to worry about with your father? This sickness of his, this shameful sickness that causes him to stumble and fall in the street, isn't that enough?" she demanded. "That he can't drink wine openly with other people but only secretly, to become besotted, so that he's a joke and a spectacle to the public and a grief to his family—and ill, so ill from it too. . . ." She broke off, shaking with soundless sobs. "Must I endure all that and this—this other? This shame and disgrace to my son as well?"
Helpless, Joseph regarded her, her tears scalding his soul.
Abruptly she went to the pitcher and poured a gourd of water to calm herself. She took a towel and wiped her eyes. When she faced him once more where he sat at the table, her eyes, though red, were stern.
"You don't sleep nights," she said. "We hear you prowling around to all hours. You're working yourself into the grave. For what? For a maid who may or may not return."
"Mother, I beg you, don't say such things!"
"Well, what is your understanding with Joachim? You have some rights in this matter. A bargain was made between us. Is that bargain to be fulfilled?" And when he didn't answer, "Forgive me for speaking bluntly, but your father and I—all our lives it seems we've seen you waiting for this one girl. And though it would have pleased us to see you take another and give us grandchildren long before—no, no, you would not. And so, knowing that they are stiff-necked people—they
are"
she insisted—"even so, I persuaded your father to humble himself by going to them on your behalf.
"And though they accepted," she went on, "even so your father and I have still been humbled by the family of Mary. He's so cheerful, he pretends not to notice, but he has been hurt by them, nonetheless. But there are some forms of humiliation we should not be called upon to bear," she said indignantly. "This long absence. If there is any reason for her to absent herself from her home and her betrothed husband, let it be known. And let it be known as well what you are going to do about it."
Joseph stood frozen. "Mother, what are you inferring? What are you suggesting?"
"Only that you face up to your own sense of honor, and the honor of your father's house. Jacob deserves that much of you. That much at least. A man who has been misused in a marriage contract can set that woman aside. I know it seems harsh, but sometimes there is no other way when a man has just cause."
"I have no such cause!"
Then because he had shouted and his mother seemed so shattered, he embraced her with a blind desperate tenderness. "Please don't worry," he said gently. "I'm sorry if I've failed you or caused you further grief when you are already so burdened. But God will surely send Mary back to me in order that our marriage contract may be fulfilled. Meanwhile . . ." He hesitated. "Meanwhile, I'll go to Joachim."
The confrontation came about unexpectedly the following day. Looking up from his work, he saw Joachim walking across the street. Sight of that stolid, impregnable and somehow haughty figure tore Joseph from his bench, his dreaded arguments unformed. He found himself standing breathless before him, half-angry, half-imploring.
"Joachim, tell me.
Tell
me. Did you see Mary?"
Joachim halted. Slowly, ponderously, he turned his whole body to regard him. His expression was inscrutable. "Yes," he said. "I saw her."
"And how is she?" Joseph begged. He glanced about and lowered his voice. "In the name of human pity tell me how she is and when she is coming back to Nazareth."
Joachim stood rooted, heavy with his own overpowering dread. And with his bitterness that was not a clean, clear-cut bitterness, because he remembered, so vividly the desires of his own youth. And because he blamed himself for so much. Hannah had been right, this was what happened when a family stepped down. And yet he did not hate this comely and fervent youth. What he had done, if he had done it, was foolish but not evil. Resent him, yes, but he was ridden by a sad compassion for him too. Joachim realized how cruel he had been in not seeking Joseph out at once.
"This is no place to discuss such a matter." He gestured toward the shop. "Is anyone there?"
"No, we can talk there."
Inside, Joachim sat down on a bench. He looked tired, dull and stricken, rustic and yet cloaked in his peculiar superiority.
"Mary is well, considering. . . ." he said. He set his teeth. "She is several months with child."
I am with child
... I
am with child. . .
. The words only confirmed the festering spear. It hurt when Joseph moved in certain ways, or when someone struck it as now, and yet even now he need not clutch himself or cry out. He only sat staring at Joachim.
Joachim returned the steady gaze. He leaned a little forward. "Tell me," he demanded grimly, "Joseph, tell me what you know of this. Have you brought dishonor to my house?"
Joseph could feel his heart's mad hammering. The swift hot stinging that spread across his face. A sense of peril came over him, every nerve jangled warning.
He could lose her.
Through his denial he could lose her.
And no matter what he owed to the honor of any house, his father's or that of this man before him, yet the prospect of losing her was to feel the clammy breath of Sheol and the grave.
He must proceed with caution. He said, "I love Mary. The last thing I'd wish to do would be to bring dishonor upon either her or her people." Yet his blood continued to throb so painfully it must be heard, and he knew that it burned his cheeks. He was guilty even so. Joachim must surely see that he was guilty. That night among the olive trees he had wanted her as his wife, would have taken her as his wife if she hadn't resisted. Told him ... 7
am with child
... I
am already with child. . . .
The pain was not to be concealed; he knew that his face was contorted with it. And yet he must not flinch before the fierce searching of her father's eyes.
He said, "Waiting can be torture for a man in love and entrusted with his bride. Waiting is sometimes beyond endurance."
Evasion though it was it was also the truth. He would have sinned against Mary and her father's house, only God had stepped in triumphant. God with this punishment that he was never to escape.
He went on, "And is it truly so great a dishonor that a man finds his own bride too fair to wait for the wedding feast? Might there not be more happiness in Israel if more couples loved each other in the manner of some of our great ancestors? Isaac and Rebekah, Jacob and Rachel."
He would have said more but Joachim stopped him with a little growl. He's protesting too much, the older man thought, he's seeking to divert me. And the sense of injury he had nursed so long that it had become almost essential to his self-respect, gave way to that which he abhorred to face. He arose and went to lean in the doorway. "Enough. There's a great deal I don't understand, but I'm not stupid, Joseph. I think I know the truth when I hear it. But I too have my honor," he said curtly, "and if it is my house, instead, that is threatening disgrace to that of your father Jacob, then I can only say. . . ." It was a second before he could go on. "Do what you must."
He squared his shoulders, forced his voice to be steady. "I ask only that you deal with her kindly. Perhaps if you were to go to the elders quietly, while she is yet in Jerusalem. . . ."
