Jephte's Daughter (36 page)

“Ima, come see,” Akiva called from the room. It was filled with wonderful old toys—painted toy soldiers, rocking horses. It would keep him busy for days. She gave him dinner and put him to sleep, then began dressing for dinner herself. She put on a gray-silk dress she had bought because it reminded her of the one, long ago, that had made the shopgirls on Rodeo Drive stare in envy. It was simple and graceful and served as a background, setting into fine relief the sheen of her lovely skin, the light, incredible color of her beautiful eyes.

She looked into the mirror. She had changed so since the first time she had worn this kind of dress. She no longer felt there was any power in her beauty, or joy in her womanliness. Instead, there was a recognition of limitations, an acceptance of gifts. Her beauty could bring her good things and bad, as could her name and lineage. What she made of her life, finally, would be affected by these things, but not decided by them. She had control over the raw materials that made up her life and not the opposite. But then, how little control any of us has in this life, she thought. It is just an illusion, the careful plans we make, the choices we agonize over. A drunk driver, a certain man at a certain party one happens to go to, and it is all over, for better or for worse. Elizabeth knocked.

“Come in.”

She opened the door. Her face was flushed with excitement and her eyes sparkled. “Hug me, hug me! Yes, I think it’s going to happen! He’s asked me!”

The two friends hugged each other, then stepped apart. Batsheva’s eyes were wet. “I’m so happy for you, Liz. He’s a wonderful man.” She was happy she could say this sincerely, without reservation. Her anger at Elizabeth had blown away like a dark cloud, leaving no trace.

“Oh, my dear. Don’t cry, Batsie. It will all work out. You’ll see, you’ll see,” Elizabeth crooned softly, feeling her own eyes moisten. They smiled tearfully at one another, sharing the happiness and the pain, grasping each other’s fingers tightly.

The table sparkled with crystal glasses, large ones for water, smaller ones for wine. Fresh roses, lilies, and chrysanthemums from the garden had been arranged by some graceful artistic hand and eye. The colors were all soft and muted. When the large candlelabra was lit, the light bounced off an overhead chandelier, breaking into a thousand prisms that danced along the wall, casting rainbows over them all. The table was set for six. So they were expecting him, she thought.

The clock ticked away. “Shall I begin serving now, sir?” a servant asked diffidently.

Lord Hope looked up irritably at the clock, as if it were somehow to blame, then at his wife. “I suppose you’d better, Gretchen. It doesn’t look like he’s coming.” Lady Hope glanced at Batsheva and sighed. She was a plump, kind, generous woman, a romantic fond of novels and love stories. And now, after her husband’s talk with the girl, she was prepared to change the plot—as her mind insisted on putting all life’s events into a tidy, sequential, and familiar format—into the story of star-crossed lovers, and not, as she had originally supposed, that of a scheming, immoral married woman out to seduce an innocent, guileless novitiate. As such, she was now prepared to champion them against all odds. She actually had much in common with Elizabeth. She, too, insisted all endings be happy. She put her arm around Batsheva. “He’ll turn up, my dear, never you fear. And we must not forget, we still have things to celebrate.” She clasped her hands together, beaming at Elizabeth and Ian. Such a lovely girl, Elizabeth, she thought. “It will be so nice to have a house full of women, instead of just you awful boys.”

“We’re not so bad, Mum,” Ian protested, giving his mother a fond bear hug.

“You’ll absolutely crush me, you careless boy.” She made a shooing motion with her plump, motherly hands, then smoothed down her disordered dress. Her face beamed.

It was all so perfect. The lovely meal, the wonderful, accepting parents, Elizabeth and Ian united happily. And there she was, again unable to eat anything, unable to drink the wine, sitting next to an empty seat. Why did I come, why? she asked herself bitterly. I am doomed to be an outsider forever, always pressing my face up against the glass, looking in at love, at friendship, at family, unable to partake. Like a ghost. Perhaps, she thought darkly, perhaps it would have been better to have finished with it that day in Tel Aviv.

“Now, Batsheva, you are not to worry, dear. Ian’s brought all your special foods from a restaurant in Golder’s Green. It’s all—what’s that word?” Lady Hope wrinkled her nose in concentration, then smiled, remembering. “Yes, it’s all kosher. And yes, this is a brand-new set of dishes and silverware, so please, don’t worry. You may eat whatever you like.” She beamed. It was all so exotic and romantic, she thought. She just loved being in the middle of it.

“I…I…just don’t know what to say, how to thank you for all your trouble.” Batsheva looked shyly around the table and found such acceptance and warmth in the kind eyes of the parents, the familiar eyes of Elizabeth and Ian. They suddenly seemed like family to her. She wanted to cry.

“Now, what is this?” Lord Hope looked down at the first course. “Some kind of stuffed fish? And this red stuff…”

“No! Lord Hope, it’s horseradish, you’re supposed to take only a tiny bit, it’s very hot…” Batsheva said anxiously as she saw him pile the hot spice on his plate like a vegetable. But it was too late, he had already put a large spoonful into his mouth.

“My Lord!” His face reddened and he reached out blindly for the water, gulping it down. They all watched him anxiously. He looked around the table. “You know, that was quite good!” The laughter rang out, loud and unrestrained so that no one heard the door open.

“David,” she whispered, afraid saying it out loud would break open the dream and he would disappear. But other voices, feeling no such compunction, called out loudly and heartily, giving credence and solid reality to the vision.

“David!”

“My dear boy!”

“You’ve had us worried to death!”

“Sit down, sit down and taste this wonderful red stuff!”

She was almost afraid to look at him after all these weeks. Perhaps he had changed. Perhaps she would not find in his eyes the look that had haunted her and filled her nights and days with restless, inconsolable longing.

“My dear,” he looked down at her and raised her chin. His touch went through her like a flame. His face was terrible and exquisite. He seemed to have aged and paled, the way people do after a long, painful illness. But the eyes that met hers, through which she seemed to glimpse his soul, were full of beatitude, a reflection of her own.

What strange creatures we humans are, David thought. If someone were to walk in now and tell me I must leave this chair in this house next to this woman, I would fight him, I would be prepared almost to kill him. And yet, in three days I will leave her, perhaps forever, of my own free will. Was it possible? How had he made such plans? He thought of Father Craven, of Father Gerhart, and he remembered the conversations long into the night, the confusion and his final capitulation. Now, sitting next to her, it seemed like a bad dream. Did she want him to go? Did she know? He glanced at her flushed face bent over her plate. He was almost afraid to look at her.

“Forgive me for coming!” he whispered.

She couldn’t speak a word, her heart was so full.

“You aren’t angry that I did?”

She shook her head and her eyes spilled over with hot tears of love and gratitude. How can you say it, or even think it! they said. But he saw only the heat. Passion? Anger? His heart beat faster. There was no way to rush the meal. There were toasts, and good wishes, and questions and jokes and stories. It became intolerable to him.

“Excuse us.” He got up abruptly, taking Batsheva’s hand. He led her away down the dark garden path where the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle mingled with that of the newly budding roses. He had meant to question her, to demand explanations, to plead. But seeing her bent head, her flushed, lovely face, he went into a kind of trance, forgetting everything. He led her to a garden bench. “Are you cold?” He didn’t wait for an answer, taking off his coat and draping it over her soft, vulnerable shoulders. His fingertips lightly touched the delicate silkiness of her gray dress, which shone like liquid silver in the moonlight. Her eyes, too, seemed to glitter with the cold light of the moon, mysterious and unapproachable. What did you expect? he told himself, bitter with disappointment. And he understood again why he had said yes to Father Craven and Father Gerhart. He had made plans to leave her, to forget. “I am so sorry for coming, for making you so unhappy.”

She turned to him and he saw the shock that compressed her nose and mouth and widened her eyes. “Unhappy? How can you…? I am like a starving man who has been fed. He may be freezing, his clothes may be thin and torn, he may be humiliated, but he is not unhappy. He has been given food to live for one more day.” She touched his face tentatively, all the longing held back. “David.” She rested her cheek against his, making no demands, asking for no solutions. She felt like Noah’s dove who, having flown the world over the deep floodwaters in a hopeless search for shelter, finally found its way back to the safe warmth of the Ark.

There is a strange hope that comes to people who have battled hopelessness and despair: the terminally ill, the childless, the failures. It is a hope that defies the mind and refuses to listen to rational arguments. It sprouts from barren soil and, denied all nourishment, continues foolishly to grow. It came now to David and Batsheva as they sat holding each other silently in the dark moonlight, spinning impossible plans. She would divorce Isaac and they would marry, and the identity and religion of each would be preserved. Yes, there in the moonlight, close together, it seemed so simple; why hadn’t they thought of it before? It was so clear that it must be done that way, so easy. David felt the energy flow through him. If only he could settle the whole thing now! This moment!

He woke early and went into the garden to read and watch the day break, an old childish habit. He was surprised to find his father already up.

“It is all settled. We will marry.”

His father looked at him, profoundly startled, but said only “ah,” in a strange, noncommittal way.

But David, caught up in his wonderful vision, hardly noticed. He paced around with restless energy. “We were just not thinking straight. It is all so simple really. She will divorce and we will each keep our own faith.”

“And the child?” his father asked mildly.

“Akiva? He is her child, he will be raised in her faith. Really, so many other couples have managed this arrangement, we were foolish to make such a story of it.” But in his heart he began to see the obstacles rise again, like black, impenetrable monoliths.

“And what if you have other children, what of them? And what about all the holidays, the rituals, you must do together, as a family?”

“Really, Father. We can work it out, I know we can. Please!” He realized that he was directing his anger at the questioner when it was the insoluble questions that he wished to crush and destroy. What would happen if they had another child? Belief could not be shared and divided. One believed or one did not, the way one loved or one did not.

“Oh, you might pull it off for a while. But I’ll tell you what will happen. You will grow apart a centimeter at a time until there is a mountain between you that you cannot cross.” His eyes looked far off, remembering. “And don’t think she will be allowed to raise her son if she marries you. You don’t think the rabbis will allow that, any more than a priest would. They will give him back to his father to raise, probably as the price for agreeing to the divorce.”

They had not considered that. It was unthinkable. He remembered her loving hands washing Akiva’s small, precious body. He bent his head low in pain and felt his father’s arm around him.

“I love her so, Father. What should I do?”

“I don’t know. Nothing is simple. We are forced into these hard, absurd, and incomprehensible choices. But that’s life, isn’t it? No rhyme or reason.” He studied the dark, handsome face of his eldest son. “You are so like your mother. If only she were here now, I’m so sure she could help you.”

“What? Why do you say that?” They so seldom spoke of her. “She would, perhaps, tell you…” He bit his lip as if preventing himself from saying any more.

“I can’t live without Batsheva.” He gripped his head in despair and sat quietly for a few moments, not moving. And when he finally lifted his head, his face was full of a terrible, calm light. “But I would rather do that than hurt her, or put her in a position where she would agree to hurt herself out of her love for me. I must go away,” he said definitely. “I must leave, now, before it is too late.”

“David, you’re being rash! Give yourself time to think about it!”

“No! That’s just the point, I can’t think about it, because if I do I’ll never have the courage to go through with it! I am nothing special. Just a weak, selfish human being and every ounce of who I am wants her, needs her! I must not allow her to even consider such a sacrifice for me. Father, say good-bye for me? To her, to Mother and Ian and Elizabeth. I will write, tell her that?”