Love In A Broken Vessel (22 page)

Gomer’s defenses broke under the weight of Yuval’s kindness. The woman didn’t deserve the awful truth. She didn’t deserve to know the countless times Gomer visited the pottery caves—with so many men, she’d stopped asking their names, stopped noticing their faces. The three pottery runners were supposed to be discreet, but their discretion disappeared when they experienced Gomer’s unique talents. At the time, she hadn’t minded their referrals, since the poorer customers paid less silver, thereby requiring more volume. But she didn’t have Merav to feed her pomegranate rinds and wild carrot seeds. In the absence of precautions, her womb had grown fertile.

Merav.
Gomer looked into the face that had once reminded her so much of her old friend. Yuval didn’t deserve the awful truth; she deserved a pretty lie.

“Hosea is angry that I find such fulfillment at the pottery shop.” She paused to formulate the rest of her plan, reaching up to take Yuval’s hand. “I don’t want to tell him I’m pregnant
yet. Will you help me learn to cook and become a better ima before I tell him about the new baby?”

Yuval’s eyes glistened with happy tears. “I think you’ve made a wise decision, Daughter. Your children are young for such a short while, but you can throw and kick pots for the rest of your life.” She chuckled, and Gomer smiled with her, issuing a silent prayer to the Asherah hidden under her mattress.

Mother Goddess, give me your feminine charms that I might become enticing to my husband again. For if I cannot tempt him, he will stone me as an adulteress.

• P
ROVERBS
6:26 •

A prostitute’s price is only a loaf of bread, but a married woman hunts for your life itself.

T
he days had grown shorter, and Jonah was growing weaker. “I’m sorry, my son, but I’m too tired to continue today.”

Hosea leaned over his bed and kissed his forehead. “Rest a while. Whatever Micah is cooking over there smells wonderful. I may eat your share, Jonah.” He glanced at the young prophet, noticing his tear-streaked cheeks, and offered a conciliatory grin. They shared a sorrowful nod—silent understanding that their teacher and friend was failing quickly.

Micah wiped two bowls with a cloth he’d slung over his shoulder. “I’ve made plenty of vegetable stew. Stay if you’d like.” He sniffed, wiping his nose with the same cloth.

Hosea chuckled. “I think I’ll go home. Yuval is cooking tonight, and at least I know what goes into her stew.”

“What?” Micah feigned offense, this time blowing his nose on the cloth and rousing a grin from Jonah.

Hosea walked out laughing, but sobered as soon as the door clicked shut behind him.
Lord, give me strength to face
Gomer again.
His stomach clenched. For two full moons he’d eaten his evening meals while sitting across from his wife in excruciating silence. They both talked to Jezzy but seldom uttered a word to each other. He was waiting—on Gomer to change, on Yahweh to speak, on life to improve.

The sunset reached through the sycamore trees, casting long shadows on the short path between Jonah’s house and Hosea’s. He extended his walking stick, scattering the dust and slapping scrub bushes to alert any creatures of his presence. A sudden streak of black shot out from his left. The desert cobra had struck and missed, then darted into the underbrush on the opposite side of the path. Hosea was overtaken by a full-bodied shudder.

He quickened his pace and considered asking Yuval if he could borrow a cat to accompany him on excursions. Sampson had eaten twice his weight in lizards and small house snakes. Still, it was a ridiculous thought. He knew a cat couldn’t protect him from a cubit-long cobra, but Yuval’s furry little creatures might at least warn him if a viper was near.

Hosea arrived home, reached for the door latch, and noted his shaking hand. The snake had rattled him. Or was it Jonah’s weakened state? Perhaps both. He opened the door and found Yuval and Gomer laughing and . . . cooking. A sight he hadn’t witnessed since before his wife was pregnant.

“Shalom, Hosea!” Yuval’s cheery voice welcomed him, and he noticed his wife maintained a tentative smile. “Gomer has learned to make barley bread. Would you like to try some?”

He set aside his walking stick and removed his heavy robe. Jezreel chased the cat in circles, his favorite pastime now that he was walking. “Sure.” He reached for the bread offered by his wife. “Thank you.”

She brushed his fingers as he took the morsel. Fire raced up his arm. How long had it been since she’d touched him?

“Well, I should get home,” Yuval prattled on, clapping flour from her hands. “Amos was supposed to return from
Beersheba today. I didn’t see him after midday, but perhaps he made it home by now.” She wiped her hands on her apron and hugged her student. “Listen, Daughter, you’ve done very well today. I have confidence that you’ll learn quickly. The lentil stew should be ready for tomorrow’s midday meal, and the roasted lamb and vegetables should satisfy your hunger tonight.”

Hosea lifted an eyebrow, marveling that Gomer would know the first thing about roasted lamb and vegetables. Aya had previously done all the cooking and serving for their family, and he assumed she’d continue after her wedding week was over.

“I’ve lost track. When will our newlyweds emerge from their wedded bliss?” he asked, throwing out the question to whichever woman felt like answering.

The ladies exchanged knowing glances, and Yuval nodded, seeming to encourage Gomer’s answer.

“I’ve asked Yuval to help me cook. Aya and Isaiah will be starting their own family, and I’ll need to take over her duties.” Gomer looked at the floor, hands gripped humbly before her.

Suspicion niggled at Hosea’s spirit. She had just spoken more civil words than he’d heard since he’d returned from Israel.

Yuval pecked a kiss on Gomer’s cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow to help with the stew.” Then she hurried out the door, leaving the little family alone in the looming darkness.

“Could you light a few more lamps and prepare the table mat? I’ll bring over the lamb and vegetables.” Gomer moved toward the cooking fire, and Hosea obeyed, keeping a watchful eye on this stranger in his wife’s body.

She’d been gone when he awoke this morning—the same as every morning. What had changed in one day’s time to create this meek, obedient wife? He could think of only one thing—Yuval. Hosea knew the older woman held great influence over his wife’s emotions. Amos and Yuval had been away on trade journeys a lot recently, so Gomer hadn’t spent much
time with her friend. Perhaps today Yuval had convinced her that being a wife and ima were her most important calling.
Seems too easy.
He watched her carefully as he placed two goatskins beside their leather table mat and corralled Jezreel on his lap.

“Thank you.” She placed the platter of meat and vegetables between the plates and filled a mug of watered wine at each plate. “Here, I’ll take him.” Jezreel reached for her, and she swayed in time to a silent tune, cradling the toddler in her arms.

Hosea watched her while he ate and marveled at the way she loved Jezzy. He’d been wrong about her. She did know how to love. His heart seized as her singing washed over him, filling the awkward silence between them.

When he finished his meal, he stood and tried to lift Jezreel from her arms. “Here, I’ll take him while you eat.”

But she pulled the boy away, shushing Hosea while still humming her lullaby. The child was fast asleep. After a long, meaningful gaze, she said, “I’ll go put him in our bed.”

Hosea’s heart was in his throat as he watched her walk away—the sway of her hips, the glide of her movement across the dirt-packed floor. His head swam. Was it the wine, or was he still in love with his wife? Before he could answer, she reappeared, her eyes sparkling flecks of green, blue, and copper. She removed her veil, and auburn curls floated to her shoulders.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, suddenly as nervous as a new groom. He spooned vegetables onto her plate and felt her arms slide around his waist. Was it nerves or anticipation that made him shudder?

“I must tell you I’m sorry, Hosea,” she whispered. He stood and faced her, and she melted into his arms. “I realized after talking with Yuval that I’ve been selfish and let my desires push aside the needs of our family. Can you forgive me?” She held him as if he was her lifeline—her anchor in a storm of emotions she kept buried in her downturned face.

“Yes, my wife. I forgive you.” He kissed the top of her head and worked his way down her forehead, her cheeks, and then found her lips.

“I want to make you happy,” she said, seemingly as starved for passion as he felt. “I need you to love me, Hosea. Love me.”

Yahweh, have You answered my prayers?

Without waiting for an answer, he allowed his desires to drive him. Yearnings he thought long dead raged until late in the night. She teased him, tempted him, taunted him with the pleasures she had learned in the days of her harlotry. Mad with desire, he gave himself over to her talents. Such a sensuous, amorous wife. He’d been home for eight long Sabbaths, denied the pleasures of the marriage bed because of Gomer’s stubborn rebellion. But no more. He thanked Yahweh for the fire she kindled in his soul and then fell asleep, satiated by the throes of ecstasy.

Gomer awoke in time to empty her stomach into the bowl beside her. She wiped her mouth and tensed, feeling Hosea’s hand on her back.

“Your cooking wasn’t that bad.” His sleepy voice sounded amused.

Relieved, she covered her nakedness and leaned over him with a smile. “We’ll see. You haven’t tried my lentil stew yet.”

He reached up and grabbed her, playfully rolling her into his arms. Her heart ached at the tenderness in his eyes. He hadn’t treated her so sweetly since before Jezreel was born, since before he left for Israel. Then she remembered—she hadn’t given him the chance. His first sight of her upon his return was her sitting in their bedchamber with Asherah in her hand.

“What are you thinking?” He was searching her expression, his brow furrowed.

“I haven’t told Amoz about my decision to be a wife and ima first and foremost. I should tell him I can’t help at the
workshop as often.” She pulled away and felt Hosea’s disappointment like a wet robe on her shoulders. She donned her tunic, robe, and sandals and moved toward the door as she spoke. “Would you mind if I went to the shop this morning—one last time to let everyone know of my decision?”

“I could go for you,” he said, his voice pleading. “I could explain to Amoz.”

“No, it’s best if I tell him. I have a couple of pots that need burnishing before they’re ready for market. Tell Yuval I’ll be back to serve the lentil stew at midday.” She wrapped her veil around her head and shoulders. She hurried out the door, clicking it shut behind her, and then rushed to the stables. She retched again beside the donkey’s stall and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Hiding her morning sickness from Hosea would be difficult, but she must find a way until at least two Sabbaths passed. By then she could convince him the child was his.

The sun rose over the eastern hills. She’d scheduled a new client this morning at the first cave and didn’t want to be late. She kept a watchful eye on the path before her, cursing herself for leaving her walking stick behind. Her thoughts raced with her feet. Perhaps she could maintain her business until the pregnancy became obvious. No one would pay for a pregnant harlot. She’d have to delay her escape until after this second child was born. But one of the pottery shop women had just announced she was with child. Perhaps she could be a wet nurse for the new baby. Gomer would bind her breasts right after delivery and return to harlotry, adding to her already significant savings. The pregnancy would delay her escape; it need not cancel it.

She saw the three cave runners ahead, entering through the southern gates. Each one issued a leering smile, and she hurried past them to her first cave, not far from where the men had retrieved the wagonload of dried pots.

“You’re late,” said an angry voice from the deep recesses of the cavern. “I shouldn’t have to pay when you’re late.”

The stench of stale sweat and the foulness of the man’s breath caused Gomer to run for the path and retch once more.
Men are pigs.
She was in no mood to beg for a meager piece of silver.

“Get back in here.” A meaty hand grabbed her waist and lifted her from the earth. He carried her a few steps and then dropped her, untying his belt. Her mind reeled. She saw Israel’s captain, Eitan, raining blows on her face and body. Others before him had tried to abuse her, but she’d always carried a dagger. She’d become careless, forgotten this part of harlotry—the brutality, the entitlement men felt when paying for pleasure.

She scrambled to her feet, trying to flee, but he caught her cheekbone with the back of his hand. “We’re not finished here.” She struggled, but he was too strong. She dared not cry out. Who would help her? Tears streamed down her face as she silently pounded the ground with her fists, cursing her life. By the gods, she would find better men to build a respectable business. She was a harlot, not a whore.

When he finished with her, he tossed her a piece of silver. “Next time, don’t be late.” And then he was gone.

Anger and shame curled her into a ball, and she wept. Why was she born a woman? Why couldn’t she choose her own destiny, love whom she wished, live how
she
determined best?

She crawled to one of the drying racks and pushed herself to her feet. Her left cheek was already puffy, and she tasted blood when running her tongue along every tooth.
No teeth gone. Thank you, Asherah.
She must become more vigilant in her worship and in her precautions.

She tried to resist panic and decided to go to the pottery shop to clean up before going home. Her other customers would be disappointed when she didn’t show up, but it couldn’t be helped.

The pottery shop was just a short, rugged hike from the cave. She entered through the back, trying to shield her face from the women at their stations. Still, three old gossips
stopped their work and dropped their jaws. The shop grew quiet as a tomb. She stood at the bottom of the loft stairs, waiting for Amoz to notice her.

“Gomer, what happened?” He rushed down the stairs, his hands poised beside her as if she were as fragile as his finest vase.

“I fell while walking here.” It was an absurd lie, but she couldn’t think of anything more plausible. “Could you get a bowl of water and a cloth and meet me behind the shop, under the sycamore?” She walked out the door, not waiting for his answer.

Moments later, Amoz was sitting beside her. The morning chill made their meeting uncomfortable, but it was appropriate for what she was about to do. He lifted the wet cloth to her face, dabbing her bruised cheek, but Gomer stilled his hand. “I’m pregnant, Amoz.”