Rebekah: Women of Genesis (38 page)

“The Lord will protect him.”

“From himself? Yes, I trust the Lord to protect him from falling off a cliff, though sometimes I wonder if there
are
enough angels to watch out for him all the time. But can the Lord protect him from his own disobedient choices that make him unworthy of the birthright?”

“If Esau proves unworthy, there’s plenty of time to teach Jacob. But we’re
not
going to put it in his head to covet a birthright that will never be his.”

So that was it, thought Rebekah. The Lord’s prophecy made them suspicious of Jacob, made them want to keep even the knowledge of reading and writing away from him.

But Rebekah had no patience with such nonsense. She told Jacob that very afternoon that she had a new game to teach him, and soon he was learning his letters. She told him to keep it a secret between them until he was good enough to show his father and grandfather, and so every day they worked on the letters until Jacob could read anything she wrote, even when he had never heard the word before, and could write quite legibly, too.

She should have known, however, that such a secret could not be kept. Jacob didn’t tell anyone, but he did scratch the letters into the dirt when the shepherds wouldn’t let him get close to the flashing knives at shearing time. The next day Isaac saw the random letters and words written in the dirt—including the sentence “Yes I am old enough” in a very bold and angry hand—and he immediately came to Rebekah.

“I told you that boy was not to be taught!” he said. It was the first time he had ever been openly angry with her, and instead of being contrite, she was angry right back at him.

“You said that you and your father wouldn’t teach him the writing in the holy books.”

“That didn’t mean for you to do it in our place.”

“But Isaac, I didn’t teach him the letters of the holy writings. I taught him the letters my father’s household used to communicate with him.”

“It’s the same thing! Almost.”

“How would I know that? I’ve never seen the holy writings, and you’ve never shown the slightest interest in seeing the writing I did know. So I’m passing along my family’s writing to Jacob, just as you’re passing your family’s writing to Esau. Someday. When he sits still long enough and doesn’t rip the ancient parchments.”

“Now I understand,” said Isaac, “why your father was so angry with your mother for her defiance!”

The words struck her so hard she lost her breath and couldn’t answer. Isaac realized at once that he’d gone too far, but his effort at amelioration only made it worse. “Not that teaching Jacob to read is the same as worshiping Asherah.”

“I’m glad you can see the difference,” said Rebekah acidly.

“But the fact remains that you disobeyed my decision.”

“The fact remains,” said Rebekah, “that I did no such thing, because you never made it a commandment to
me.
”

“Well I make it a commandment
now.
”

“And what would you have me do? Go into Jacob’s memory and strike out all his knowledge of writing?”

“Leave it alone and he’ll forget it.”

“You would deliberately make your second son, who loves learning, as ignorant as your firstborn, who hates it?”

“Esau is not ignorant.”

“He’s ignorant and disobedient by his own choice, and because you and Abraham encourage it.”

“Maybe if he thought his mother loved him . . .”

Rebekah was furious at such a slander, but she kept her voice quiet to answer him. “I’m the only one who loves Esau enough to try to teach him to do right. And what does it say about you and Abraham, that you treat Jacob like nothing, precisely because he
is
obedient?”

“More obedient than his mother.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” said Rebekah. “My father never thought I was disobedient. Maybe I am, though, and maybe Esau got his disobedience from me. But when
he
disobeys, you say he’s bold and needs to find his own way.”

“You’re not a five-year-old.”

“And Esau won’t always be, either. At what age do you plan to start teaching him to obey?”

“Let’s see,” said Isaac. “How old are
you?
”

Whereupon, as usual, he stalked away from her without allowing her any chance to reply.

This breach between them remained, though they smoothed it over with gentle words before the end of the day. It festered under the surface, and Rebekah knew that Isaac was as irritated with her as she was with him. Both of them, though, had a stubborn streak, and so Isaac became, if anything, even more indulgent of Esau, encouraging him in his hunting and teaching him his letters at a glacial pace, while Rebekah intensified her teaching of Jacob. She might not have the holy writings, but she knew the stories, and told them to Jacob, and encouraged him to write them down. She made one of the younger skinners teach her how to make parchment out of kidskin, and encouraged little Jacob to write down the stories she had told him. His versions, of course, were childish, with no real coherence, and with very odd emphases—he went on and on, for instance, with his list of the animals taken aboard Noah’s ark, including some that he simply made up.

He wrote with such earnestness and enthusiasm that Rebekah was sure that Isaac would be charmed by it and soften his opposition to Jacob’s learning. When she showed it to him, however, she saw at once that it had been a grave mistake. He grew more and more still as he read, and then turned his back on her and left with the parchment. Only a few moments later, a boy came to her tent and told her that Abraham wanted to see her and Jacob at once.

When she arrived, Jacob holding her hand, Abraham and Isaac were waiting, not inside Abraham’s tent, but in front of it, the parchment lying in the dirt beside a small fire. She realized at once what they were going to do, and it became worse after a moment when Esau leaned out from behind his grandfather’s back—they intended him to be a witness.

“I won’t let you do this to him,” Rebekah said, and started to take Jacob away, but Abraham snapped, “Stay!” and she stayed.

“It’s not his fault, if there’s something wrong,” said Rebekah. “He did only what I asked him to do.”

Abraham held up the parchment. “This is false scripture, like the counterfeit scriptures of the Pharaohs in Egypt.”

“It’s a child practicing his writing by setting down his memory of stories he loves.”

“The writings have to be copied letter for letter, word for word, or the plain and precious truth will be replaced by foolish imaginings.”

“We didn’t think we were writing scripture,” said Rebekah. “We’re aware of the difference.”

“Maybe you are,” said Isaac. “But is he?”

“No more arguing with me in front of the boy, woman,” said Abraham. “This is a lesson that has to be learned once and for all time.” He held a corner of the parchment in the fire. Because it was new, it was still somewhat moist and burned only reluctantly. But Abraham burned it all, as Jacob watched, his face unreadably still. “That,” said Abraham when the parchment had turned to ash, “is what will happen, in the end, to all false writings and imitation scriptures.”

“May I take the boy away now?” said Rebekah. “Or do you have any further lessons to teach him?”

“To teach
him?
No,” said Abraham. “But when you’ve taken him to one of the women to look after him, I’ll expect you to come back here.”

Rebekah looked at Isaac, but his face was unreadable.

Esau, however, was grinning at Jacob, who had tears streaking his cheeks.

She led Jacob away, her fury barely contained. Once she got him inside her tent, he began crying openly, and so did she. She dropped to her knees and hugged him to her, holding him tightly. “You did nothing wrong,” she said to Jacob. “I thought they would be proud, that’s why I showed it to them. If there was a sin, it was
my
sin.”

“I’ll never remember all the animals again,” said Jacob.

So he did not understand the magnitude of his humiliation. That was good.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Rebekah. “We’ll remember them, together, before you sleep tonight, and then we’ll keep remembering them forever. We just won’t write them down on parchment anymore. How’s that?”

“I’ll forget some. I already forgot some.”

“We’ll do our best,” said Rebekah. “That’s all we can do.”

“Why didn’t papa stop him from burning my writing?” asked Jacob.

“Because . . .” She paused a moment, trying to find a way to say it that wouldn’t diminish Jacob’s father in his eyes. “Because Grandfather is
his
papa, and so he has to be obedient.”

“I thought when you got big you didn’t have to do everything your papa says.”

“When you get big,” said Rebekah, “you’ll obey all the commandments because you believe they’re right. But when you’re little, you don’t understand everything yet, so you obey the commandments because your papa and mama say so.”

“Isn’t Papa big?”

“Papa’s definitely big.”

“Then he must think it’s right to burn my letters.”

“I don’t know,” said Rebekah. “But you stay here with Deborah. I have to go back.”

“Did I get you in trouble too?” asked Jacob.

“No, silly.”

“Grandfather sounded like he was mad at you.”

“Well, if he is, it’s not for anything
you
 did. And he won’t be very mad at me, I promise. You be good for Aunt Deborah, won’t you?”

Deborah laughed. “He’s always an angel, Rebekah, you silly.” To Jacob she said, “You tell me all the animals you can think of.”

The list was well under way when Rebekah reluctantly left the tent and returned to Abraham’s. They were no longer in front of the tent, and the fire had been put out. She was relieved, upon entering, to see that Esau was no longer a witness. Presumably he also had been given over to someone to watch. Apparently they did not think it important to tell her.

She should not have spoken first, but she could not contain herself. “You didn’t need to humiliate Jacob in front of his brother.”

“Watch your rebellious tone, girl,” said Abraham. “The lesson needed to be learned by both boys.”

“But it was Jacob’s writing that was burned, and Esau reveled in it.”

“It’s hardly my fault that Esau did not commit the offense,” said Abraham.

“No,” said Rebekah. “Besides, Esau couldn’t write his own name. Didn’t either of you even notice how
well
Jacob is writing? Why wasn’t that part of the lesson? Look, Esau—learn how to write, and you too can have your writings burned by the men you love most in all the world. I’ll be surprised if he ever learns another letter. Then what will become of your birthright?”

Abraham rose to his feet, trembling with anger; Isaac had to help him, he was so feeble and so furious.

Rebekah at once repented of her sharp words. What she had said had truth enough in it, but it did not help Jacob or Esau or anybody that she spoke so disrespectfully. “I’m sorry,” she said, sinking to her knees. “I spoke in anger, and I was wrong to do it.”

“Are you trying to curse the last days of my life?” said Abraham. “Are you trying to show me a family riven in half because my son’s wife plays favorites with her children?”

“Plays favorites!” The charge was so ludicrous that she could hardly believe it. “I teach them both the same rules of behavior, I watch over them both—and if you two weren’t always encouraging Esau’s defiance, maybe he would have learned some obedience by now!”

“So much for your sorrow about speaking in anger,” said Abraham.

“How can I hold my tongue when you’re so unjust?” said Rebekah.

“What injustice have I committed, girl?” said Abraham. “What lesson is it that you have to teach me?”

“You’re right,” said Rebekah. “You stopped learning years ago.”

She felt Isaac’s hand on her shoulder, and the grip was not kind.

“You have been at war with me since you came here,” said Abraham. “I don’t know why God chose you, and believe me, I’ve asked him many times. But when I think of what will happen to my family after I die, my heart breaks.”

“Then why don’t you tell Isaac to send me away? He’d do it, if you told him to.”

“If you believe that, you foolish girl, then you don’t know your husband.”

“So you’ve suggested it? And he said no?”

“What God gave me, I do not refuse,” said Abraham.

“No, I guess we’ve learned
that,
haven’t we. So which is worse? Having me as a daughter-in-law, or being commanded to sacrifice your son?”

Abraham recoiled from her words—staggered backward, and if Isaac had not been holding him up, he might have fallen.

“Go back to your tent, Rebekah,” Isaac said.