Second Touch (34 page)

For fear of being spotted and recognized by old friends and neighbors or elders of the synagogue, Lily skirted the village of Capernaum. She waded across the shallow stream called Yismah. She stopped long enough to bathe, plait her hair, and change into the clean yellow gown she had worn on her wedding day. In the last moments of daylight Lily glimpsed her reflection in the still water of the pool and remembered the meaning of Yismah, “He Will Rejoice.” Once Papa had told her that the letters of the brook’s name were the same as Mashiyah, the Messiah. And when, one day, Messiah washed His feet in this tiny stream, the waters would rise up like a great river and rejoice! And on that day all the people of the Galil would flow to Him as even the waters of a stream seek the sea! It was a lovely memory. Papa had tossed a leaf into the current and taught her a verse from Isaiah. Often, in the hours of her greatest sorrow, she had recited what she remembered of the promise: “There will be no more gloom for those who were in distress. . . . He will honor Galilee. . . . On those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.”69 ¬I’m praying again, Light Who Will Come to Galilee. Will I someday, though I am dust, rise up with the waters of this brook and rejoice to see your day? Will I feel your touch? Will you restore the pain I long to feel again in my hands? Will I hear your voice with my desiccated ears? Oh! You’ve been silent so long in my life! If ¬only! If ¬only I could hear you speak! Feel your touch! My soul longs for you! She waited, listening. There was ¬only silence and the sounds of approaching evening. The face looking back at her in the reflection was familiar, even lovely. “Mama?” Lily never before realized how much she resembled her mother: blue eyes, wide and friendly. Thick blond braid over her shoulder.

If Mama opened the door and saw Lily had come home, would it be for Mama like looking in a mirror of clear water? Would Mama cry out with joy? welcome her daughter home? enfold Lily in her arms? Lily brushed a leprous finger through the image. It dissolved beneath her touch. She tied the goat to the limb of a cottonwood tree. Hawk, sensing the end of his day, perched on a low limb above. Tucking her pack into the tree she explained to the bird, “I’ll be back for you. ¬I’m taking Isra’el home to the farm. To Mama and Papa now. But I’ll be back for you and Goat before the sun rises.” Scooping up the baby, she set out along the familiar path. Night fell. Black. Absolute. A myriad of stars dusted the heavens. And one earthly star, embedded in a distant hill, guided Lily unerringly toward home. Lights beamed from the windows of the farmhouse. Crickets chirped in the brush along the way. She passed the same berry patch where she had gathered blackberries her last summer at home. Tonight she recognized the scent of the tangled vines that grew wild on the gentle slope to her right. On the left were the pastures where Papa kept a few ewes and a ram. Beyond that was the walnut orchard of Simon the Pharisee, their stern and imperious landlord. She walked the dark path as though a candle illuminated her way. She knew each step, each turning. Isra’el was fast asleep in her arms, his face turned toward her breast. He would awaken tomorrow in the arms of Mama. Mama would feed him and smile down at him. In the clear pool of his innocent eyes there would be no difference between Mama’s reflection and Lily’s. And Mama would sing to him. Her voice so much like Lily’s. He would feel no pain of separation from Lily. No. He would not miss her. The reflection of Lily’s love would stay with him. All his lifetime. When Mama turned to smile at little Isra’el, Lily’s eyes would look gently at him too. Lily would be there, in Mama’s voice, cheering baby Isra’el on when he took his first step. Spoke his first word. Held his own spoon. Grew and learned and became what he would be. Yes. As Mama loved him, Lily’s love would be there too. Even though Lily would be dust by then, some part of her would remain. She had brought him here. Her final journey home. “Home.” She sighed, topping the rise. Now ¬only the garden separated her from Mama’s arms. Light beamed bright from within the house as if to welcome her. As if nothing had changed. As if she had never left home or traveled to that far country called Sorrow. The melody, the perfumed scents of night, all sang to her, beckoning her to come closer. She heard the sound of voices. A man. A woman. Discussing something . . . but what? She saw the silhouette of a male move across the open window. “Papa?” she whispered. Suddenly she realized this homecoming was also good-bye. She kissed the baby. Nuzzled her cheek against him. “You will live, Isra’el. Yes! You

will . . . live.” The front door opened. Yellow lamplight streamed out, pooling on the path. A fire flickered on the hearth. Lily strained to see within. Even a glimpse of Mama. But no. No. Not yet. A man’s voice said, “It won’t take a minute: The old ewe’s due any time.” Carrying an oil lamp, he left the house and headed toward the lambing shed. The same place Lily had been quarantined. She inwardly groaned as that memory encroached upon her. She pushed it back. No! Not even that! Not even the recollection of those first agonizing days of separation would ruin this feast of joy! She could not see his face. The light was too low on the path. Roses bloomed beside the walk. Mama and Lily had planted those roses together. Still there! Still there! The roses! And, Mama, when you smell them in the summer, do you remember me? Do you remember who I was before? Before I pricked my thumb on the rose thorn and felt nothing, nothing at all? Not even remorse. Before the numbness of my illness overpowered me, forcing me to leave you? But ¬I’m back, Mama. Still I bleed and ¬don’t know ¬I’m bleeding. I hang in tatters on myself but live on, dying, unaware of pain. Oh! I know now. How much better it would have been to feel agony if ¬only I could have stayed with you, Mama! Because you would have stayed by me, hurt with me! But now ¬I’m numb, dead. There’s nothing you can do but stand back from me. Give me up. Nothing you can do. And so tonight I’ve brought you this child. So you can rejoice again, although ¬I’m gone. All these thoughts were in her mind as she stood rooted like a tree outside the house. The wind of longing tore at her. All that had been familiar and beloved was once again there to touch. Not a dream. But if she stretched out her hand to Mama, Lily would feel nothing. Separation. The lamplight in the sheep pens moved about. Muttering to the animals, the faceless man finished his work and strode back toward the house. Lily stood there. A tree. Rooted. Whipped by the storm. Unable to speak or go forward. The door opened. He entered. Then he closed it behind him. The bolt clanked into place. ¬I’m praying again, Unfeeling One. ¬I’m Outside . . . Outside . . .

The clatter of crockery and bits of conversation drifted out to Lily from the farmhouse. Supper was over. Lily knew the routine. The washing up, prayers, and then bed. Courage! Lily bit her lip. Took a step forward. Stopped. Tugged the sleeve of her gown to conceal the claw of her left hand beneath the baby. She adjusted her veil across her mouth and nose. ¬I’m praying again, Silent One. Have I heard your voice since I left this place? Are you here? Did you stay behind when they drove me out? ¬I’m praying again. Hear me. Please? If you are standing in the shadows,

watching, please walk with me to the door of Mama’s house. Lily walked between the roses. Her slight limp seemed exaggerated by the crunch of gravel beneath her feet. The conversation within fell away. Did they hear her approach? The scraping of a chair. Lily stood before the wooden door. She glanced toward the mezuzah, by which the blessing of coming and going had been spoken ¬every day in her early life. She resisted the desire to place her finger on it. She did not touch it but smiled at it as though it were an old friend. May the Lord bless your going out and coming in. Drawing courage from the memory of that blessing, she cradled Isra’el in the crook of her arm and raised her right hand to knock. Quiet rapping. Three times ¬only. Absolute silence within. “Someone at the door?” A man’s voice called to her. Lily’s voice quaked. “Yes. Shalom.” The door flew open. A heavyset man of middle age with a frizzy red beard stood before her. He grinned curiously. Not Papa. Where was Papa? He bellowed pleasantly. “Why it’s . . . naught but a girl.” Then, “Shalom yourself, young lady! What’re you doing out so far at such an hour? And with a babe in arms! Trouble on the road?” Lily blinked dumbly at the stranger. “No. No trouble. I . . . I was looking for . . . Obed and . . . Abigail. Are they home?” A woman called from behind the fellow. “Obed and Abigail did she say?” Footsteps. The thin, sharp face of the housewife peered around her husband. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard their names spoken! Why would you be looking for them here, girl? And bringing a child with you? In the cold night air? Won’t you come in?” Mama. Papa. Not here! It was like a blow to Lily’s stomach. She stepped back from the invitation. If they knew. If they saw her crippled hand or guessed . . . “No. I ¬can’t stay. I . . . I was just looking for my . . . for Obed and Abigail. They live here. Don’t they?” “Used to,” said the man. “That’s been . . . what? How long, wife? Since they lived here?” “Nearly five years. Landlord evicted them. Some trouble with one of their children as we heard. A daughter.” The wife rattled on. “They had three boys, ¬didn’t they, husband?” “Aye. Three boys and a girl they had. Then the girl . . . the girl was—” he lowered his voice—“stricken by the Almighty, as I remember it. You know what I mean. Aye. That’s it. Tsara.” Tears welled up. “But where . . . did . . . they? Where are Obed and Abigail and . . . their children?” “Away.” The woman made a motion with her hands like she was shooing birds from the garden.

“Aye,” agreed the man. “Away. Simon, landlord, said he ¬didn’t want no trouble. And them as has kinfolk stricken with such a fearful thing must be ¬under judgment of the Almighty. So he drove them away.” “But . . .” Lily stared down at little Isra’el. Poor baby. Poor Isra’el. Mama! Oh, Mama! She ¬wasn’t here to care for him. Oh, what now? “And who are they to you, those people?” The wife narrowed her eyes and scratched her chin as she peered at the infant. “A relative, are you? Seems to me . . . yes . . . Abigail had flaxen hair. And . . . who are you, girl?” “I . . . ¬I’m no one.” Lily stepped back another step into the shadow. So. Because of Lily, her family had also been exiled. “But why’ve you come here after dark looking for them? After all these years?” The man tugged his beard. The wife stuck out her lower lip. “You look familiar, girl. Familiar. Have you lived about these parts?” Lily swallowed, fought the urge to run. Backed up. “Not for a long time.” The fellow emerged. Advanced toward her. “What’d you want coming here to our farm? Give me an answer, girl.” “This child. I heard . . . Abigail was a good mother. I heard she lost a child. I was bringing this little one to her in hopes . . .” Husband and wife were dumbfounded. “Come to leave the child with that woman?” spat the husband. “Couldn’t have been much of a mother,” declared the wife. “Her daughter was a leper, ¬wasn’t she? The whole family accursed by God.” Lily trembled. “Where are they?” “How should we know such a thing?” The husband was irritated now. “Gone.” “And good riddance.” The wife clucked her tongue. “So you’ve got a foundling child. Take it to the orphanage south a few miles over in Magdala, girl. If you’ve given birth to a child out of wedlock, they’ll take it in, no questions asked. That’s my advice. Get rid of it. But for mercy’s sake, we’ll do this much for you. You and the child can spend the night in our shed if you like.” Sleep in the lambing pen? The place her long exile had begun? Lily backed another step, heard tearing as the spines of the rosebush clutched her dress. Mama! Oh, Mama! “Careful there, girl! Those rosebushes!” “The thorns have got your leg! Can’t you feel that at all? Careful there! Look at the blood on your dress!” Lily did not feel the thorns in her leg as she turned and ran from the place into the blackness of the night. No. Her flesh did not feel her anguish.

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Lily woke to the sound of baby Isra’el snuffling. He did not cry or wail, though he needed to be fed and changed. The goat grazed placidly ¬under the cottonwood tree. Hawk still kept watch overhead. In the depths of her despair and misery, Lily had thrown herself down on a mossy bank at the foot of the tree and slept all night. All the thoughts of seeing home again . . . useless. All the miles had come to nothing. All the anxiety expended on what would happen, all the hope of a glimmer of joy at seeing Mama banished in an instant. Not even one moment to be loved. Now they were dead to her, just as she had been dead to them. Gone. All these years she’d pictured them here. Her father toting her younger brothers on his broad, strong shoulders. Mama, brushing back a lock of stray hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. The images of who they were inextricably linked with where they were. Or where she’d imagined them to be. But now she ¬understood fully the truth: Their lives, if they still lived, were elsewhere. Their memories were of other places. The last point of contact Lily had clung to, the corner by the stove where she imagined Mama picturing her, remembering her, missing her . . . . . . gone. The wickerwork box of sewing things Papa had made for Lily in exact likeness of Mama’s, the one that always rested on the mantel by the Sabbath candlesticks . . . . . . gone. The last vestige of home gone forever. No putting it back, ¬ever. Not for an hour, not for a minute. Shattered. Lily sat up. Tended the baby. Her gown was torn and bloodstained from the rose thorns. No longer cheerfully straw-colored, the dress was now the image of a field of hay stubble after being grazed by a flock of sheep. Lily examined her legs. Some of the scratches were deep. There were many wounds; some were puffy and swollen with embedded, broken thorns. There was no pain. Soon enough her feet and legs would succumb to tsara’at’s effects, leaving her a cripple. She must go home, home to Mak’ob, while she was still able to travel. Only one thing remained: to take the baby to Magdala. There was no mercy for Lily. No mercy for the chadel. Perhaps there was one drop of mercy for an innocent child? Mercy in Magdala? O, Mute One, she prayed, I have nothing left to ask except that you spare this child. He’s done no wrong, has never injured another soul. Spare him from ¬ever knowing the grief of being so . . . hopeless. The numbness of her hands and legs had spread inward as well. In place of Lily’s anguish there was now emptiness. In place of her aching longing there was a dullness.