Song of the Magdalene (6 page)

“There's more to running a household than the daily laundry and meals.”

“I know that, Father. I help in every way I can.
But the day is long. It's so much more interesting being out and about.” My eyes pleaded with his.

Father didn't look convinced. “You could sew, embroider, something. Jewish women keep their hands busy.”

“I'm no better at sewing than Mother was.”

My words came spontaneously, but they worked like the best laid plan, for Father nodded slowly. “Your mother liked adventure.” He let his outstretched hands fall to his sides. “She traveled with me everywhere. She didn't care to stay behind and keep the house in my absence.” His voice grew more tender as he talked.

“I know, Father. I remember.”

“You look more like your mother every day.” Sadness colored his face. But then he shook his head, as though to free it from the memories we shared. “I don't like you walking alone through the village, Miriam.”

“I'm not alone, Father.” I smiled at Abraham.

Father looked at Abraham and hesitated. Then he nodded resolutely. “Be attentive, Miriam and Abraham.” He leaned over Abraham. “You saved her from the fire once. But it's wiser to keep clear
of fires.” He straightened up and looked at me as though examining me. “You are old enough to wear a veil, Miriam.” His voice turned slightly harsh.

“You're right, Father.”

“You must close that lovely face of yours behind the two kerchiefs.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Leave only one eye free, to see your path.”

I bit my bottom lip. This was how Hannah wore her veil when she visited the shops. It was not required by law or custom. It was another of Hannah's mysterious extra rules, like the banning of purple. “Yes, Father.”

“And you must plait your hair and keep it hidden.”

“I'll do that, Father. Not a single strand of hair will show.”

Father's face softened. “Hannah can help you put ribbons and bows on the forehead band.”

“Yes, Father,” I said, though I had no interest in ribbons and bows. I had given up decoration after my first fit. I would be content, in fact, to wear a simple headcloth, not a veil at all. But in public a veil would be more suited, I knew.

Father nodded, calm now.

He looked so satisfied, that I dared to speak up. “And if the veil should come a little jostled now and then, so both eyes can see the world, that wouldn't be too awful, would it, Father?”

Father looked surprised. Then he smiled. “You are my joy, Miriam.” He touched Abraham's shoulder. And he left. After that he waved to us heartily whenever he saw us in the streets, even from a distance. My love for Father swelled. And after that it didn't bother me one whit not telling him about the fits, for I knew they wouldn't matter to him. The Creator may have blighted me with fits, but He had blessed me, as well; no other man was like Father.

Now remembering Father's words and smile, I was amazed. He thought a veil could protect me. I had donned that veil obediently; I was wearing it when the Roman foot soldier talked to me. I admit I had let it slip open so that both eyes showed. I admit that with my chin thrust forward like that, the curves of my face were apparent through the veil. But I had done nothing to suggest a lack of virtue. Nothing but be where decent women didn't go.

Father thought there was magic in a veil; he thought it was so simple. My father. Did Hannah and I know more of the world than Father did?

But I would not let my newfound knowledge stop me. I would rise to the challenge of the nervous eyes that followed me. I had a right to walk the streets of my own village. If any man were to address me again as the Roman foot soldier had, I would not run. I would speak up. Even to a stranger.

But would I really? Could I?

The last few months until my twelfth birthday passed and I did not find out whether or not I had the courage to speak up in my own defense. For no man ever did address me as the Roman foot soldier had. Not then, nor in the next year, either. And eventually the tension in my shoulders eased. Eventually the veil that covered one eye at all times (for, as I grew older, Hannah's zealous rituals seemed sensible to me) slipped open and my fingers didn't rush to clutch it closed immediately. Eventually I could look at apples without a pounding in my chest, though I didn't eat them at our table anymore.

I pushed Abraham's cart with an almost light heart once more. The days were filled with unremarkable acts. I learned to give thanks for the ordinary moments of daily life.

The only noteworthy event of that time was the coming of my blood. I had worried about the mikvah. I don't know why. Every woman went. Every man or child who wanted to be cleansed of something went. But I had avoided it since Mother died. The last time I had gone, the only time, was after her funeral, for I had insisted on holding her hand while the women prepared her body for burial. Those who touch the dead are unclean. I needed that uncleanliness. I helped wrap Mother in the shroud. I walked with the women before her bier. I cried with the flutes. And after that I went regularly to her grave, for she was buried on our own property, near the terebinth tree whose penetrating scent she claimed could cleanse the very soul. I knew of no one else buried near a terebinth. And I knew there were women in town who thought the burial spot a scandal.

I used to wonder about that. But now that I knew scandal in a new way, now that I myself was a topic for whispers, I took pleasure in that gravesite. I felt closer to Mother, as though we shared a secret gift that others mistakenly believed
a flaw. And witness to their mistake was the family of doves that raised their brood there as the tree leafed out each spring.

Now I went to the mikvah regularly, as well — once each month. I walked across town to the baths after sunset. There I descended the stone steps completely free of garments. Women shed everything, including rings, necklaces, earrings. I wore no jewelry. So all I had to doff was my veil, my shift, my underclothes, and sandals. I entered the water covered only with the goose bumps that came from anticipation. I immersed myself deep, until the very tips of my long loose hair finally surrendered their attachment to the surface of the water and sank below with the rest of me. I hurried home feeling light and happy and grateful just for being alive.

During the days my blood flowed, I did not walk around town or in the valley with Abraham. I read beside him in the house. But when I came home from the mikvah every month, I gathered Abraham into his cart and we went about our way until the next blood came. Life had rhythm.

Only once was this happy rhythm interrupted. Abraham had taken an interest in carpentry. There were two furniture makers in town, Caleb and Shiphrah's husband Jacob. Jacob had the larger shop, large enough for Abraham and me to find a spot in a corner where we could sit and watch.

Jacob was a successful businessman. Maybe more successful than Father. Shiphrah's arms were spangled with jewelry. And three full-grown men were employed as helpers in Jacob's shop. People said that if you wanted something special, if you had a task that required true skill, then Jacob's was the only shop to go to.

We sat silent as the workers made everything from an infant's cradle to a roof parapet. Abraham watched attentively and later he would explain to me why they'd cut the notch just so or what made them reject one piece of wood in favor of another. He delighted in understanding the process.

Jacob's shop became our first stop of the day. And it started our day right, until the morning when Jacob came into the shop late. His face was
ruddy with excitement and he looked angry. I had heard the workers talk amongst themselves before of Jacob's bad days. I should have remembered their words then.

Jacob's helpers had already started in on the tasks they'd been working on the day before. They hardly looked up when he entered. In retrospect it was clear they didn't want to acknowledge his mood and thus, perhaps, fan his anger. There were clues all around me, if only I had given them their due, for Jacob never forgave me that day's error.

Jacob stomped over to the pieces of wood for the cabinet he was building. He picked up a board and set it on a table. He measured it with a cubit and prepared to cut.

Abraham quickly grabbed my sleeve. I leaned my ear close to his lips. He whispered, “Stop him, Miriam. He's used the wrong measurement.”

I'd never spoken to Jacob before. A woman didn't address a man needlessly outside the home, even a man who knew her husband or father, as Jacob knew mine. But this wasn't needless. I had to speak before Jacob cut the board
through and wasted it. I cleared my throat. “May I speak?”

All four men looked at me, their faces amazed.

I flushed behind my veil and spoke loudly. “Are you sure that's the right measurement?”

Jacob put down his tool and crossed his arms at the chest. “What did you say?” His face was grim.

I panicked. I leaned toward Abraham. “Are you sure?”

“That piece is to go into the back,” hissed Abraham in my ear. “It has to be longer.”

“Isn't that the piece for the back?” I pointed. “Shouldn't it be longer?”

“That's right.” One of the helpers nodded. “The cripple told her.”

Jacob spun around and faced his helper. For a moment I thought they would fight. Over what? What offense had Jacob taken? But I didn't wait to find out. I tugged on Abraham and got him into his cart.

Jacob turned back to us. “No idiot can come in here and tell me what to do. Get out!” He was shouting now. “Out!” He lifted his thick arm in threat. But we were already backing out the door.

I raced through the streets, bumping the cart along as fast as I could. I was angry and frightened and angry at being frightened. This was worse than the Roman foot soldier. Much worse. No one had threatened us before. Oh, only a few had ever been friendly. But the others had either pretended to ignore us or, at the worst, avoided us. I had come to believe that Abraham and I were accepted — an oddity, still, but an accepted oddity. How stupid I was.

I seethed at Jacob's words and actions. Abraham didn't speak as I let all my feelings pour out. Then he simply said we shouldn't go back to Jacob's shop ever again. It was a finished matter, as far as he was concerned.

But it wasn't finished. Not for me. I had fled the Roman foot soldier in silence. And I had fled Jacob in silence. Yes, his raised arm was heavy as a club. But there were three other men in his shop. If I had stood my ground, they would never have let him strike us. And even if they had, wouldn't that have been better than fleeing? Fleeing, as though we were the ones who had wronged. Fleeing, as though we were the ones in shame. In that flight I had failed myself — I had
gone against all that I had decided after the Roman foot soldier. I sat on the floor at home and counted the beats of my heart, and with each beat I promised myself that the next time, the very next time, I would not be silenced. This matter was not finished in my heart.

And, no, it wasn't finished for Jacob, either. He came to our home that night. And Father stood before him in the doorway.

“Welcome to my home, Jacob.” Father moved to give his guest the customary welcome kiss.

Jacob jerked his head away. “Keep the cripple far from my shop.”

Father stepped back. I waited for him to turn questioning eyes to me — reproachful eyes — for I had not told him of what passed in the carpenter's shop. This was my battle, not Father's.

But Father didn't look at me. He swept his hand back as if to bid Jacob enter. “Did something happen, Jacob? Come in and talk.”

Jacob remained in the doorway. “Keep him away. I don't want an idiot hanging around my shop.”

Father lifted his chin. I thought of how I had lifted my chin to the Roman foot soldier. I had
learned that from Father, I realized. I could sense him bristle and I watched closely. This was what else I had to learn: how to speak up.

“Abraham is not an idiot.” Father's voice was soft, but clear. “And even if he were, we should show him generosity and justice, true charity. Magdala is a small town, Jacob. It is easy to know one another. Surely we can find it in our hearts to accept our neighbors.”

“Magdala is a strong town. It is not a town for idiots and cripples. Listen to our Jewish leaders.”

Father clenched his jaw and the hairs of his whiskers moved. “Jewish leaders? Leaders are those whose wisdom earns our ear. Have you not heard the words of Hillel? ‘What is hateful to you, do not to your neighbor.' ”

“Idiots and cripples would not be my neighbors if people like you didn't harbor them.”

“Idiots and cripples will always be with us, Jacob. They are part of life. They come from loins like mine and yours.”

“Not mine! Defend your accusation!”

My mouth went dry. I thought of Jacob and Shiphrah's baby daughter, whom the traveling exorcist had failed to save more than three years
ago. Had she lived, would she have been crippled?

But Father shook his head. “Taking offense where it's not intended won't change things, Jacob. Nor will pretending to misunderstand. You know what is as well as I do. Cripples are part of humanity. Take Hillel into your heart.”

“You sound like a Pharisee.” Jacob's top lip lifted slightly to show the tips of his teeth in a smirk. “And you're the one who had that Zealot Daniel hanging about all the time. Don't think I don't remember. You give yourself airs.”

“I am a common Jew, like you, Jacob. I am trying to live a just and pious life, like you.”

“You shouldn't keep him in your house. You shouldn't let your daughter walk the streets.”

“It's no concern of yours who lives in this home.” I had never heard Father raise his voice, but now that voice trembled. I knew he fought the urge to shout. “It's no concern of yours what my daughter does.”