Song of the Magdalene (9 page)

“Yes.” She put both hands to her cheeks. She looked chagrined. “Yes, of course. It's the proper thing to do.” She shook her head, then dropped her hands. “You are a good girl, Miriam. You
have a kind heart. But . . .” She searched for words. “But there are right and wrong ways to show charity.”

“Charity?”

“Charity toward this Abraham.”

Anger quickened my tongue. “Abraham's my friend.”

Judith's face went expressionless. “What could that mean? What kind of friendship could you have with such . . . a one as he?”

“A friendship like any other. Or no, better. Truer.”

“But what can you do together, Miriam?”

“We talk. We tell each other things.”

Judith stepped forward and took my hand. It was all I could do to keep from pulling it away. “Miriam,” she said in a broken voice. Her face was full of pain. Who was she sad for? Surely not for Abraham, though I knew her words echoed in his head. She didn't realize she tortured him.

Judith paused, one hand on her throat. “I thought your father made a mistake not to marry me when you were nine, when I'd been widowed for a year. I thought you needed a mother. And I so wanted a husband. I sometimes think I cannot
bear another day living in the home of my mother-in-law. But I have nowhere else to go.” She turned my hand over and studied it. “Your father and I have that in common. We have no living parents, no brothers or sisters.” Judith now drew slow circles on the palm of my hand with her finger. “But your father said you were the woman of this house, and would be till you married.” She gave a sad laugh. “He thought you couldn't bear a replacement for your mother. And so I've waited. Not patiently. No one could accuse me of being patient. But I've waited quietly. I believe I've grown more and more bitter from swallowing bile every day since my husband died.” Her finger now traced the veins on the back of my hand. “I made a mistake, Miriam. A mistake for me, surely. But a mistake for you, as well. You needed a mother. Even if only for a few years. I could have been a mother to you. You've been lonely.” Her eyes met mine and they brimmed with tears. “I'm so sorry, Miriam.”

Sorry? Judith was sorry for me? My anger left as swiftly as it had come. “You don't understand, Judith. I like the way we live. I love Abraham.
I'm not lonely at all. I want to live with Abraham forever.”

Judith closed her mouth. I watched the crest of her throat move as she prepared to speak, then stopped herself. Her face was slack, but her eyes were worried. Finally, she whispered, “He . . . Abraham . . . is not the right match for you, Miriam.”

The right match for me? I was stunned. Prickles ran down my temples, across my breasts, down my arms. My heart sped. I kept my face impassive, but I was struggling to keep conscious. It was as though in an instant the air had become thick as cream. “Tell me why not, Judith.”

Judith brushed away the hair from my forehead. She tilted her own head and looked at me with tenderness. This woman whom I had kept at bay for years was now tender toward me. The world was shifting again. Ever changing.

Judith's fingers moved soft and warm; her palm on my cheek was summer honey. “Miriam, I've been angry at you sometimes. I didn't understand why you ran off alone. I knew you did it. You thought no one noticed, but I did. I didn't
understand when I heard you were appearing all over town with Abraham in a cart. I thought you were acting strange on purpose. To draw attention. I thought you were spoiled.” She sat and patted the floor beside her. “Please sit.”

I sat, keeping my eyes on Judith's face — a face I'd always thought of as sharp. A face I hardly recognized now.

She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes searching. “They told me you knew the words to the song. They said you sang it perfectly.”

“Thank you.”

Judith gave a short laugh. “Oh, Miriam. It's not praise. They were astonished. I'm astonished. Those songs are for the men to sing. You didn't learn them in the synagogue. Who taught you the words?”

I shook my head. I wouldn't expose Abraham. My dearest Abraham. The man Judith had spoken of as not the right match, and in so doing had transformed him before my very eyes. Abraham had decided to remain hidden in his body. It was not my right to undo what he had done.

“It's all right. I know it was your father. He's unusual, too. That's part of his charm. But I
didn't realize before how unusual.” Judith looked around the room.

I thought of telling her it wasn't Father who taught me the songs. But if I did, she'd ask the question again, and I couldn't answer it.

Was I interfering in Judith's relationship with Father by not correcting her? For now I knew that Hannah had spoken the truth: Father had vowed to marry this woman whenever I should finally leave his house. He loved Judith. He had to. He'd never marry for less than love. Or was I confusing everything again? It was Mother who had spoken so fervently of love, not Father. Perhaps Father was tired of sleeping alone on cold nights. Perhaps he wanted a companion for his old age, a companion who would hover about him in a way I never had.

I had made Father lonely. And Judith, too. And here she was thinking I was the lonely one — when I wasn't lonely at all. I had Abraham. I looked at the lines by Judith's eyes and thought of the silver strands that had crept into Father's hair while he waited for her.

Judith finished her inspection of our common room and looked back at me. “It seems an ordinary
home. But the people in it are extraordinary. I'm going to ask you a question I would never think to ask a woman normally. But I feel I don't know much about you. I made all the wrong assumptions. Tell me, Miriam, do you want to have children?”

I closed my eyes and looked into my heart. Oh, yes. I wanted to hold my babies and roll with them in the grasses of the valley. I wanted to carry them on one hip. I wanted to adorn my daughter with a wide purple cloth belt. And when we walked together in the valley, she could stuff that belt with treasures — the shells of hatched turtle doves, the seeds of the cumin plant. I wanted to bring my son to the hazzan, so he could sit on the ground near the master and repeat his lessons and learn the scripture tales of history and geography. School was a new institution in Magdala. Father had not gone to one, instead learning from his father as his father had learned in turn from his. But times were changing and boys learned together these days. I wanted to see my son with those scholarly boys. And maybe I would talk with the hazzan. Maybe
I would convince this fine man of the house of prayer to give lessons to my daughter, as well.

And I realized I was rocking forward and backward, my breathing labored, rocking with a frenzied mind. Alas, what horrible trick had Judith's question played with that mind? I must banish all thoughts of children. That daughter, that son. I opened my eyes and looked at Judith in my misery.

“Your eyes speak.” Judith took a deep breath. “Miriam, I don't even know if you could have children with Abraham. The very idea disgusts me, though I'm trying to think about it now for your sake. But, Miriam, if you did manage to bear a child to Abraham, what would that child be like?”

She said the words. If I were the Lord of Israel, those were the words I would have made her say. The words I hadn't even allowed myself to think. It seemed Judith was always one step ahead of me, her mind prowling where mine didn't dare to go. Oh blessed words: a child with Abraham. Could we? Could Abraham and I join like any
other man and woman? And I must follow Judith's questions. I could prowl, too. “Hannah has a strong body. Who knows what child could come from Abraham's seed?”

“But his mind, Miriam. Think of his mind. What would you do with an idiot child?”

Abraham's mind. Abraham's mind was what made me love him. Judith called him an idiot. Jacob did, too. And Jacob's carpenter helpers. And who else? It was just as Abraham had once told me: They all thought he was an idiot. Only Hannah and Father and I knew the truth. Abraham's fear in the house of prayer had been misplaced. Judith hadn't even considered the possibility that Abraham might have been the one to teach me the words of the canticles. No one could ever be angry at Abraham. It was ironic, for no one should ever have been angry at Abraham, but not because he was an idiot — because he was as decent as humans could be. And I found myself speaking words I'd never thought before, words I couldn't deny. “I would never marry another.”

“You are of age, Miriam. No one can stop you.
But I do not believe your father would approve of such a match. And I'm sure it is unthinkable to Hannah.”

I wouldn't want to displease Father, it was true. And I cared too much for Hannah to disregard her feelings. But as I sat there, it wasn't Father's or Hannah's desires I thought of. It was the desires of the man in the pillows behind me. I wished I knew what Abraham was thinking. I wished he'd speak up.

I waited. I silently begged that man to declare himself. I had proclaimed my love for him. Did he return that love? Oh, I knew Abraham loved me. But did he love me as a man loves a woman? I remembered the mandrake root so long ago and how he'd held it all day, his grip tight and unrelenting, as though around a woman's thigh. And the words of the seventh canticle spoke in my ear:

The mandrakes give a smell, and at our gates are all manner of pleasant fruits, new and old, which I have laid up for thee, O my beloved.

Yes, Abraham wanted a woman. Would he have me? Would my beloved let us enjoy all manner of pleasant fruits? I prayed for Abraham's words.

But Abraham said nothing.

I flushed with pain. Finally, I spoke. “I will never marry.”

Judith nodded. She looked down at her hands and sat quietly for a few minutes. Then she fixed me with her eyes. “Miriam, I have a plan. Let me marry your father. Let me come live with you here. I will treat your friendship with Abraham respectfully. But I will also try to help you change your ways. I will teach you how to be a proper Jewish woman.”

Judith's words seemed so simple. Would that Judith could do what she promised. “What would you teach me, Judith?”

“For one, I would teach you to sing in your heart, Miriam. You're not the first woman with a song inside her. But you must keep it from flying out of your mouth. Instead, you must learn to let it fly from your feet.”

“You're talking riddles, Judith.”

“When Moses parted the Red Sea, he led the
people in song and his sister Miriam led the people in dance. The women danced, too. All the women. From that moment on, our gift — women's gift — was to live the music through our feet. That Miriam is your namesake. ‘Miriam' means ‘beloved of the Lord Himself.' You are beloved, Miriam. Listen to the lesson of the scriptures; it's as though they were written for you. You used to dance, sweet Miriam. When you were little, I watched you dance on your way to the well with Hannah.” Judith smiled. “Even my husband Saul noticed. You were graceful. The swirls of your crimson shift caught the eye. I had always wanted sons. But you made me wish I'd be blessed with daughters, as well.” Judith was quiet for a moment. “At some point you stopped dancing. I don't know exactly when, but I know you haven't danced for years. I can teach you dances, Miriam. I will take you by the hand.”

Her words were balm, soothing and warm. I was too old to have a mother, yet sudden longing filled me. Judith had told me the true meaning of my own name, and in doing so she had named
me anew, given me a second beginning. “I'd like to dance again. I'd like to be a proper woman like you.”

Judith laughed. “I didn't say like me. I hope you won't be like me, Miriam. The Creator didn't see fit to bless me with female children as well as males. He didn't see fit to bless me with children at all. That's why my mother-in-law hates me. If Saul hadn't died, she would have pressed him to divorce me. As it was, she had already suggested a second wife for him. But his death came and stopped all plans.” Judith leaned toward me with a rueful smile. “I suppose I'm as much a misfit as you. Just in different ways. No sensible man would marry a barren woman. But your father doesn't let sense rule his life. He told me he could never bear to risk losing another wife in childbirth anyway.” Judith rubbed her legs. “Oh, Miriam, I don't care if you do all sorts of improper things within the house. I will do my best to be a good friend to you. And if you let me, I will be a mother of sorts, though we may both be too old to follow ordinary patterns there. Still, we can make new patterns.” Judith stopped rubbing and spoke with firmness. “But when
you are outside the house, you must limit yourself. You must not stray too far from the customs.” Her face went solemn. “For your own good.”

Customs. The unwritten laws. Judith was as much afraid of them as Abraham was. Abraham's fear had silenced him. Had Judith's fear made her seem so bossy all these years? “And what about Abraham?”

“What about him?”

“What would you do with him?”

“Hannah and he could stay on, just as they have in the past.”

“And could I go places with him?”

“Not through the town, Miriam. Please. But you could go to the valley if you like. The valley is safe, I think.”

I wanted to say yes. If it had been up to me alone, I'd have agreed right then and there. “I have to talk with Abraham about it first.”

Judith sucked in her bottom lip. “Miriam, he can't understand you. I know you wish he could. I know your wish makes you imagine things. Like a child with a doll.” She shook her head. “Abraham's not a doll, Miriam.”

My face went hot. I took Judith by the arm and pulled her over to Abraham's pillows. I looked from one to the other. “Talk to each other. Please.”

Abraham stared through me.

I couldn't bear it. This was no moment to hide. “Talk!”