The Handmaid and the Carpenter (8 page)

THE NEXT EVENING
Rebecca returned to cut the cord. The baby had had a full day to draw on the powers of the placenta, and now it was time for him to be separated from it. Mary regretted that the placenta would be buried here, without the embroidered bag she had made to hold it. That bag lay beside the chair in her kitchen, at home. She would save it for the next baby, for according to Joseph’s plan, there would be many more.

When Rebecca had finished and was ready to go, Mary took the young girl’s hands into her own and thanked her. She bid Joseph give Rebecca part of what they had intended to pay the innkeeper. Joseph gave her this, as well as figs and lentils from the little food they had remaining.

Rebecca, blushing, thanked them again and again. Then she said, “It seems the birth of your child is most auspicious. Last night, after my leave-taking to come and assist you, the other shepherds were sleeping in the fields with the flocks when an angel suddenly appeared! They described it as glorious in appearance, bright unto blinding. At first they were afraid, and they banded together that their nearness to one another might offer comfort. But then the angel spoke, telling them not to be afraid, telling them that he brought great tidings of joy. He said that in Bethlehem, the city of David, a savior had been born unto them and indeed unto all people. And he said there would be a sign: that the child would be in a manger, dressed in swaddling clothes. Then there appeared alongside the angel a great multitude. And they said, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men.’ Therefore those two came down from the hills into Bethlehem, that they might see. Indeed the word has spread, and I know of many more who intend to come.” Rebecca stood staring, waiting, it seemed, for Mary and Joseph to confirm the truth of all this.

Mary held her baby closer and looked to Joseph to answer. It was his place. But he only smiled at Rebecca and thanked her again for her help. Then he spoke to Mary, saying, “The baby must be circumcised and named on the eighth day. In the morning, we will go to Jerusalem for that purpose.” His jaw tightened. “And then we will return home to await the time of your purification.”

As soon as the sun rose the next morning, Mary and Joseph began another journey, the three of them now. It was only eight miles to Jerusalem, and so the trip would be far less arduous than their last had been, on all counts. Joseph had told Mary they had enough money to stay at an inn in Jerusalem, and she relished the thought of such luxury.

When they were outside Bethlehem and alone on the road, Mary said, “Tell me of your thoughts, Joseph.” She knew he had been bothered by the idea of so many strangers talking about the baby’s birth, by so many people wanting to see him. It was for this reason, she felt sure, that they had journeyed to another place to await the circumcision.

For a long while, Joseph did not answer Mary. She stared at his straight back, leading the donkey forward. Finally, he turned to her and said, “We shall find the wisest elder in the city to attend to our son.” A great love for Joseph rose up in Mary, but she did not speak. She nodded, and Joseph nodded back. Then he turned to urge the donkey forward again. “I grow hungry,” he said. “Soon we shall stop to eat.”

THE CITY WAS DENSE
with people and activities, but this held no allure for either of them. They were weary, and Mary was sore from the ride. They moved in silence through the loud crowds and bore the constant jostling, which was at times extreme. One young man lost his balance and fell at Joseph’s feet; then, rolling out of the way, he narrowly missed the hooves of the donkey. Joseph found an inn near the outskirts of the city, and that night they all slept so soundly that the innkeeper banged at the door in the late morning, fearful that they had died or escaped without paying.

They passed the days until the circumcision strolling about the city, talking quietly about their life back in Nazareth, about how, with the addition of the baby, it was forever changed. They ate little, for their money was almost gone, and Mary spoke often of how they would feast once they were back home. They spoke, too, of how odd it was to see so many strangers, and never the same face twice. In their town, every face was known to them.

On the morning of the eighth day, Mary washed and swaddled Jesus and then handed him to Joseph. As childbirth was woman’s province, circumcision was man’s. Joseph would bring the baby to the village elder they had decided upon, who would pull the baby’s flesh tight and cut quickly, then apply a dressing of wine and olive oil with balm and cumin. Tears fell from Mary’s eyes, and she quickly wiped them away.

“This is a moment to be proud!” Joseph said. “It is his first act of manhood!”

“But unfortunate for the way that pain must accompany it,” she said. “I shall await his other acts of manhood, which will bring only joy to him and to us.”

As Joseph was walking out, Mary said, “Remember, as soon as you are finished, we will start for home. And go first to my parents’ house.”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” Joseph said. He was right to be impatient; Mary had reminded him of this several times during their stay in Jerusalem. Also she had imagined aloud a thousand times the love and wonder in Anne’s and Joachim’s faces when they first looked upon their grandchild. And the pride they would have in her. And Joseph! she hastily added, but at this his face remained empty of emotion.

CHAPTER TEN

Nazareth
JANUARY, 3 B.C.

Joseph

E IS CALLED JESUS,” MARY SAID. IT WAS
late afternoon and she was sitting in the house of Anne and Joachim. Her parents stood before her, bent down to admire the baby. Joseph had kept himself out of the way so that Mary’s parents might better see their child’s child: his well-formed head, his sturdy body, his arresting calm. Joseph was eager to return home, for he was greatly weary, but he owed his wife time with her mother and father.

He gazed at her now, smiling up at her parents, her skin bruised-looking beneath her eyes. He regretted all she had been through and admitted to himself that perhaps she should not have accompanied him after all. She could have stayed with her parents and had the assistance to which she was entitled when it came time to give birth. One from their own village could have performed the circumcision. And the baby’s birth surely would not have drawn so much attention. Joseph had spoken to Mary of her wifely duty to accompany him to Bethlehem, but he wondered now if he had simply not trusted her being without him.

Yet he did not doubt her love for him. She showed him in so many ways that she was content with him, honored to be his chosen one. She kept the house well, she cooked with great skill and pleasure; she seemed eager to raise children with him. Often she spoke of names that might be used for the children yet to come, of games they might play with them, of the many things they and their grandparents might teach them. She spoke most winningly of how the love they had for each other would grow and include the children, how
family
would displace
couple
in ways marvelous and satisfying. Yet there was always her odd separateness, her distance from him. Often he asked her, as he had on the day he met her, where she was from; and behind his teasing, there was a kind of serious inquiry. Always she laughed at him, and made up different answers for his amusement. “I come from the moon,” she had said once, as they sat out in the courtyard admiring the stars. “From the depths of the ocean,” she said another time. And once, she had looked deep into his eyes and said, “I come from your imagination. I am not really here.” He had reached out to hold her. “What accounts then for this warmth I feel?” he had asked. “From what part of my mind comes this sweet perfume? Or the silkiness of this hair, or the softness of these lips?” And then they had spoken no more, until his arousal had made him go outside to walk for relief.

But after Mary’s purification, which was soon to come, he would no longer need to hold back the expression of his affection. The sudden rush of joy he felt at this thought made his fatigue all but disappear. Still, he finally told Mary, “We must go now; we are all weary and I desire that we take our rest in our own house, at long last.”

Anne rose from where she had knelt beside Mary to gently caress the child’s forehead. Jesus lay silent, his eyes wide, regarding all that lay about him. The baby cried rarely: only to show his want for food. Joseph felt a reluctant pride in him, and his heart twisted as he imagined Mary’s did when the child’s face crumpled and his wails pierced the air. Of course Joseph did not show his wife such unseemly vulnerability. On their journey home, whenever Jesus cried, Joseph had said only, “Shall I stop that you might feed him?” He had kept his voice strong and neutral, and he had not stared too long when the baby was at her breast. But already he loved the child. Already, he had imagined holding his own hand over the boy’s a few years from now, showing him how to plane boards or set stone. Already he had imagined his son learning more rapidly, more thoroughly, than the other boys at synagogue. He had even imagined himself at his son’s wedding, dancing with Mary while Jesus danced with his bride.

“Of course you must go now,” Anne said. “Soon it will be night. You must all take your rest. Take with you this bread I have baked, and take too some cheese and apricots. And tomorrow, come for Sabbath dinner. I shall roast a lamb.”

Mary and Joseph embraced her parents. Then Anne and Joachim followed the couple out to the courtyard, and Anne told Joachim to go for more olive oil. “Do not tarry,” she told him. “I have much to do to prepare for our celebration tomorrow. And go also to the house of Rachel and Jacob; invite them to come as well.”

From across the courtyard, a neighbor called out to Joachim. He was pulling behind him a listless goat. The animal took a step and hesitated, took another and lay down. “Speak with my husband later!” Anne called out, but it was useless; already Joachim had knelt down and put his hand to the animal’s head and was speaking softly to it. Anne crossed her arms and shook her head, but she was smiling. She waved her hand in dismissal and went back inside.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Jerusalem
FEBRUARY, 3 B.C.

Joseph

HE LAWS IN LEVITICUS DICTATED THAT A
woman was to be purified thirty-three days after her son’s circumcision. The night before Joseph and Mary were to begin the journey to Jerusalem for that purpose, Joseph lay wide awake on his pallet.

In keeping with tradition, he would bring Mary to the temple. There, they would make an offering to the priest for a sacrifice that would recognize God’s sovereignty and express gratitude for a healthy delivery. Mary would enter the mikvah, the ritual bath required of any woman who had given birth. Three times, she would immerse herself in shoulder-high rain or spring water, reciting blessings. Joseph imagined her dark hair floating about her as she lowered herself beneath the surface of the water, then flattening against her back when she rose up. He saw her emerging from the pool and being wrapped by the attendant in a white flax towel. He saw her face lifted in joy as she was pronounced clean. It was what he had so longed for, this purification ceremony, because it would give him his wife as she should be. But now he felt a terrible uncertainty.

Mary had never deviated in any way from what she had told him about the angel’s visit to her and her pregnancy—not with her voice, not with her eyes, not in her demeanor. When she slept, she was soundless, her face as blankly innocent as a child’s. She
was
innocent, if you were to believe her. Odd, then, that she accepted as a matter of course—indeed accepted without question or comment—entering the living waters of the mikvah to be cleansed in the same way as women who had lain with men.

He rose up on one elbow and turned toward Mary, watching her sleep by the thin light of the moon. She lay on her side, her hands open and relaxed. Her breathing was deep and even, her brow smooth as marble. He touched her shoulder. Her breathing altered just slightly, then returned again to normal. As for the baby, Jesus, he too was awake. Calm and utterly silent in Mary’s arms, he turned now to regard Joseph.

Joseph stared into the infant’s eyes for a long moment. Then he lay flat on his back, sighed quietly, and slept.

MARY AND JOSEPH
arrived at the temple in the late morning, after having traveled the short distance from the village where they had spent the night before. At the north gate, Joseph presented the priest their offering for the sacrifice: two pigeons, a poor man’s substitute for the preferred lamb and turtledove. Even so, Joseph had paid a handsome price for the birds; the vendors near the temple took advantage of the fact that pilgrims relied on them to sell unblemished animals that the priest would accept. Joseph had brought from home his own grain and wine to be added to the offering.

As her baby slept soundly in Mary’s arms, she and Joseph moved to the south gate of the temple, where for some time they stood wordless, looking up at the grand structure—with its plazas and immensely long porticos, it occupied some thirty-five acres. At the center was the white marble sanctuary and its altar of gold. No one could go to the innermost room but the high priest, and he himself went only one day a year, on the Day of Atonement.

Joseph shook his head slowly as he looked about. Here in this most magnificent place were priests descended from Aaron in the time of Moses. He suppressed a tremble; the
sacredness
! It seemed held in the very air around them—he could feel it, almost hear it, and it created in him a deep longing that brought tears to his eyes. Quickly, he took Mary’s arm to lead her up the wide stairs and into the courtyard where they would conduct their business: Mary would be purified, and the child officially presented to God. And then they would journey back to Nazareth, and begin at last to live a normal life.

WHEN THEIR OBLIGATIONS
were fulfilled, Joseph drew himself up happily. “And now let us finally go home.”

Mary walked quickly beside him, her footsteps echoing on the floor. She laughed out loud, then asked, “Do you remember, my husband, when I longed so to live in the city?”

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “I do.”

“Never has our quiet village seemed more attractive! I now appreciate everything about it: the beauty of the green hills, the purity and abundance of the water from the spring, the rows of vines in my father’s vineyard.”

“The quiet!” Joseph said.

“Yes. The quiet also, that lets us hear the birds in the air and the sheep in the pastures. And I understand as well the value of the simplicity of our life. I love my friends and relatives. In Nazareth, I know everyone.”

“I suppose you will be disappointed, then, when I tell you I have found work in Jerusalem,” Joseph said.

She stopped walking and turned to him.

“I shall work on the temple, but only for fifty years or so.”

She realized then his joking, and smiled at him. “Let us go home.”

As they were nearing the staircase, they were accosted by an old man who appeared from around a corner. He took Jesus from Mary’s arms, looked heavenward, and exclaimed, “Bless you, Lord! For now I may die in peace, according to your word.” To the startled Joseph and Mary, he said, “I am Simeon, told that I would not see death until I had seen the Lord’s Christ. The spirit has today brought me to the temple, and the prophecy has been fulfilled.” He stared in the baby’s face, saying, “Now you are here, and I have seen the salvation you have brought us all: a light of revelation to the Gentiles, and glory to your people, Israel.” The man’s arms trembled. His face was more bone than flesh. His ears were huge, false-looking in their enormity, and his tangled white eyebrows jutted forth from his face over his faded blue eyes.

And then there came the high, shrill voice of an ancient, bow-backed woman who limped forward, crying, “Now is here the redemption of Israel!” She sounded to Mary like crows cawing in the field, fighting over corn. The woman’s head cover rode low over her forehead, shadowing her deep-set eyes. Her fingers were twisted and her knuckles swollen. Her mouth sank inward; she had no teeth.

Mary looked at Joseph. She seemed to be asking whether these were holy people or the town’s lunatics. But he struggled to keep his face calm and accepting so that Mary would not be afraid.

“It is so, Anna,” Simeon said to the old woman. “Rejoice, for it is so.” He looked deeply into Mary’s eyes. “You see that the prophetess who never leaves the temple, but prays here day and night, has also seen and made her pronouncement. Bless you! Your child is destined for the fall and the rising again of many in Israel. But he is a sign that will be spoken against, because he will cause the thoughts of many hearts to be revealed. A sword will pierce your soul, also.”

Mary snatched Jesus back into her arms, startling him; his small arms flew up into the air. She drew her baby closer to her and spoke loudly to the man. “What is it you mean to say? What are these strange pronouncements?”

Joseph moved closer to Mary, put his arm about her, and began to lead her out. “Pay them no mind,” he said.

Mary looked back over her shoulder at the two old people who stood together, watching them leave the temple.

“But did you hear their words, Joseph? What do they mean?”

“They are old,” he said simply. He helped her onto the donkey. “And we are going home to Nazareth, where we will now raise this child, and many others, in peace.”

But as he led the donkey once again down the road, he turned over and over in his mind the possible meaning of the many strange words spoken to them since Jesus’ birth. The shepherd girl, with her talk of Jesus being a savior, her story of angels coming to the shepherds in their fields on the night of his birth. The rumors of the many others in Jerusalem who had spoken about the birth, and of the people who were journeying to see the baby. And now these two old people at the temple. Some might disregard the words of a simple shepherdess, but Joseph had felt the weight of her words in his heart. And a prophet and prophetess, who said these things in the temple in Jerusalem! Joseph had told Mary to disregard them, but he could not quite convince himself of what he said to her with such confidence.

On the first night of their journey home, he lay awake beside Mary, listening to the cries of wild animals and the wind. But most of all, he listened to the chatter of his own mind, which demanded a rational explanation for all the events that had befallen them. About Mary’s pregnancy, he had his own ideas. As for the rest, he was confounded by it.