Song of the Magdalene by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

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 hadgone 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.
    â€œWelcome 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 hadlearned 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.
    â€œAbraham 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.”
    â€œMagdala 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.’ ”
    â€œIdiots and cripples would not be my neighbors if people like you didn’t harbor them.”
    â€œIdiots and cripples will always be with us, Jacob. They are part of life. They come from loins like mine and yours.”
    â€œNot 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 yearsago. 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.”
    â€œYou 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