of it coming through the window slit.
She kicked aside her stained tunic and pulled a fresh one of pale blue over her head. Its cool touch against her skin was calming. It helped to stifle the resentment that had come out of nowhere and had been smouldering, gaining strength, until now it too seemed to be burning deep in her vitals. This is my mother's house and these are her children; wherefore is it that she leaves me alone to cope with them when I have already prepared the meal? No, no, my mother is ill. . . . But she had to bite her quivering lips. For it was surely tonight's event that had brought Hannah's illness on. And if one visit was enough to drive Hannah to her bed, what of more serious demands?
A sudden desolation came over Mary. She stood very still for a moment, giving herself over to the hopelessness. Then she brushed and bound up her damp dark hair and went below.
He came early, in his eagerness. He arrived before Joachim was in from the fields. The children, who had been perched on the step watching for him, ran shouting the news to Mary, who had brought the duck indoors. It was indeed burned on one side, she saw, stricken. Well, no matter, she would carve the other side to be served the men; she and the young ones could eat the bitter side later. A flat dull resignation had replaced her earlier nervousness. He was here. She had assaulted him brazenly on a public street this morning and then bullied her father into inviting him, and now dutifully he had appeared. Only to find her mother absent and her father still not home. It served her right for her folly, this humiliation that seemed symbolized in the charred, half-ruined duck. But since there was no undoing any of it, go now and get it over with.
Head high, she went to greet him. "Peace be with you," she said. "And please forgive my mother's absence. She bids you enjoy the hospitality of this house, which she regrets she can't extend to you herself since she is ill."
He murmured something—she was too troubled by her subterfuge to heed. And the water, here came Esau proudly bearing the basin and jug, his sweet face wearing a bright fixed smile, his twisted leg hobbling carefully so as not to spill it. He must have strained it through a cloth, she noticed gratefully, for it seemed clean and clear. A sudden rejoicing sped through her, a blessed recklessness. Joseph had come, he was truly here. He was standing before her, washing his hands, taller than she had believed, remote and grave with his tense cleft chin, and even more fair.
She longed to search his eyes, to see if his mood matched that of the morning, but she did not dare. Instead, she fastened her gaze upon his hands. How large, how rough and fiercely beautiful were the hands of a man. A little forest of black hairs grew on Joseph's long fingers, sturdy and brittle like the fragrant seas of brushwood that ran triumphant over rocks and fields. Look at me! they seemed to boast—both the brush and the bristling hairs. I will survive despite drought and wind and battering rains, I am tough, I am strong! But his nails were blunted and bruised; there were callouses from the hammer and saw. A mute pity went through Mary. Vaguely she sensed and was awed by the tremendous burden of being a man.
Even as she was thinking this, she noticed that the hands were not quite steady. Joseph was trembling. In astonishment and pain for him she saw that he sloshed the water on the floor and dropped the towel.
"Forgive my clumsiness." Joseph bent to retrieve it, silently cursing himself. To be here with her, a guest at her father's table and have his very limbs betray him. His suffering gaze met Mary's. Was she laughing at him or trying to console him? Impossible to tell for she turned abruptly away, startled by the voice behind her.
"Peace be with you, Joseph. Here, don't use that towel, we have more." Hannah stood there, holding out another. Her small sunken eyes were distant and chilling, her mouth
She kicked aside her stained tunic and pulled a fresh one of pale blue over her head. Its cool touch against her skin was calming. It helped to stifle the resentment that had come out of nowhere and had been smouldering, gaining strength, until now it too seemed to be burning deep in her vitals. This is my mother's house and these are her children; wherefore is it that she leaves me alone to cope with them when I have already prepared the meal? No, no, my mother is ill. . . . But she had to bite her quivering lips. For it was surely tonight's event that had brought Hannah's illness on. And if one visit was enough to drive Hannah to her bed, what of more serious demands?
A sudden desolation came over Mary. She stood very still for a moment, giving herself over to the hopelessness. Then she brushed and bound up her damp dark hair and went below.
He came early, in his eagerness. He arrived before Joachim was in from the fields. The children, who had been perched on the step watching for him, ran shouting the news to Mary, who had brought the duck indoors. It was indeed burned on one side, she saw, stricken. Well, no matter, she would carve the other side to be served the men; she and the young ones could eat the bitter side later. A flat dull resignation had replaced her earlier nervousness. He was here. She had assaulted him brazenly on a public street this morning and then bullied her father into inviting him, and now dutifully he had appeared. Only to find her mother absent and her father still not home. It served her right for her folly, this humiliation that seemed symbolized in the charred, half-ruined duck. But since there was no undoing any of it, go now and get it over with.
Head high, she went to greet him. "Peace be with you," she said. "And please forgive my mother's absence. She bids you enjoy the hospitality of this house, which she regrets she can't extend to you herself since she is ill."
He murmured something—she was too troubled by her subterfuge to heed. And the water, here came Esau proudly bearing the basin and jug, his sweet face wearing a bright fixed smile, his twisted leg hobbling carefully so as not to spill it. He must have strained it through a cloth, she noticed gratefully, for it seemed clean and clear. A sudden rejoicing sped through her, a blessed recklessness. Joseph had come, he was truly here. He was standing before her, washing his hands, taller than she had believed, remote and grave with his tense cleft chin, and even more fair.
She longed to search his eyes, to see if his mood matched that of the morning, but she did not dare. Instead, she fastened her gaze upon his hands. How large, how rough and fiercely beautiful were the hands of a man. A little forest of black hairs grew on Joseph's long fingers, sturdy and brittle like the fragrant seas of brushwood that ran triumphant over rocks and fields. Look at me! they seemed to boast—both the brush and the bristling hairs. I will survive despite drought and wind and battering rains, I am tough, I am strong! But his nails were blunted and bruised; there were callouses from the hammer and saw. A mute pity went through Mary. Vaguely she sensed and was awed by the tremendous burden of being a man.
Even as she was thinking this, she noticed that the hands were not quite steady. Joseph was trembling. In astonishment and pain for him she saw that he sloshed the water on the floor and dropped the towel.
"Forgive my clumsiness." Joseph bent to retrieve it, silently cursing himself. To be here with her, a guest at her father's table and have his very limbs betray him. His suffering gaze met Mary's. Was she laughing at him or trying to console him? Impossible to tell for she turned abruptly away, startled by the voice behind her.
"Peace be with you, Joseph. Here, don't use that towel, we have more." Hannah stood there, holding out another. Her small sunken eyes were distant and chilling, her mouth
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