tight for all its courteous words.
She had caught Joseph at his worst, the awkward groping for the dropped linen, the strong assertive face gone scarlet with embarrassment. And the hands that had so moved Mary—she was newly conscious of their scars. But the main thing was that Hannah had risen. She had put on fresh garments and twisted her hair into a hard little knot and come down.
"I'm glad you're feeling better, Mother," Mary gasped. And scarcely knowing what she was doing, she snatched the abandoned towel and ran with it. Outside she leaned limp against the wall for a moment, the scrap of cloth pressed against her cheek. It was still warm from his touch, it bore the marks of his hands. Oh, let her father come soon and make Joseph truly welcome, and let her mother be in an amiable mood after all, kindly and entertaining the way she could be if she wanted. An amused tenderness came over Mary. She might have known that her mother would join them, if only because Hannah couldn't bear to miss anything.
There now, her father was coming along the path from the olive grove. The sun had already vanished behind the mountains, but for a moment before the darkness fell its scarlet enflamed the sky. And against it, between the shimmering silver of the trees and the small crouched shed she saw him and the ox in silhouette. Tired beasts both of them, heavy and stolid, pushing hopefully toward the evening's rest. And wonder and gratefulness flooded her afresh, akin to the wrench of awed pity she had felt at sight of Joseph's hands.
Stuffing the little towel impulsively into her bosom, she ran to help her father with the ox. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you. Joseph is here and Mother's feeling better and now surely all will go well."
In the house Joseph sat playing with the children while Hannah rattled bowls and vessels and darted about in a burst of perverse animation, correcting the meal. She snatched off a dish of dates that seemed to her too dry and added more curds. Where were the onions? No meal was complete without onions! She thumped and rearranged cushions. As for the duck, the near-tragedy that had befallen that rare indulgence struck her as both fitting and devastating. How had they let it burn? "I can't turn my back a minute. Esau, Salome, somebody—stop those children from clambering all over our guest."
"Oh, but I'm used to children. Remember, there are even more of them at our house." Joseph caressed the curly fluff that covered the head of three-year-old Judith. It was like Mary's; it too would strive to escape its braids some day. His eyes sought hers where she knelt by the hearth. "I love children." And the words, however open, bore a message for her alone.
Joachim had come in and washed himself. He greeted the guest cordially but with a trace of something restrained, vaguely on guard. The two of them sat down while Mary and her mother served the food. The silence was uncomfortable at first as they dipped their bread, each groping, Mary sensed painfully, to find something to say to each other. Then gradually their voices rose above the click and rattle of the bowls. The gruff, weary and opinionated nasal of Joachim, and the respectful golden tones of Joseph, discussing the subjects on which men could always grow heated—taxes, tributes, and the latest atrocities of Herod.
"A man in my father's shop brought word that he's not only still torturing and murdering people around Jerusalem, he's put another of his own sons to death."
"Good riddance," Joachim said grimly. "They're all a nest of vipers. How can they help it—the issue of a man who's neither a Roman nor a true Jew? An Idumaean," he said with vast derision. "A circumcised Arab."
"Even so, there are some who claim he's done a good deal for us," Joseph found himself saying. "He's restored the Temple, and rebuilt our ruined cities. And he's kept the peace."
"Peace!" Joachim exploded. "You call this peace, this milking us dry to adorn those cities, build his
She had caught Joseph at his worst, the awkward groping for the dropped linen, the strong assertive face gone scarlet with embarrassment. And the hands that had so moved Mary—she was newly conscious of their scars. But the main thing was that Hannah had risen. She had put on fresh garments and twisted her hair into a hard little knot and come down.
"I'm glad you're feeling better, Mother," Mary gasped. And scarcely knowing what she was doing, she snatched the abandoned towel and ran with it. Outside she leaned limp against the wall for a moment, the scrap of cloth pressed against her cheek. It was still warm from his touch, it bore the marks of his hands. Oh, let her father come soon and make Joseph truly welcome, and let her mother be in an amiable mood after all, kindly and entertaining the way she could be if she wanted. An amused tenderness came over Mary. She might have known that her mother would join them, if only because Hannah couldn't bear to miss anything.
There now, her father was coming along the path from the olive grove. The sun had already vanished behind the mountains, but for a moment before the darkness fell its scarlet enflamed the sky. And against it, between the shimmering silver of the trees and the small crouched shed she saw him and the ox in silhouette. Tired beasts both of them, heavy and stolid, pushing hopefully toward the evening's rest. And wonder and gratefulness flooded her afresh, akin to the wrench of awed pity she had felt at sight of Joseph's hands.
Stuffing the little towel impulsively into her bosom, she ran to help her father with the ox. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you. Joseph is here and Mother's feeling better and now surely all will go well."
In the house Joseph sat playing with the children while Hannah rattled bowls and vessels and darted about in a burst of perverse animation, correcting the meal. She snatched off a dish of dates that seemed to her too dry and added more curds. Where were the onions? No meal was complete without onions! She thumped and rearranged cushions. As for the duck, the near-tragedy that had befallen that rare indulgence struck her as both fitting and devastating. How had they let it burn? "I can't turn my back a minute. Esau, Salome, somebody—stop those children from clambering all over our guest."
"Oh, but I'm used to children. Remember, there are even more of them at our house." Joseph caressed the curly fluff that covered the head of three-year-old Judith. It was like Mary's; it too would strive to escape its braids some day. His eyes sought hers where she knelt by the hearth. "I love children." And the words, however open, bore a message for her alone.
Joachim had come in and washed himself. He greeted the guest cordially but with a trace of something restrained, vaguely on guard. The two of them sat down while Mary and her mother served the food. The silence was uncomfortable at first as they dipped their bread, each groping, Mary sensed painfully, to find something to say to each other. Then gradually their voices rose above the click and rattle of the bowls. The gruff, weary and opinionated nasal of Joachim, and the respectful golden tones of Joseph, discussing the subjects on which men could always grow heated—taxes, tributes, and the latest atrocities of Herod.
"A man in my father's shop brought word that he's not only still torturing and murdering people around Jerusalem, he's put another of his own sons to death."
"Good riddance," Joachim said grimly. "They're all a nest of vipers. How can they help it—the issue of a man who's neither a Roman nor a true Jew? An Idumaean," he said with vast derision. "A circumcised Arab."
"Even so, there are some who claim he's done a good deal for us," Joseph found himself saying. "He's restored the Temple, and rebuilt our ruined cities. And he's kept the peace."
"Peace!" Joachim exploded. "You call this peace, this milking us dry to adorn those cities, build his
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