The Handmaid and the Carpenter

  But she was worried.

  MORE THAN THREE hours later, they had found nothing. Every inn was filled; people who had come to register had taken all the rooms. And though she knew it was not Joseph’s fault, though she knew he was doing all he could to find a place for them, Mary unleashed her fury upon him.

  “You should not have had me come!” she said. “Because of you, my child is threatened—and myself, as well! I am in agony, and I must ride endlessly on a donkey, in search of something we cannot find!”

  To all this, Joseph said nothing. He guided the donkey along, trying to keep him from going too fast and increasing her discomfort. It was not easy. Once, startled by something he saw, the donkey broke into a trot. Mary cried out, and in frustration Joseph jerked on the donkey’s lead and slapped him across the nose. The animal reared his head back and brayed. Joseph rushed to Mary’s side. “Are you all right?”

  And she struck Joseph’s shoulder, saying, “Do not strike the donkey!” Then she put her face in her hands and began to weep.

  Joseph stood still on the narrow street. “Mary,” he said. “I know not what to do. Forgive me.”

  Mary continued to weep, and Joseph stood before her, his hands at his side, his face full of anguish. “Forgive me,” he said again. Then he gently touched her knee and moved back to the donkey. “I shall ask forgiveness of you as well,” he said, and pulled at the lead to turn the beast around.

  “Where are we going?” Mary asked, panic in her voice. Was he going back to Nazareth? They could not! For now her labor had become intense; wave after wave of excruciating pain bore down upon her. She felt sick to her stomach; she needed to lie down.

  “We will go back to the last inn,” Joseph said. “I will insist that he give us a room! I will tell him we can share with others.”

  Mary drew in a deep breath and held on. The last inn they’d been to was not far. She thought she could make it.

  When they arrived, Joseph left Mary in the street and ran to the door. She saw him gesture animatedly to the innkeeper; she saw the innkeeper shake his head. Joseph pointed to her, and the innkeeper peered around Joseph to look at her and shrugged. He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. Joseph raised his voice so that Mary could hear him plainly. “I tell you she is going to give birth! Now!”

  From behind the innkeeper, Mary saw a woman’s head peeking out. Then she squeezed past and stood before him, hands on her hips, looking out at Mary. She spoke to her husband in low tones, and again he shook his head. She said something else, more sharply, and he shrugged, then walked away.

  Joseph ran back to Mary. “What did they say?” she asked, full of hope.

  “They have a stable. It is next to the inn, out of the cold.”

  “A stable?”

  “Next to the inn. There is an empty stall.” He began leading the donkey forward.

  “A stable? I am to give birth in a stable?” Where would the hot water come from? Where the clean white cloths? Where the midwife’s stone, so that she could sit properly between Mary’s legs, and where the midwife’s assistants to hold Mary in such a way that she might better push? From where would come the aromatic oils to massage into her temples, the giant fennel to speed the labor, the sawdust to soak up the blood? There would be no women’s voices soothing her during her labor, no jubilant ululating after the birth, no feast offered to the newly delivered mother. She had nothing but Joseph.

  And now not even him, for he lifted her off the donkey, helped her to lie down, and then said, “Wait for me here. They have told me where I might find a midwife.”

  “Joseph!” she said. “Do not leave me! The baby is coming!”

  “I shall be back as soon as I can. Mary, I must find a midwife. I know not what to do!”

  He ran into the night. Dazed, Mary lay with her hands over her fiercely contracting stomach. A clucking chicken walked across her ankles, and its sharp claws cut her. The donkey was tethered beside a mule, and they both regarded her with a placid curiosity. There were two sheep, one baaing continuously. A rat ran across a corner of the stable and disappeared into the hay.

  “Mother!” Mary wailed, then cried for Anne yet again.

  Then she grew silent. There was no use in wasting her energy this way. The baby was coming, no matter where she lay. She would need to pay attention and help herself, for surely the midwife would arrive too late.

  She rose with difficulty and replaced the soiled hay beneath her with clean. Then she lay back down and took in long, deep breaths, trying to calm herself the way she had seen Elizabeth do. She closed her eyes and massaged her temples. She looked about for something to use as a holding rope, something that she might pull on with the pain, but saw nothing. So she removed her head cover and tied one end to the leg of the nearby manger. She tested it, pulling on it. And then used it for its purpose, as a hard pain came upon her. She rose up, clenched her teeth and pulled on the rope, clenched her teeth harder and pulled again. When the pain subsided, she lay back down and allowed herself one more moment of pity for her poor circumstances: She lay on the floor of a stranger’s stable. Somewhere, water dripped. The air was foul with the scent of the animals and their droppings. Wind blew in through the cracks of the walls. She closed her eyes. So be it. When the next pain came, she rose again and pulled.

  And then Joseph and a young girl came hurrying through the stable door toward her. Mary smiled, then wept with relief. The girl pushed up Mary’s tunic, parted her legs, and gasped. Then, “Push!” she said.

  Mary pushed, then said politely, “I am Mary of Nazareth.”

  The girl spoke rapidly. “I am but a shepherdess, only two months ago having given birth myself. Thus has your husband asked me to help you. But I am only a shepherdess.”

  Mary pushed again. “What is your name?”

  “I am Rebecca of Bethlehem.” The girl was dirty-faced and looked full of fear; surely she was worried about failing these strangers, about being blamed if the baby or the mother died.

  “I am grateful for your presence,” Mary said, then spoke no more.

  She endured massive waves of pain, and in between them pushed with all her might. Joseph sat crouched near the doorway, helpless, his eyes wide. Mary looked at him and then beyond him, at the black sky filled with stars—she had never seen such stars. There was one far brighter than the others, and it was this star that she eventually focused on, for its ethereal presence brought her calm.

  There came a sudden darkness, and Joseph, alarmed, stood and looked up at the sky. Mary rose to her elbows. But then as quickly as the dark had come, there came a blinding light from inside the stable. Joseph closed his eyes against it, and when he opened them again, the baby had been born.

  MARY SAT WITH her back against a bale of hay, holding Jesus. He had not yet cried, not even when he slipped out of her warm body and into the coldness of the night. He lay open-eyed and calm in her arms, and she stared down into his face, calm herself. Joseph sat beside her, wordless with gratitude that his wife had survived. He looked at her with the same adoration that shone on Mary’s face.

  As soon as the shepherd girl had delivered the baby—a slight rotation of the shoulders was all that had been needed—she had run for supplies she’d not had time to fetch before. Now she returned with rags to clean Mary and the baby, and from which to make swaddling clothes. “He is a fine baby!” she told Mary, as she tore long strips from a tunic. “He has the same well-formed head as did my own Isaiah.” She smiled, her face full of pride at the thought of her son.

  “Is he your first?” Mary asked, and Rebecca smiled and nodded. “But I pray that there will be many more, now that I have seen what endless joy comes to those with children.”

  Behind Rebecca were two of the shepherds who had come down from the hills. They stood far back, speaking quietly to each other and craning their necks, trying to see the baby.

  When she and Rebecca had finished swaddling him, Mary lay her son in the manger, which had been filled wi
th clean, sweet-smelling hay. “You may come closer, and see him,” she told the shepherds. The men exchanged glances, one scratching absentmindedly at his chest, then under his arm. But then they approached, their hands at their sides, their faces full of humility and the kind of wonder always seen after a birth. But more. For one of the men, upon seeing the infant, fell to his knees. The second man quickly followed. Joseph looked over at Mary. She smiled.

  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 mor
e, 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.”