“Tamar!” Bathshua stepped outside. “If you have time enough for idle chatter, you can come clean up this mess!” Swinging around, she marched back into the house.
“She expects you to clear up the destruction she and Er have made of that house,” Acsah said with loathing.
“Hush, or you’ll bring more trouble upon us.”
Bathshua appeared again. “Leave Acsah to finish in the garden. I want you inside this house now!” She disappeared inside.
When Tamar entered the house, she treaded carefully so that she wouldn’t step on the shards of broken pottery strewn across the earthen floor. Bathshua sat glumly staring at her broken loom. Hunkering down, Tamar began to gather the shards of a jug into the folds of her tsaiph.
“I hope Judah is satisfied with the mess he’s made,” Bathshua said angrily. “He thought a wife would improve Er’s disposition!” She glared at Tamar as though she were to blame for everything that had happened. “Er is worse than ever! You’ve done my son more harm than good!”
Fighting tears, Tamar made no defense.
Muttering imprecations, Bathshua tipped the loom up. Seeing that the arm was broken and the rug she’d made tangled, she covered her face and wept bitterly.
Tamar was embarrassed by the woman’s passion. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen Bathshua burst into tempestuous tears. The first time, she’d gone to her mother-in-law and tried to comfort her, only to receive a resounding slap across the face and blame for the woman’s despair. Tamar kept her distance now and averted her eyes.
Was Bathshua blind to what she caused in this household? She constantly pitted son against father and son against son. She argued with Judah over everything—and in front of her sons—teaching them to rebel and follow their own desires rather than do what was best for the family. It was no wonder her mother-in-law was miserable! And everyone was miserable right along with her.
“Judah wants Er to tend the sheep.” Bathshua yanked at the loom, making a worse mess. “You know why? Because my husband can’t bear to be away from his abba for more than a year! He has to go back and see how that wretched old man is doing. You watch when Judah comes home. He’ll brood for days. He won’t speak to anyone. He won’t eat. Then he’ll get drunk and say the same stupid thing he does every time he sees Jacob.” She grimaced as she mocked her husband. “‘The hand of God is upon me!’”
Tamar glanced up.
Bathshua rose and paced. “How can the man be such a fool—believing in a god who doesn’t even exist?”
“Perhaps he does exist.”
Bathshua cast a baleful glance at her. “Then where is he? Has this god a temple in which to live or priests to serve him? He doesn’t even have a tent!” Her chin tipped in pride. “He’s not like the gods of Canaan.” She marched to her cabinet and flung it open. “He is not a god like these.” She held her hand out toward her teraphim reverently. “He isn’t a god you can see.” She ran her hand down one statue. “He isn’t a god you can touch. These gods fan our passions into being and make our land and our women fertile.” Her eyes glittered coldly. “Perhaps if you were more respectful to them, you wouldn’t still have a flat, empty belly!”
Tamar felt the barb, but this time she didn’t allow it to sink in deeply. “Didn’t the God of Judah destroy Sodom and Gomorrah?”
Bathshua laughed derisively. “So some say, but I don’t believe it.” She closed the cabinet firmly, as though such words would bring bad luck upon her house. She turned and frowned down upon Tamar. “Would you raise up your sons to bow down to a god who destroys cities?”
“If Judah wills it.”
“Judah,” Bathshua said and shook her head. “Have you ever seen my husband worship his father’s god? I never have. So why should his sons or I worship him? You will train up your sons in the religion of Er’s choice. I have never bowed down to an unseen god. Not once have I been unfaithful to the gods of Canaan, and I advise you to be faithful as well. If you know what’s good for you . . .”
Tamar recognized the threat.
Bathshua sat upon a cushion against the wall and smiled coldly. “Er wouldn’t be pleased to hear you were even thinking of worshiping the god of the Hebrews.” Her eyes narrowed. “I think you’re the cause of our troubles.”
Tamar knew what to expect. When Er returned, Bathshua would claim there was spiritual insurrection in the household. The woman relished stirring up trouble. Tamar longed to throw the broken crockery on the earthen floor and tell her mother-in-law it was her own actions that were destroying the family. Instead, she swallowed her anger and collected shards as Bathshua watched.
“The gods have blessed me with three fine sons, and I’ve brought them up in the true religion, as would any good mother.”
Hot-tempered sons, who do even less work than you do, Tamar wanted to say but held her tongue. She couldn’t win a war with her mother-in-law.
Bathshua leaned forward and lifted an overturned tray enough to pluck a bunch of grapes. She dropped the tray again. “Perhaps you should pray to Asherah more often and give better offerings to Baal. Then your womb might be opened.”
Tamar lifted her head. “I know of Asherah and Baal. My father and mother gave up my sister to serve as a priestess in the temple of Timnah.” She didn’t add that she’d never been able to embrace their beliefs or say aloud that she pitied her sister above all women. Once, during a visit to Timnah during a festival, she’d seen her older sister on an altar platform having sexual intercourse with a priest. The rites were intended to arouse Baal and bring spring back to the land, but Tamar had been filled with disgust and fear at what she saw, sickened even more by the excited crowd witnessing the scene. She’d drawn back, ducked around the corner of a building, and run away. She hadn’t stopped running until she was out of Timnah. She’d hidden in the middle of an olive orchard and remained there until evening when her mother found her.
“You are not devout enough,” Bathshua said smugly.
No, I am not, Tamar said to herself. She knew she could never be devout when she didn’t believe. The gods made no sense to her. All her efforts to worship them filled her with a strange sense of repugnance and shame.
Bathshua rose and returned to her loom. She had calmed enough to begin straightening the tangled threads. “If you were a true believer, you’d be with child by now.” She glanced at Tamar, no doubt trying to assess the impact of her mean-spirited words. “It would seem the gods are angry with you, wouldn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” Tamar conceded with a pang of guilt. Bathshua’s teraphim were nothing but clay, stone, and wood statues. She couldn’t embrace them as Bathshua did, nor could she adore them as fervently. Oh, Tamar said the prayers expected of her, but the words were empty and held no power. Her heart was untouched, her mind far from convinced.
If the gods of Canaan were so powerful, why hadn’t they been able to save or protect the people of Sodom and Gomorrah? Surely a dozen gods were more powerful than one—if they were true gods.
They were nothing but carved stone, chipped wood, and clay molded by human hands!
Perhaps there was no true god.
Her heart rebelled at this thought as well. The world around her—the heavens, the earth, the winds, and the rain—said there was something. Perhaps the God of Judah was that something. A shield against enemies. A shelter in a storm. Nay, a fortress . . . oh, how she longed to know. Yet she dared not ask.
What right had she to bother Judah with questions, especially when so many other things plagued him?
Someday, perhaps, she would have the time and the opportunity to ask.
In the meantime, she would wait and hope to see some sign of what Judah believed and how he worshiped.
* * *
Judah and Er returned five days later. Tamar heard them arguing long before they entered the house. So did Bathshua, for she sighed heavily. “Go and milk one of the goats, Tamar, and tell your nurse to make some bread. Perhaps if the men eat, they will be in bet
ter humor.”
By the time Tamar returned with a jug of fresh goat’s milk, Judah was reclining against some cushions. His eyes were closed, but Tamar knew he wasn’t asleep. His face was tense, and Bathshua was sitting close by, glaring at him. She’d probably been vexing him again, and he was doing his best to shut her out.
“Five days, Judah. Five days. Did you have to stay that long?”
“You could have come with me.”
“And done what? Listen to your brothers’ wives? What have I in common with them? And your mother doesn’t like me!” She whined and complained like a selfish child.
Tamar offered Er milk. “Wine,” he said with a jerk of his chin, clearly in a surly mood. “I want wine!”
“I’ll have milk,” Judah said, his eyes opening enough to look at her.
Bathshua’s head came up. “Here! Give me that. I’ll serve my husband while you see to my son.” When she had the jug, she sloshed some milk into a cup, thrust it at Judah, and then set the jug within his reach so that he could serve himself next time.
Bathshua was still badgering Judah when Tamar returned with wine for Er.
“What good does it do you to see your father, Judah? Has anything changed? You’re always miserable when you come home from his tent. Let Jacob grieve over his second wife and son. Forget about him. Every time you go back to see him, you come home and make my life miserable!”
“I will not forsake my father,” Judah said, his jaw clenched.
“Why not? He’s forsaken you. A pity the old man doesn’t die and spare us all. . . .”
“Enough!” Judah roared. Tamar saw that it was not anger but pain that made him cry out. Grimacing, he raked his hands back through his hair. “Just once, Bathshua, hold your tongue!” He raised his head and glared at her. “Even better, leave me alone!”
“How can you speak to me so cruelly?” She wept angrily. “I’m the mother of your sons. Three sons!”
“Three worthless sons.” Judah’s eyes narrowed coldly on Er.
Tamar’s stomach dropped as she waited for him to say something that would rouse Er’s temper. Her husband would control his temper as long as he was in his father’s presence, but later she would be the recipient of his frustration. Bathshua kept on until Tamar wanted to scream at her to stop, to leave, to have some particle of common sense. Thankfully, Bathshua stormed out of the room, leaving silence behind her.
Tamar was left alone to serve both men. The tension in the room made her nerves tingle. She replenished Er’s cup of wine. He emptied the cup and held it out for more. She glanced at Judah before refilling it. Er looked up at her with a scowl, then at his father. “Onan and Shelah can see to the flocks for the next few days. I’m going to see my friends.”
Judah raised his head slowly and looked at his son. “Will you?” His voice was soft, his eyes hard.
Er shifted. He looked into his cup and then drained it. “With your permission, of course.”
Judah gazed at Tamar and then looked away. “Go ahead. But stay out of trouble this time.”
A muscle jerked in Er’s cheek. “I never start trouble.”
“Of course not,” Judah said drolly.
Er stood and approached Tamar. She drew back instinctively, but he caught hold of her arm and pulled her close. “I’ll miss you, my sweet.” His expression mocked his words, and his fingers bit into her flesh. He let go of her and pinched her cheek. “Don’t pine. I won’t be gone long!”
Judah sighed with relief when his son was gone. He scarcely noticed Tamar’s presence. Leaning forward, he held his head as though it ached.
Tamar hunkered down quietly and waited for him to command her to leave. He didn’t. When Acsah came in with bread, Tamar rose and took the small basket from her nurse, nodding for her to take a place on a cushion near the door. Propriety must be maintained.
“Acsah has made bread, my lord.” When he said nothing, Tamar broke the loaf and placed a portion before him. She poured a cup of goat’s milk, took a small bunch of grapes from a platter, and cut into a pomegranate. She broke the fruit open so that the succulent red beads could be easily removed. “Is your father, Jacob, well?”
“As well as can be expected for a man mourning the loss of a favorite son,” Judah said bitterly.
“One of your brothers has died?”
Judah raised his head from his hands and looked at her. “Years ago. Before you were even born.”
“And still he grieves?” she said in wonder.
“He’ll go to his grave grieving for that boy.”
Never had Tamar seen such a look of torment. She pitied Judah and wished she knew some way to draw him from his sorrow. His expression softened slightly. The intensity of his perusal discomforted her, especially when his eyes cooled. “He marked your face!”
She covered her cheek quickly and turned her face away. “It’s nothing.” She never spoke of Er’s abuse to anyone. Even when Acsah asked her questions, she refused to be disloyal to her husband. “Do you also grieve for your brother?”
“I grieve over the way he died.”
Curious at his tone, she glanced at him again. “How did he die?”
Judah’s face hardened. “He was torn apart by an animal. Nothing was found of him but his coat covered with blood.” The words came as though he had said them over and over again and loathed repeating them. When she raised her brow, his expression was one of challenge. “You don’t believe me?”
“Why should I not believe you?” She didn’t want to anger him. “I would like to know more about my family.”
“Your family?” His mouth curved ruefully.
Heat filled her cheeks. Did he mean to exclude her too? Anger stirred, along with hurt feelings. It was Judah who had brought her into this household, Judah who had chosen her for his son! Surely he would do right by her. “The family into which you brought me, my lord, a family I want to serve, if only I am allowed.”
“If God is willing . . .” His mouth curved sadly. He took a piece of bread and began to eat.
“Will you tell me nothing?” she said weakly, her courage dwindling.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Anything. Especially about your god. Where does he dwell? What is his name? How do you worship him? Is he unseen, as my father claims? How do you know he exists?”
Judah drew back. “I thought you wanted to know about my father and my brothers.”
“I have heard that the god of your father destroyed the cities that were in the salt flat where the marsh now expands.”
“That’s true.” He looked away. “The Angel of the Lord told Abraham He would destroy them unless ten righteous men could be found among those living there. Abraham saw with his own eyes the fire and brimstone that came down from heaven.” Judah looked at her solemnly. “It doesn’t matter if you can’t see or hear Him. He doesn’t live in temples like the gods of your father. He is . . .”
“Is . . . what?”
“Just . . . is. Don’t pester me with questions. You’re a Canaanite. Just go and pick an idol from Bathshua’s cabinet and worship it!” His tone was derisive.
Her eyes pricked hot with tears. “You are the head of this household.”
Color surged into Judah’s face and his mouth tightened. Grimacing, he searched her face. He frowned slightly, then spoke softly. “The God of Jacob turns rock into springs of water. Or can crush a man’s life with a thought.” His eyes were bleak.
“Where does he dwell?”
“Anywhere He wants. Everywhere.” Judah shrugged. “I can’t explain what I don’t understand.” He frowned, his gaze distant. “Sometimes I don’t want to know. . . .”
“How did your people come to know of him?”
“He spoke to Abraham, and He has spoken to my father.”
“As you and I are speaking? Why would a god of such power lower himself to speak to a mere man?”
“I don’t know. When Abraham first heard Him, He was . . . a voice. B
ut the Lord comes anytime and in any way He wishes. He spoke to Abraham face-to-face. My father wrestled a blessing from Him. The Angel of the Lord touched my father’s hip and crippled him forever. Sometimes He speaks in . . . dreams.” The last seemed to trouble him deeply.
“Has he ever spoken to you?”
“No, and I hope He never does.”
“Why?”
“I know what He would say.” Judah sighed heavily and leaned back, tossing the bread onto the tray.
“Every god demands a sacrifice. What sacrifice does your god require?”
“Obedience.” He waved his hand impatiently. “Don’t ask me any more questions. Give me peace!”
Blushing, she murmured an apology. She was no better than Bathshua, battering him with her needs, her desires. Ashamed, Tamar withdrew. “Do you wish me to ask Bathshua to serve you?”
“I’d rather be stung by a scorpion. I want to be alone.”
Acsah followed her from the room. “What did you say to upset him so?”
“I merely asked a few questions.”
“What sort of questions?”
“Just questions, Acsah. Nothing that need concern you.” Acsah would not comprehend her quest for understanding the God of Judah’s fathers. Acsah worshiped the same gods Bathshua and her sons did, the same gods Tamar’s mother and father and sisters and brothers worshiped. Why was she so different? Why did she hunger and thirst for something more?
“Everything you do concerns me,” Acsah said, clearly annoyed. “I am your nurse, am I not?”
“I don’t need one today.” She couldn’t tell Acsah that she wanted to know about the God of Judah. While everyone around her worshiped idols of stone, wood, or clay, she merely pretended. The gods of her father and mother had mouths but never spoke. They had eyes, but could they see? They had feet but never walked. Could they think or feel or breathe? And she had seen a truth about them: Those who worshiped them became like them, cold and hard. Like Bathshua. Like Er. Like Onan. Someday, Shelah would be the same.
There was nothing cold about Judah. She felt his brokenness. She saw his anguish. Why didn’t the others who were supposed to love him? His wife! His sons! They didn’t seem to care about anyone but themselves.