Nineteen

lazarus, of course, closed up shop immediately, protesting that there was no business on these middle days of the festival in any case; and he accompanied Mary back to the encampment outside the city to pick up her clothes and belongings--and Judith.

Mary had pointedly mentioned Judith as a "young companion," not a servant, since she liked the girl and did not want Lazarus to think of her as a slave--and after all, they had been companions for months now, more or less. But more importantly, Mary had her matchmaker's eyes open, and she knew what the attitude of Lazarus could do to any potential husbands that came to the house. Given a chance, Judith could find herself married within a year, because of her appearance and her child-likeness; but if Lazarus and Martha looked on her as Mary's slave, no one would give her a second glance--except other slaves; and that Mary would not have.

She was disappointed, therefore, when Lazarus regarded Mary's introducing him to her as one of the aberrations she had picked up from this "band of wild men" she had been living with, and paid her no more attention afterwards than he did to the donkey they loaded the belongings upon. She would have to make her point very clear with Martha; Lazarus was probably too dense to offer any hope of success.

Judith began gathering together their possessions (with Mary's rather desultory help, during intervals of chatting with Lazarus, to foster the impression that she and Judith were equals) and putting them into the bags on the donkey, and then Mary took a very brief time to seek out the few people she thought would care that she was going, to say goodbye to them. It was all the briefer, because most were still scattered throughout the city--and those she greeted, since they saw her with Lazarus (and were tactful enough simply to raise an initial eyebrow), knew that she was not going to be completely losing contact with them, and so the farewells were a bit perfunctory. Mary made on her part no effort to prolong them, for fear that a remark might be dropped as to who it was who had turned out to be the long-lost sister of their friend; and, to her great relief, nothing was said.

The only one she regretted parting from was Matthew--who had, for some reason, returned to the encampment after her meeting with Lazarus--and he also seemed genuine when he said that he would miss her; he had a rather enigmatically sad look in his eyes when she told him that the Master had said that it was probably better for her if she returned to her family, and then added "For all concerned, I think." She had been thinking of Judith, and wondered afterward if Matthew had taken it personally.

But there was no great sorrow, truth to be told, on anyone else's part at Mary's leaving; she had never really lived down who she had been before joining the group, though no one ever mentioned it--and some, like Joanna, kept reminding her that they were not mentioning it--and she herself found little in common with the women, and was of course barely tolerated by (and found it a bit trying to tolerate) all but one or two of the men; and one of them was better to be as far from as possible. Her main problem, she knew, was that she was not full of enthusiasm and devotion, but had doubts and expressed them; and for many in the group, this was all but treason--for those like Simon the Revolutionary, almost literally so.

And so, all concerned found the parting remarkably easy; and another part of her life ended.

As they traveled the slow hour's walk to Bethany, leading the little donkey (who was considerably more heavily laden, because of the gold, than Lazarus would have expected, had he noticed such things), Mary observed little details along the route that she had paid no attention to when she was young, and could not have called to mind however hard-pressed; but they now beckoned to her and almost said aloud, "You see, I am still here; I have been waiting for you." A fig-tree (much larger now) off to the left, a rock formation beside the path that looked--to an overactive young imagination--like a couple kissing, a house down in a little valley, whose roof suddenly confronted one as a corner was turned, the caves where people were buried.

She and Lazarus stopped here for a short time, while he showed her the tomb of her parents. She thought it was probably appropriate to weep, but she had lost them so long ago that nothing happened as she stared at the huge rock blocking the entrance, and even in deference to Lazarus she would not act the hypocrite; and so the three of them stood there silently for a while, lost either in thought or in that wordless, mindless pause with which one confronts the unfathomable.

The first thing Martha said when she saw them, even before greeting Mary (whom, like Lazarus, she recognized at once) was, "You should have sent someone ahead, Lazarus! Look at the house!" This was quickly followed by an effusive outpouring of affectionate welcomings, not leaving Mary a word to say--if indeed she could have spoken, smothered as she was by Martha's hugs--followed by abject apologies for the state of what was, as far as Mary could see, a spotless house, and calculations about whether what they were having for dinner would be enough.

Mary looked at the two of them. Lazarus was exactly like his father to behold, but behaved completely differently--absolutely self-satisfied and oblivious to anything anyone else was feeling--while Martha, who an outside observer would say did not even belong to the same family, gave promise of copying all her mother's worst traits.

Mary said that she and Judith did not eat much, and introduced Judith to Martha, making it emphatic that she was her "young companion," explaining how her mother had been cured by Jesus, and how Mary had thought that she needed to see something more than Galilee before she settled down. Martha was a bit too shrewd not to see through this, evidently guessing that Mary had not simply met her on the occasion of the cure; but she also saw where Mary was headed, and was willing to acquiesce in it. "And," added Mary, "she said that she would be willing, if I took her, to help with the house, so I thought that perhaps we would not be a burden to you after all."

Even through the mask of hospitality, Mary could see that Martha was already confronting the difficulty of Mary's being the older sister, and consequently in a position of taking over control of the household, which would hardly be welcome. But she saw that by this remark Mary was offering the alternative of their becoming rather peculiar permanent guests, leaving Martha in charge, with Judith taking a subordinate role to deal with the extra tasks that their stay would involve. As the implications became clearer to her, she showed even more affection for Mary, who had chosen such a tactful way to solve what could have been a considerable problem.

Mary thought it better not to bring up the subject of the very substantial sum of money she had brought; not only would it be gauche, there was her interest in seeing how they would react to the addition of two new members of the household once the newness of the situation had worn off--and there was, of course, the problem of explaining how she had obtained it. Lazarus, at least, seemed not to be concerned, and genuinely glad to have her back. Of course, since he did not actually spend the household money, he may simply have not thought of the costs involved--though perhaps he was as well-to-do as her father, and this made no difference. If he could entertain Jesus and his entourage whenever they came to Judea, Mary thought, he was evidently not poor.

How small the house looked! Mary went from room to room as they showed her around, recalling much of the furnishing, and noting things that had not been there when she left. But everything seemed to have shrunk. The rooms were even smaller than her house in Galilee, and she had pictured them, in the rare moments when she thought of them, as huge. It was probably because she formed her impression while she was a child, and much smaller herself.

And there was her room, with the bed she had lain in that last afternoon and evening, kept exactly as it was that day, when she tossed alone upon it, struggling with the temptation that was to lead her back to this very room by such a circuitous route. It seemed to be trying to tell her that nothing mattered: that she could take up where she had left off. But the childish naivete of its decorations--which she then thought so sophisticated--gave it the lie. No, whatever she would be now, it was not the person who had quitted this room.

She cringed somewhat at her lack of taste, remembering how she had fought with her mother over every item--and those which represented a loss on her part were the only reasonably acceptable pieces, she now could see. She had not her mother's taste now (she was used to much more sophisticated luxury, and her mother was more interested in what was serviceable), but she could respect what her mother had been trying to do, now that she saw what the fourteen-year-old had considered beautiful.

"Now!" said Martha when the house had been examined, the proper remarks made, and they had returned to the large room overlooking the valley and sat down, "Tell us what you have been doing with yourself all these years!"

Should she tell them? Could she tell them? They would doubtless find it out sooner or later from one of Jesus's followers; and it would obviously be better to hear it from her, and at the outset. Then if they wished to throw her out, she would not be already established.

She opened her mouth to speak, but "I was a prostitute" was all that came into her head, and she could not bring herself to utter it aloud. She closed her mouth again, and looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. After a long silence, she looked up and managed to say, "I am sorry. I find I cannot speak of it . . . If you do not mind, I would . . . It is painful--very painful--to recall."

"You poor dear!" said Martha. "Did you lose a husband?"

Mary almost laughed aloud. Yes, she had lost a husband. She had had the sham of a husband thousands of times, but the reality would never be hers.

"No," she said, and suddenly found tears in her eyes. How they were going to be hurt when they discovered the truth! "No, it was not thus--nothing, I am afraid, so innocent. It was something I am greatly ashamed of. In fact, I do not deserve to be back here, treated as a member of the family--"

"Nonsense!" said Martha. "You are a member of the family! How else should you be treated? Nothing you have done or will do can alter that! Never think such things!"

Mary smiled sadly at her. "Thank you, Martha. But I do not wish to give you a false impression. It was not some trivial thing; it was something so serious--so heinous--that I would not think of holding you to what you just said, if ever you find out what it was."

"Do not be absurd!" said Lazarus. "What would a member of our family have done to justify such extravagance?"

"I fear that--"

"Not another word!" broke in Martha. "I will hear no more of this. If you do not feel capable of confessing whatever your horrible crime was at our first meeting, so be it--for that matter, if you never tell us, it makes no difference to me. Family is family. And I assume that if you were with Jesus, he knows."

"Oh, yes, he knows."

"And of course has forgiven you, whatever it was."

"Yes. Indeed he did. I never thought it possible."

"Well then. But you say you have been following him for some months now. Does this mean you followed him here? Is he here in Judea?"

"Yes," said Lazarus. "He brought Mary to me as I sat there in my banking-stall. I--"

"Why did you not tell me, Lazarus? He will surely come to visit us, and I--"

""I see my sister for the first time in fifteen years, and you expect me to remember that a preacher has come to town?"

"Did he say when he planned to visit?" Martha was already mentally making arrangements.

"I only saw him for a moment, actually--it seems to me I also saw Matthew, did I not?" He looked over at Mary, who nodded. "But when I realized that it was Mary with him, I lost track of everything else. And he managed to slip away as he sometimes does, and we were alone."

Mary related a bit of what preceded the encounter, but was as much at a loss as to what happened to Jesus afterwards as was Lazarus. Martha began questioning her about what he had been saying, and the reaction of the crowds; it was obvious her interest in him was intense. Lazarus more or less dropped out of the conversation, and soon rose to take care of something-or-other in the house. Martha, still talking and asking questions--she would, it seemed, have joined the group of students herself if not for having to take care of Lazarus--went into the kitchen and began supervising the servants who had been busy preparing the meal. Mary perforce followed, and the conversation became somewhat confused, Martha turning to her and taking up the thread she kept dropping as the cook or the serving-slave had a question or was doing something not up to Martha's standard. Judith, meanwhile, had entered the room and was observing everything very carefully.

"And you say that he vanished from among them? Does that mean that he will not return to the festival?"

"I know not," replied Mary. "But I would suppose so. When he came up to us, he acted as if he would go back; I think he had something further he wanted to say."

"Then we must go tomorrow and hear him!"

Mary agreed, and so when Lazarus went to Jerusalem the next day, they accompanied him, along with Judith, whom Martha had accepted in her ambiguous position, understanding what Mary had in mind, verbally chastising Lazarus the preceding evening for not realizing that what Mary was after was to find a suitable husband for her. "One can see that she is not of the lower classes," she said, in spite of the fact that one would have to have eyes rather better than average to do so--which was not to say that Judith's innocence and goodness did not elevate her above her social level. In any case, she was a Galilean, and Judeans always made allowances for what they considered these barbarians. The upshot was that Martha treated her almost as an equal, and Lazarus was forced to do the same.

On their way, Lazarus pointed out, "As long as you are going to see Jesus, we should bring Zebediah also," and took a detour to his house--in a different part of town from where he had lived--without so much as glancing at Mary, whose first impulse was to turn back in disgust. But she had steeled herself by the time they knocked on his door. She wondered if he would even remember her.

A little man, hair and beard grizzled, stooped with age or sorrow, came to the door, glanced up at Mary, stood gaping--and when Lazarus pronounced her name, fainted dead away.

Martha, who was at his side, caught him as he began to slip, and Lazarus rushed forward to help her lay him on the ground. He called for a servant, who came running out, saw his master lying there, dithered for a moment, and, at Martha's order, went back in for water.

"He has not been well for quite some time, poor man," said Lazarus, as Martha began mopping his brow with a damp cloth. "Ever since, years and years ago, his wife died in a fire in his old house. Do you remember it? The house, I mean. You used to know Ruth, did you not? I seem to recall your going there to listen to her tell stories. Come to think of it, was it not--? Yes, the fire happened on the very night you disappeared." He looked up and said in a bantering voice. "You did not have anything to do with it, did you?" Mary felt shock rush through her, but was saved from babbling an answer by Lazarus' continuing without pause, "Our two sorrows came in the same night; and he somehow felt there was a connection, as if he were somehow responsible for both. I suppose seeing you brought it all back to him."

Mary looked down at the sorry excuse for a man who had caused her so much anguish, and who felt "somehow responsible" for both tragedies. If he knew what else he was "somehow responsible" for! So this was what started it all! If he had come to her within the past ten years, she would have laughed him out of the house; she had no use for those without the slightest scintilla of attractiveness, however much money they might offer.

What could possibly have prompted her to flirt with such a nonentity? He must have appeared old to her even then; he was probably fifty now, and could easily pass for sixty. And to think that she was afraid of him that night! Afraid of that!

"You must be especially kind to him," said Lazarus. "The fact that we have you back will make his own loss that much greater."

Oh, I must, must I? she thought, and it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him just what the connection was between the two losses, and just how Zebediah was "somewhat responsible." The phrase rang in her mind like a cracked bell that would not stop. But if she told Lazarus, he would doubtless blame her, as soon as he heard that she was the infamous prostitute everyone in priestly circles knew about. No, nothing would be accomplished by this pitiful satisfaction--and it would involve admitting that she had had dalliance with such a specimen. Not even the first time could excuse such ineptness.

He came to himself finally, apologizing with too much profusion. Lazarus told him what he had told Mary, and he seemed to regard it as either true or face-saving. After he had been sitting up for a while, he took her hand--it was all Mary could do not to snatch it back--and looked at her with a mixture of shyness and desire, as he said, "You will understand, I hope." Good God! thought Mary. He wants to take up where he left off!

She tried to put it aside as a mistake based on her loathing; but the longer he stayed with them, the more difficult became this construction. He insisted on accompanying them to Jerusalem when he heard that Jesus was there, and was patently filled with mixed emotions upon finding that Mary was a student of his. Mary could sense him looking at her as she walked along, and a glance or two--ostensibly at a tree or other landmark--in his direction confirmed it. She was careful never to look directly at him, and at pains to keep either Lazarus or Martha between them--which was not always easy. Once, when she could not bear it any longer, she looked directly into his eyes, and finally made him turn aside his gaze as his face flushed. She realized that this would not last long, but she felt she had made her point, and ignored him from then on. The whole situation was grotesque.

During the rest of the trip, Mary mused on how satisfying it would be to give him just the hint of an answering look, and to have him come slavering after her, and then indignantly spurn him as the tapeworm that he was. But her own shame at having allowed herself to be intimate with such an object--it would be more pleasant to play with pig's feces--held her back. Her whole life for the past fifteen years had been leading up to just such a moment; but when it came to it, it was so far beneath even her shabby dignity that she could not even consider it.

That the object of such monumental hatred should be so abysmally unworthy of it!

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