Chapter Twenty-Eight

Verse One

Like the others swarming the streets, Leah’s mother was so excited about the Lazarus miracle that she forgot the trip to Jerusalem and could hardly focus on anything at all. At the same time, I detected an air of apprehension when I told her of my intent to return to her daughter.

“You’re leaving now?” she asked. “Look at this, Thomas!” She swept her arm before her. “These people and what Jesus has done. It is so much, Thomas. So much here with us and Jesus. Everywhere. All the people. So much!”

She was incoherent. I thought that she had encouraged me to go to Leah, but maybe she’d decided that she needed me to stay and care for her instead. I took her hands and looked into her wide eyes. “Do you wish to come with me?” I said. “I know that Leah must miss you.”

She shifted her feet, almost like a dance. “Leah will be so happy to see you, Thomas. I’m happy, too. We love Leah, right?” She pulled her hands away and wiped them on her robe. “Do you want to marry her? You will be happy the rest of your lives. Yes, you will be. Happy. We need to be happy.” She trembled. One foot kicked at the dirt.

Her babbling confused me. I thought she’d be delighted. “If you go with me, I can bring you back soon. Maybe Leah will come with us, and we can all continue with Jesus.”

Before, she had been trying hard to smile, but now her face fell. “What will happen, Thomas? Something is building here, like when you hear rumbling far away, and then the clouds move over the treetops and the wind bends the tree limbs and birds fly low. And you want the rain to come, but you also fear your home may be destroyed in the storm. Can you hear the rumblings, Thomas?”

“It’s no storm,” I said.

“There has to be, Thomas. It has to sweep me away.” She pulled at her hair, then covered and uncovered her mouth with her fists. “I love my Leah, Thomas, but I cannot leave. Until now, I’ve known only Nazareth. I am an old woman. A person needs more.” She took my hands. “Go to Leah then.”

I nodded and left her with her rumblings.

Verse Two

The walk with James back to Nazareth was uneventful but tiring. We circumvented Samaria and followed the Jordan for most of the journey. We walked upstream, against the current not only of the water but also the stream of people on their way to Jerusalem for Passover. Probably because so many Roman soldiers were already in Jerusalem to keep order during Passover, we saw only two groups—a centuria on its way to Jerusalem, and a small detachment languishing by the Jordan River, as if they were relaxing in their own yards.

I wondered why the Romans bothered to keep an eye on the fishermen. Perhaps they were suspicious of anyone who had a somewhat steady income. The men casting their nets from the boats, unlike the masons, coppersmiths, weavers, and others in the towns, could at least make a meager living hardly worse than their fathers and grandfathers had. They were away from home so much that tallying up their family members was no easy assignment for the toll collectors, who otherwise made off with nearly half a worker’s income. Maybe the Romans believed that the fishermen sold enough fish and avoided enough taxes to fund the rebels, which was absurd, since any peasant Jew who could actually feed his family just wanted to be left alone.

About halfway home, I was struck with worry about how the residents of Jerusalem would regard my brother’s followers. The Judeans were far more concerned with social boundaries than were Galileans, and no Judeans more than those in Jerusalem. The proximity of the Temple gave them unhealthy notions of purity and contamination.

From my boyhood visit, I remember how the Jerusalem residents snorted at all outsiders, especially Galileans, whom they considered low-class Jews, maybe even worse than the Gentile merchants. Mother, who hadn’t cared, ignored most of what took place around us, but Joseph was incensed by the derisive comments. “So much trash,” they’d say. “Romans and Galileans—how will we ever cleanse this city?”

I am just now reminded of the incident in which Jesus stumbled on the way to the Temple and fell against a woman. She did not lose her footing, did not drop anything, nor even grunt in pain. Her husband shoved Jesus and said, “Get away, you filthy Galilean swine!” I jumped between Jesus and the couple, but the man turned his face toward the Temple as if I were inconsequential. Joseph huddled all of us children together and said nothing to the man, although Joseph’s face was red and his lips moved, whether in a curse or a prayer―I did not know.

I hoped that Jesus remembered these class prejudices. If Jesus was anything, he was accepting of everyone, regardless of status. Of course, most of his followers were destitute, but a few had means. One woman―I seem to recall her name as Johanna―was the wife of Herod’s steward. She left her stuffed bed and meals of peppered calf to sleep on the ground and share stale bread.

And Matthew was a toll collector. When that information made its way through the ranks, some wanted to run him off, but Jesus gave a couple of short sermons on the difference between social and spiritual equality and on love without exception. He said that when rivers meet at the sea, they give up their names, forget their sources, and mingle as one. For several days, he had Johanna and Matthew sit by him and share his cup, an act that, for others of their rank, was almost as defiling as kissing an Ethiopian.

My arhat teacher in India later told me that the Buddha broke from Indian tradition by rejecting its strict social classes. The Buddha was born into the Kshatrya class of rulers, traditionally just below the Brahmin class of priests, who had respect and spiritual authority but no wealth and little political sway.

Below them both were the landowners and, at the bottom, the shudras or peasants. Unlike my peasant father (despite Joseph’s estimation of himself as being above Galileans), the Buddha’s father was a powerful Kshatrya warrior-prince who provided his son a life of opulence, and the son renounced a birthright never imagined by Jesus and me. Maybe by giving up so much, the Buddha committed a more impressive act of dedication and humility than did Jesus. Then again, the Buddha had no fear of Roman soldiers hauling him away without notice or charge, and he died in his old age.

In any case, the Buddha wandered about India living by the generosity of others who themselves could spare little. He welcomed all who would listen. He was hated by those whose notion of supreme fulfillment was nothing more than avoiding contamination from unclean commoners. I have come to think that the most important of the qualities that the Buddha and my brother had in common was that they were not afraid to get dirty.

In Jerusalem, though, mixing the classes, administering to lepers, and welcoming outcasts would be considered abominable crossbreeding and nothing less than the ultimate insult to traditionalists. Passover was a sensitive week in Jerusalem. In the spirit of collaboration, the Temple police were eager to point out to the Romans any possible insurgents.

Yet the Sanhedrin, the aristocratic political body that ran the court and Temple, was surprisingly tolerant of critics who lined the streets to loudly condemn its leadership. Perhaps Jesus would have been treated as one of these lesser annoyances had he not marched into the city with his mongrel pack, virtually daring the authorities to make a move.

“I imagine it more dangerous each time I think of it,” I said to James as we walked along. “I don’t know what sign he thinks will emerge there, but I just hope the crowds block any view Pilate may have of him.”

“Pilate is too busy trying to root out the Zealots,” said James. “Why would he care about a group of beggars whose idea of rebellion is to sit and listen to their leader preach?” James was in a much better mood than I. He’d cleansed his mind of regret, if he actually had any, and spoke cheerfully and often of his wife and child.

“Judas, now, is another matter,” he went on. “I was relieved when he left for the city on his own. This scheme of freeing his friend, who must already be a known criminal if he’s been missing only a few days and his comrades immediately suspect he’s been arrested, surely will not end well. Better that the authorities not associate him with Jesus when the trouble happens. I’d bet Judas himself has already been arrested. If Peter is in the cell with him, Jesus is even better off.” James gave my shoulder a playful shove. “Forget all that, Brother! We’ll soon be home, and in a few days you’ll be married!”

This did perk me up. A year earlier, James would not have joked with me like that. I suspect that he actually did believe I would marry Leah. Marriages in Nazareth were often simple and speedy affairs. One day a boy is driving an oxcart when he sees a girl glance his way. The next day they’re stacking rocks for a house as husband and wife. Only I hadn’t thought even that much ahead.

Verse Three

We arrived in Nazareth on the fourth day of our travels and were greeted by an excited Joses as we entered town. It was as if he expected us.

“Where’s Jesus? Has something happened? Did you go to Jerusalem? How long will you stay?”

“How are Varda and Ezra?” James asked.

“They’re fine, and Simon, Deborah, Sharon—everyone’s fine,” said Joses. “They’ll be elated to see you. Is Jesus safe? Why are you back?”

“He’s fine,” I said. “He’s probably in Jerusalem now. James and I were just homesick. How is Mother?”

Joses looked puzzled. “Probably in Jerusalem? You mean you don’t know where he is?”

“He was on the way there when we left,” I said. “He’s probably at the Temple making a sacrifice in your name. Nothing is wrong. Now, how’s Mother?”

“Mother is Mother. She draws in the dirt. She eats her olives in threes. You know how she is.”

Verse Four

Joses ran ahead to fetch Deborah and Sharon. They appeared just as we arrived at the house where Varda and Ezra, James’ wife and son, and Simon greeted us at the door. Mother edged past the others and embraced me, then James. She stretched her neck to see past me.

“Where’s Jesus?” she asked.

“He’s in Jerusalem,” I said.

Mother yelped and fell at my feet. “You left him? Thomas, you left him!” She pushed her face into my knees and bounced her tiny fists upon my thighs. I tried to take her hands, but she hid them in her bent stomach and wailed, “My Jesus! I’ve lost my Jesus, my son!”

Neighbors burst from their homes and assumed that Jesus was dead. They gathered around Mother and wailed along with her. I tried to explain the mistake, but this was women’s business, so I was as irrelevant as a shadow.

Joses and Simon lifted and carried Mother’s limp form inside. The others crammed inside the house as more neighbors came by to share in the grief. One old woman stood in the doorway to inform newcomers of the tragedy. When I tried to speak, Mother held her palm to my face and said, “Ank!” as one might warn a dog away from one’s food.

I tried to appear unhurt. I had expected her to be disappointed that Jesus was not here, but couldn’t she rejoice just a little at seeing me?

James touched my shoulder, frowned, and shrugged to show a bit of sympathy. He then knelt and wrestled with his giggling son.

I knew the truth would surface eventually, and then the women could commiserate with Mother over betraying my vow to her to protect Jesus, which was the equivalent of swapping the loss of one son for another. Mother would get over it and forgive me by the next day, perhaps even agreeing that my brother and I had to be our own men. For the moment, though, I needed to be out of sight.

I left for Leah’s house.

Verse Five

Nazarenes hailed me as I passed. Most weren’t sure whether they were greeting Jesus or Thomas, and those who chanced a name invariably were wrong. I’ve always been the one in the habit of wandering about town alone, so I thought they would call my name when I passed by. I didn’t care much that Jesus was the one whose return they preferred, but I didn’t need to see them so readily pause from their mundane tasks when they said, “Hello, Jesus!” only to turn back to their chores when they heard my reply, “No, I’m Thomas.” A more accurate response would have been, “No, I’m the twin.”

As a young man, I wished to decipher the shadowy forms that stretch through the chambers of the human heart, but the more I tried, the more quickly they seemed to fade. I did not even know what my people thought of Jesus. They must have felt some pride knowing that he had raised a following and was attempting to stir up a social transformation for their benefit.

I considered making a speech in the middle of the village, in front of Menachem’s house, where the old men meet when they think they have an important matter to address. I could tell them that a new day was on the way—that Jesus, the very Jesus they had watched grow up in these streets, was readying a new empire for us, one in which our people would be united as the body of the Lord, and that their lives of hoeing in depleted fields and despairing over lost sons would soon be over.

I knew, though, that they would laugh at the last part, and that Jesus had never made any such promise anyway. What did they truly want? Given the choice, would they bother to take the empire of the Lord if it put no more bread on their tables? What are the longings of the spirit compared to the aches of the gut? After these many years of peering ever more deeply into the heart, I wish I could say that I had glimpsed the fleeting objects casting the shadows.

Leah’s house looked abandoned. No shoots pointed up between the dry clods that once were the little garden patch. Weeds grew around the entrance. I pulled up a few handfuls. The uprooted weeds produced an onion scent that made me anxious. I stood before the door feeling as if an ember smoldered in my gut. Had Leah left Nazareth? Had she decided she did not love me and escaped town before having to welcome me on my return?

I softly rapped three times on the door. No sound came from within. Had her grandmother died, and Leah was sitting with arms around her knees, lonely and abandoned, not eating, too weak to come to the door? I pounded five or six times with my fist, scraping my knuckles on the weathered pine.

The door opened a thumb’s width, and an eye and a nose passed by the crack. I had time to take three deep breaths before the door opened and Leah filled the threshold.

Her hair was tied into a loose ball atop her head, and specks of flour dotted her arms and cheeks. She may have been thinner, but more marked a difference was how her eyes had sunken, which happened to every woman in Nazareth when she reached about age thirty. The men’s shoulders slope; the women’s eyes sink.

Something dripped through her fingers, and when I reached for her, she opened her hand to reveal a broken egg. I was about to speak when she put her arms around me and lay her face against my neck. She whispered, but I couldn’t tell what she said. She stepped back, her arms still wrapped around my shoulders, and we moved together inside.

We sat on the floor beside her table and kissed each other’s cheeks. Leah wiped her eyes, smearing egg across her face. I found a rag on the table and cleaned her up a bit. This seemed to make her cry more.

“How did she die?” Leah asked.

“Who?”

She put her face down into her hands and sobbed. Her shoulders rose and fell, and when I tried to steady her, she jerked her head up and pulled my face close to hers. “So, you left her.”

“Yes,” I said. “She wanted to go with Jesus and the others to Jerusalem.”

“When I saw you alone at the door, I was afraid to open it further. I just knew that my mother was dead, and that was why you were here—to tell me.”

“Your mother is fine.”

“You promised me you would care for her.”

“I did,” I said. “I was with her the entire way, but she’s a grown woman with her own—”

“My grandmother is dying,” said Leah. “She gave up all desire to live when my mother left. I keep telling her that her daughter would return, but she doesn’t listen. She just says, ‘Gone, gone,’ over and over.” Leah got up and washed her hands. She looked around the room as if measuring its emptiness. “Jerusalem. You let her go to Jerusalem alone.”

“Alone? No. She’s with five hundred people.” I stood. A lump of dough with a hole scooped into the top lay on the table.

Remembering now, it reminds me of the massive termite mound, a pile of dried mud nearly my height that I saw in India. My traveling companion was a sadhu, a holy man, on his way home from sacred mountains in the north. I cannot recall his name, but I remember that he carried a serpent in a pot fashioned from a gourd. He told me that the bears and some of the people eat termites.

(I asked about the bears—I didn’t know anything about these beasts, except that they were said to be ferocious, and I was afraid I might encounter one—and he said that they were not to be feared. If one comes upon a bear, he said, one should sit on the ground and sing softly. The bear will also sit. When the song is done, the bear will go on its way.)

The sadhu chopped at the termite mound with his walking staff until the top of the mound broke off. He reached in and withdrew a hand covered in small, white creatures. He thrust his hand toward me—to give me a better look, I thought at first, but in fact, he was offering me a meal. When I hesitated, he licked a bit from his hand, then offered again. I wondered for a moment if the Torah deemed termites clean, but I had long rejected most of its rules. I ate a few. They tasted like sweetened dirt—like a thousand years of wretched living. I spat out bits of dirt as the sadhu ate a few more hands of termites. I think he ate more dirt than insect.

In Nazareth, I looked at the dough as Leah broke another egg and poured it into the dent. She sprinkled flour over the top, then folded the edges up and over to make a wheel. She kneaded as if she wanted to destroy the dough, leaning her weight into her fists, folding again, pressing and pulling. The table shook and began to slide across the floor. I seized Leah’s wrists and raised her hands from the table. She held onto the dough, as if shielding herself behind it. Her grandmother called from behind the curtain, something like “shard” or “chart.”

“She’s dying,” Leah said. “Turn me loose.”

I did. Leah took a cup of water behind the curtain. She spoke in low, soft tones to the old woman. I pinched the dough a few times, as one does when trying to wake someone. Leah returned and stood before me, as if waiting for me to make an offer on the purchase of a goat.

“I can bring her back,” I said.

“My grandmother will be dead by then.”

“No, not your mother. Well, that too, but I can bring your grandmother back from the dead,” I said.

“Don’t mock me.”

“Jesus can do it. He can heal her.” It was as if I were listening to myself speak from the other side of the room, from another land. “He raised a man from the dead just days ago. I’ll bring him here.” A demon had possessed my tongue—a blind serpent writhing in my numb mouth.

Leah poured a few drops of oil onto the dough. “My grandmother is dying. I may never see my mother again. We have hardly any food, and no reason to think things will get better. And now you, the man I thought I might love, think me a fool and tell me lies about your brother.” She stopped kneading. “You’re his twin. If he can heal her, why can’t you?”

The demon stunned my tongue. It lay as thick and lifeless as the lump of dough I was staring at. If the dough baked itself before our eyes, would she be more likely to believe me?

“I am not my brother.”

“I’m not sure who you are. I don’t care about your brother. I don’t care about much of anything now.” Leah slapped the dough as if it had offended her. “Look around this village. Behind every door is a woman mourning for a husband or son killed by the Romans or dragged away to work for them or to be sold. Some watched their sons leave with head high and shoulders back to join a band of rebels, never to return. Now I’m one of those women, only it was my mother I lost.”

“Then I’ll get your mother. And I’ll get Jesus. Trust me. I will restore your house.”

She began to spread the dough into a broad disk, but her eyes, swollen and damp, never left me. I looked around to make sure that no knife was within her reach. After a moment of this silence, I decided that nothing more could be said. I turned back when I reached the door.

“What is your mother’s name?”

Leah dropped her head as if trying to peer into her breast, and I left.

My house was still filled with women neighbors, but by then they knew that Jesus was not dead. They were not, however, going to waste an opportunity to mourn, so they sat on the floor or paced about, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues. They probably considered it practice for when they had to return to mourn his death for real. My mother looked up from her bed and twisted her lip to let me know that she was no longer angry with me. Deborah brought some water for me to wash my feet and hands, and Sharon found some bread and porridge. I planned to leave for Jerusalem in the morning. Sleep took me before sundown.