Rebekah: Women of Genesis (28 page)

“The name Abimelech suggests that he’s a worshiper of Molech,” said Rebekah. “And if that’s the case, then he believes, at least in principle, that it’s a good thing to burn children alive to please his god.”

“What does
that
have to do with the size of kingdoms?”

“It means that in the eyes of the only true and living God, Abimelech is a petty king serving the most vile of false gods. While Uncle Abraham has the birthright of God, which lifts him above all kings of all lands.”

Keturah got a strange look on her face. “You don’t really believe he’s above all kings.”

“You’re his wife, and you
don’t?
”

“I just . . . no one ever said it quite that way. But now I think about it, I suppose it’s true. What an odd thought. That here in this camp, the shepherds take their instructions from . . . the king of the world.”

“Let’s just call him the steward of the kingdom of God.”

“Now you
are
joking, to call Abraham a steward! That’s making him like Eliezer!”

“To God,” said Rebekah, “Abraham
is
like Eliezer.”

“My husband is no servant,” said Keturah, getting a little upset.

“All human beings are either servants of God, or servants of his enemies,” said Rebekah. “So I think your husband would prefer you to think of him as the servant of God.”

“Now I know why Abraham won’t let women even look at the holy writings,” said Keturah, and she turned her face a little, putting an end to that line of conversation.

Which was fine with Rebekah, because Keturah’s last remark stabbed her to the heart, though Keturah could not have known that it would. Uncle Abraham wouldn’t let women so much as
see
the holy writings? Keturah must have misunderstood. Or maybe
she
had been forbidden to see them because she was so flighty that . . . no, there was no use in speculating. She would simply ask him. He couldn’t refuse her. She could
read,
after all. And if she was trustworthy enough to be wife to one heir of the birthright and mother of the next, surely she could be trusted to
look
at the writings that were part of the birthright.

Deborah rescued her from the stalled conversation with Keturah by coming to whisper to her about how one of the handmaidens was being very forward with some of Abraham’s shepherds. Keturah overheard and started to say, “Oh, let girls be girls,” but Rebekah was already on the way. Let girls be girls? Well, why not let lambs be lambs and wolves be wolves? What would happen to the flocks then? Deborah knew better than Keturah the consequences of letting young people go wherever their desires might lead them. The whole idea of caring for children was to keep them from doing stupid, dangerous, wicked things that could not be undone, until they learned enough self-control and good judgment that they could be expected to make their own decisions. Not one of these girls was at such a point—least of all the one who was flirting, since the very act of enticing a shepherd who had been alone in the hills for weeks or months was proof enough of idiocy.

Naturally, the flirt—Miriel, a girl who was certainly of marriageable age—was pouty and resentful when Rebekah called her away and warned her against giving some shepherd the wrong idea about her availability. But it was one of the other girls who, overhearing it all, made the obvious retort: “It’s easy for you,
you’re
married!”

“For a day,” said Rebekah. “And what kind of marriage do you think I would have had if I had been the kind of girl who went about flirting with shepherds?”

Miriel gave one sharp bark of a laugh.

“What was funny about that?” asked Rebekah, trying to keep anger out of her voice.

“You were never going to marry a shepherd,” said Miriel. “But that’s who we
are
going to marry. Like our mothers did.”

It was a telling point. Rebekah started to answer with some kind of explanation about how
these
shepherds weren’t looking for more than a momentary wife, when she heard Isaac’s voice from behind her. “You’re mistaken, girl,” he said. “That’s exactly what Rebekah
did
marry.”

Of course all the girls blushed and hid their faces and the sillier ones giggled, but Rebekah realized that of course he was right. She wished she had thought of saying it herself. Except that it was better coming from him; if she had said it, it might have sounded as though she were denigrating her own husband, who was, after all, heir to the birthright, and not just a shepherd at all.

When she pointed this out to him as they walked toward Abraham’s tent, Isaac only laughed. “Still a matter of shepherding. People don’t understand what it means to be a shepherd. You aren’t master of the sheep. They’re too stupid to have a master because they don’t understand obedience—only imitation of the other sheep, and fear of predators. No, a shepherd is
servant
of the sheep, protecting them, bringing them to food. And that’s what we are to all our people—weren’t you shepherding those girls? And with the holy writings, well, they have a life of their own, much greater and longer than my own life could possibly be, and I will only serve them for a time.”

“And part of that,” said Rebekah, “is keeping them from danger.”

“There are predators,” said Isaac. “Sometimes I wish no one knew about the birthright. There are those who think that if they could get their hands on the holy writings, it would make them prophets, like Father.”

“Has anyone tried to steal them?”

“Father is a great man, and people fear his wrath. It may be a different story when a weaker man has the birthright.”

It took Rebekah a moment to realize that Isaac meant himself. “You’re not weak,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“I was pleased to see how strong
you
are,” said Isaac, deflecting her reassurance. “There you were, speaking like a stern mother to a girl who has to be older than you.”

“Oh,” said Rebekah. “Well, yes, I am, but I . . .”

“But you have been mistress of your camp. Eliezer told me something of your life. To believe your mother was dead when she was not—I don’t know if I could ever . . .”

Forgive. She knew what word was next. She looked up, expecting to see anger. Instead, she saw that his eyes were full of tears.

“Isaac,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“Just . . . my mother,” said Isaac. “Thinking of my mother.” He brushed away a tear. “As I said . . . a weaker man.”

“I hope,” said Rebekah, “that someday I have sons who love me so much they would shed a tear for me a year after I died.”

“I have no doubt that you will be such a mother,” said Isaac.

“And you will be a father like Abraham,” said Rebekah.

But to that, Isaac said nothing, and she wondered why not.

Uncle Abraham’s tent stood in splendid isolation, on the top of a knoll, and there were men whose sole duty, apparently, was to keep people from approaching, for unlike the tents of most great patriarchs, there was no busy coming-and-going. Yet the work of a patriarch was to deal with the needs of his people; how could Abraham rule if he saw no one?

She understood, however, when she saw him, for he was older than any man she had ever seen. He sat in the door of his tent, on a low stool with a back to it, so he did not have to keep himself upright, and he seemed to be asleep, though his left hand trembled slightly even in slumber. His face was gaunt, hollow under the cheekbones, as if each year had eaten away a little at his cheeks until he had only a parchment’s thickness of skin hiding his teeth and jawbones from view. Indeed, his face seemed little more than a skull with skin and wisps of hair and beard reaching out in every direction as if they grew with no goal but to escape by whatever route they could find.

If Isaac had said, “Oh, look, Father seems to have died,” Rebekah would not have been surprised. But then, as they approached, the old man’s eyes fluttered open and he slowly turned his head to regard them. He moved no other part of his body and said nothing until at last they were standing before him.

“Sit down,” he said. “Don’t make me lift this old head.”

His voice was thin and reedy and full of air, like a whisper with only a hint of melody in it. It was hard to hear him.

They sat on a rug that had been laid out for visitors. There was a patch of bare earth between their rug and his, and for a moment Rebekah found herself reaching for a stick so she could write, as she had for so many years written every word she said to Father. But if Abraham was deaf, no one had mentioned it. She held the small stick she had picked up and played with it in her fingers, feeling a little foolish.

“She’s a beauty,” said Abraham.

Rebekah bowed her head.

“The Lord has been kind to me,” said Isaac.

“Couldn’t wait for me to perform the marriage,” said Abraham.

Isaac said nothing.

Abraham said nothing. Waiting for an answer?

Finally Rebekah spoke. “The Lord seemed to be acting in haste, and so we hurried,” she said. “I hope we did right.”

“
You
did what your husband said,” Abraham answered. “No one can fault
you.
”

Still Isaac said nothing.

“Talk to me, Isaac,” said Abraham. Then, to Rebekah, “He’s stubborn when he’s pouting.”

Was Abraham trying to tease Isaac out of his silence? If he was, it didn’t work. Rebekah did not look at Isaac, though, for that would seem a tacit admission that she, too, thought he needed to speak.

“What am I to call you?” asked Rebekah. “All my life I’ve spoken of you as Uncle Abraham.”

“Call me Grandfather,” said Abraham, “so your children will learn to call me that.”

Rebekah realized at once that this was the good choice, for no one else in camp would be bearing him grandchildren—it was a name for her alone to use, at least until she had children who could speak.

“Grandfather,” she said, “I hope you’ll pray that I conceive a son very quickly.”

“I pray for that every day,” said Abraham. “I don’t know how long I have to live, and I want my grandson close to me.” He coughed—a weak, empty cough that seemed to shake his whole body to produce only the slightest of sounds. “I don’t mind this nonsense of camping out at Lahai-roi for now, but when that first son is born, you two will come home.”

Finally Isaac spoke. “Thank you for the invitation, Father,” he said. “I’ll consider it.”

“Why do you defy me?” asked Abraham.

Isaac said nothing.

Abraham spoke to Rebekah. “I won’t have this boy growing up soft. Too close to his mother. Women can’t help it, they treat their boys as babies far too long, and it breaks their spirit. I indulged Sarah because she treasured Isaac, but at what cost to him?”

She could hardly believe he was criticizing Isaac this way in front of her. The tension between father and son was so thick that Rebekah felt as though she could hardly breathe. But then, as she thought about it, Isaac wasn’t the only target of Abraham’s soft, sharp words. How dare he assume that just because she’s a woman, she would be too indulgent with her son?

Maybe nobody else stood up to Abraham in this camp, but Rebekah had no intention of turning over her firstborn son to this old man to raise. “You aren’t suggesting that you intend to take our son away from us and raise him yourself?” asked Rebekah.

Abraham coughed again, then laughed dryly. “Oh, that would be sad, wouldn’t it. A baby raised by an old man who has to sit in the sun just to keep his body from getting as cold as death in the middle of the day.”

“We’ll do all things according to the will of the Lord,” said Isaac softly.

Abraham spoke to Rebekah instead of Isaac. “He sounds obedient, doesn’t he? But I know defiance when I hear it.” He turned to Isaac. “And I’ve done nothing to deserve that attitude from you, my son. Nothing but give you all that I have.”

Rebekah could not keep still. “He wasn’t defying you, Grandfather, he—”

“‘According to the will of the Lord,’ he said,” Abraham echoed. “Meaning that unless I’m prepared to say the Lord told me they must live with me, he’s not going to do it.”

“That’s not at all what he meant. That’s—”

“That’s exactly what I meant,” said Isaac.

The words hung in the air like the aftermath of a thunderclap.

Abraham finally broke the silence. “You see the dangers of interpreting for your husband.”

“She’s loyal,” said Isaac. “To her family. And to God.”

“Eliezer told me the story of her refusal of Ezbaal,” said Abraham. And he began to laugh. It sounded like reeds brushing against each other in a breeze.

Isaac also laughed, a deep, throaty sound that was rich with life.

There they were, laughing together, and Rebekah was baffled. Until this moment it had felt like a war between them—the last thing she had ever expected—and yet now they were laughing like old friends. What was going on between them?