“Why did you slap me?” Zilpah asked.
“Because even to think of murder is wicked. An offense to God!”
“If a man beats another man, then it’s honorable for the beaten man to get his friends together and kill the man who humiliated him. But if a man beats a woman, it’s wicked for her to take the vengeance that is within her reach?”
“Poison is vile and sneaky, and it’s done cold, not in the heat of anger.”
“Oh, if a man ever beat me like Chadek beats Tamaleh, I’d keep my anger hot enough.”
“And how would you keep from poisoning the whole camp?”
“I wouldn’t,” said Zilpah. “I’d make sure to eat a little of it myself, enough to get very sick.”
Her mother looked at her in horror. “Have you thought so much about it? What kind of monster have I raised?”
“God made women smaller than men, so we can’t fight them as equals. We can’t divorce them and send them away; we can’t even leave them, because where would a runaway woman go, except to be a prostitute or a priestess? But we’re just as much alive as any man. We have our honor, too.”
“The honor of a woman comes from the love and respect of her husband.”
“Exactly,” said Zilpah. “Tamaleh gets none from her husband, so he deserves none from her.” She did not add, What love and respect do you get from yours?
Oh, Zilpah was sure she knew all about men, despite her mother’s assurance that she had “no idea of what goes on between a woman and a man, and I mean to keep it that way until you’re married.”
Except this Jacob. He did not seem to be a brutal, bragging man, though he was obviously strong and tall. The kind of man who didn’t have to fight because few would dare to fight him; the kind who didn’t love to fight, and so if he was left alone, he left others alone as well. That much could be told from the way he talked to Reuel, a mere steward—so simply and quietly, explaining how he came from his mother’s house after being blessed by his father with the birthright blessing.
“It was bound to provoke Esau,” said Jacob. “Better not to stay where he might look for vengeance.”
“But if you don’t stay there,” said Reuel, “won’t your father’s men follow Esau, taking all your father’s flocks and herds, the moment the great Isaac dies?—may God delay the day.”
“If God wants me to have flocks and herds, and men also,” said Jacob, “then I’ll have them.”
Reuel nodded wisely, but Zilpah knew enough about the man to guess that he was thinking that this Jacob was insane.
“The birthright that I have is the one that matters,” said Jacob. “Tell Laban that I have the holy books.”
Reuel nodded wisely. Clearly he had no idea what Jacob was talking about.
“Tell Laban that I inherit the blessings of Abraham and Isaac.”
Reuel finally had to admit his ignorance. “And which of their blessings might these be?” Zilpah could almost hear what he must be thinking: It’s certain that these “blessings” don’t include flocks, herds, lands, servants, tents, or worldly goods of any kind.
Jacob smiled slightly. “I’m glad that Laban has kept such matters sacred. It means he treasures them as I do.”
Zilpah almost laughed—Jacob understood that Reuel was being haughty with him, even though it was hidden behind a mask of courtesy; and so Jacob answered with a reminder that the things that really matter would be between Jacob and Laban, and need not be justified to a servant, however lofty Reuel’s role in the camp might be.
I must make this man notice me, she thought.
Though it had never been part of her plan, she washed higher on Jacob’s leg. At once he turned his body so his legs withdrew from her reach, as he bent to her, smiled kindly, and said, “You’ve done well to wash my feet so thoroughly. I was truly filthy. But another minute and I’ll have no skin left on my bones, and that’s cleaner than I want to be!”
She had gone too far, reached too high, but instead of rebuking her—which, in most camps, would have led to a beating later, at the steward’s order—he merely put an end to her service by thanking her, so now she had to go away. If only I hadn’t overreached!
When she carried the basin out of the tent and poured it out over the beans in the garden, she had several older women following after her. “What did he say?” “What is he like?” “Is he here for one of the daughters?”
“He’s a kind and gracious man,” said Zilpah, “worthy of all honor.”
They groaned at the correctness—and emptiness—of her reply.
Old Hobbler chuckled nastily. “Did you show him your breasts?”
Zilpah smiled faintly. “A man like that doesn’t care about such things.”
One of the others laughed. “He would if they were bigger! Little figs like yours aren’t worth searching out.”
Zilpah smiled and pretended to think this was amusing. Life would become altogether intolerable if these old biddies thought they had cause to dislike her, so she did not answer by comparing their sagging old dugs with her own bosom, which might not be as big, but attracted the gaze of a lot more men.
“Is he here for Rachel or Leah?” asked an old woman.
“He came for me,” said Zilpah saucily, but with a flip of her head that made it clear that she was joking. They laughed, of course. What could be funnier than a fatherless girl thinking she would be courted by the son of Isaac?
But she wasn’t joking. Without consciously deciding it, she knew that she would only consider her life happy if she left Laban’s household when Jacob did, as his wife or concubine, with his child in her belly or her arms. This is the man that Mother has been saving me for, even if she doesn’t know it. Even if she would beat me for daring to suggest it. Why should one of Laban’s miserably selfish arrogant daughters get this man as her own? God brought him here for the woman who needed him to save her from a life of slavery and other degradations.
Her mother would tell her—while thrashing her with a stick—that there was no way that a decent girl could get in the bed of a man like that, or an indecent girl either, and she was insane to even imagine it.
And then, when the thrashing was over, her mother would tell her she was crazy to want to. “He’s not the one with the flocks and herds, the servants and the mighty men of war! He’ll be poor, a man who fled out of fear of his brother’s wrath! He’ll be lucky to afford one wife, he’ll be taking no concubines!” Her mother would not say, though Zilpah would hear, the final condemnation: He’s too poor to take you on as a slave, and too respectable to link himself with someone so lowborn.
But Zilpah was not insane. She knew perfectly well how improbable it would be for her to end up in this man’s tent, and as for his prospects, she knew as she washed his legs that this was not a man who would remain poor. He did not act toward Laban as a supplicant would act. He knew he was a prince, and had a prince’s birthright. How could he fail? Weaker men looked for chances to bow to a man like that—or tried to destroy him. There would be no life of obscurity or poverty for Jacob son of Isaac. He would have great possessions to pass on to his sons. And she would be the mother of at least one of them, or die trying.
Her mother’s only child had no father, but her children would be princes, and there’d be many of them, if she had her way.
CHAPTER 6
Still, wishes were only dreams if she didn’t think of something to do to catch his eye. The trick with the loosened neck of her gown had done nothing. Nor had her awkward attempt at washing more of his legs than a traveler might decently expect.
What was left? She knew she was pretty, but he hadn’t cared about that so far. What else could she show him? How hard she worked? How graceful she was? How much smarter she was than the stupid ordinary girls of this camp?
How could he ever even hear her speak, unless she also showed herself to be outrageously rude and unmaidenly by speaking to him unbidden?
Well, whatever he ended up noticing about her, it couldn�
�t happen if she wasn’t in front of his face. So she headed for Reuel, who was making the arrangements for the feast in Jacob’s honor.
“Let me serve at dinner,” she said.
He looked at her coldly; then his expression softened. “It was generous of you to offer what you offered him today in the tent. I know of no other man who would have refused you. Did your mother tell you to honor your master by giving yourself to the greatest guest his tents have ever known?”
Giving herself? Was that what Reuel assumed was going on? She wanted to rebuke him coldly—I’ll be married to the man who has me first. But then she realized that to his eyes, maybe her self-display, her aggressive washing, they might have looked like a more generous offer than she intended. And since he thought it was done as a generous sacrifice for her master’s sake, he might feel that he owed her a favor.
“My mother did not suggest such a thing,” she said quietly. “But I saw how my master wanted to please his guest. My mother would probably beat me if she knew.”
Reuel nodded. “Well, you were wise to make the offer where only he and I could see. Other men in this camp might have thought your offer was more … general. I make no such mistake.”
Which made her see the steward in a new light. He was one of the men who pretended that he didn’t look at her body, and she had put him in his place once with a cold glare. He might have held it against her, might have taunted her. Instead he respected her. Good.
“If I can’t serve my master another way, might I carry in and carry away?”
“Not in that dress, you can’t.”
“I have no better.”
“There are better gowns in camp. Let’s see if we can get you looking more like the kind of girl who serves food than the kind that washes feet.” He strode away from her. She started to follow him, but in moments he was back with Derkah, the old woman who had once attended to Laban’s wife. “Make her look worthy to serve a prince,” said Reuel. He walked away.
Derkah looked down her nose at Zilpah. “What kind of favors have you been doing for that man, that he offers you such an honor as this? There are girls far better born than you who are being passed over.”
“Every girl and every woman in this camp and half the dogs are better born than me,” said Zilpah defiantly. “But the only favor I have done for my master’s steward is to give him my obedience, my respect, and my earnest labor, like every other good servant in this household.”
Derkah smiled, but there was still something hard in her eyes. “You’re a good listener. You’ve got the elegant speech down—something your mother never mastered.”
Zilpah curbed her resentment of the slur against her mother and smiled. “Thank you for helping me to do honor to our master’s guest tonight.”
“The effect must be one of chastity,” said Derkah. “And cleanliness.”
“I could bathe.”
“There’s no time for that. But your face could use a washing. And I’ll get a girl to work on your hair while I choose your clothing. You’re young, we want your hair to swing free but stay out of your face and out of the food. We’ll braid here and here and bind the braids behind.”
It all went very quickly then—hands working on her hair doing things her mother had never done, and so firmly and deftly. And the dress was a beautiful one; she wondered why no one had ever worn it before. But of course it would have been stored up against such an occasion as this—the arrival of the greatest guest these tents had known.
When she pulled it on, though, the fit was wrong—the neckline was low enough to shock even Zilpah. She would never be able to raise her arms while wearing this. Whomever the dress had been made for, she must have been older, with a bosom that had already settled into a much lower position on her chest.
But Derkah didn’t seem to notice the problem. “Very nice,” she said. “Yes, yes, he chose well, having you serve. Can you manage to bring in all the food and carry it away without spilling?”
“I never spill,” said Zilpah. “I never trip. I’m surefooted and my grip is strong.”
“Well, make sure you kneel to serve. If you bend over in that dress somebody might try to take two melons from the top of the bowl and put them on his own plate.”
Zilpah blushed. Derkah did know how revealing the dress was. So much for an air of chastity! All these years of trying to conceal from other women how she teased the men, and it turned out that when they dressed her up to make the best possible impression, they openly used her body the way she had used it on the sly!
Or were they, perhaps, using this gown to repeat the same offer Reuel had thought she was making earlier in the day?
No matter. They were giving her the best chance of any girl in the camp to catch this man’s eye.
And despite her confidence, she practiced kneeling and rising from her knees several times, holding heavy objects as she did, to make sure she knew how to balance in the gown and not trip over the hem or bow too low. It took great strength to keep her back vertical as she sank to her knees, and a great deal of balance to keep from falling over backward as she rose again to her feet.
While she had been footwashing and plotting and getting dressed, apparently Reuel had been able to get word to the village of Haran, for the dinner included four of the great men of the town—though Haran was just a village, and not a city. Also, Laban’s older sons, Nahor and Terah, had arrived home without even the time to change clothes—and that was unfortunate, because Terah had apparently spilled something down the front of his tunic. Clearly he resented being put on display before this guest in something other than his best clothes. Whatever quarrel there had been over it, though, Zilpah would have to find out later—there had been nothing of it in the tent where she was being dressed.
As the chief cook put the first bowl into her hands, Zilpah said, “This is not enough for all the men at dinner.”
She looked at Zilpah like she was crazy. “Ignorant girl, do you think you’re wearing that dress in order to serve villagers and those rowdy boys? You will serve only the master and his great and honored guest. You kneel between them, and offer it first to the master. He will make a great show of directing you to serve Jacob first, which you will do. Then you offer it to the master again, and when they’ve taken what they want from the bowl, you bring it back to me and don’t you dare offer it to anyone else on the way in or out, even if there’s plenty left. Do you understand? One of those boys is perfectly capable of trying to trick you into humiliating their father by serving them from the same bowl as the honored guest, but don’t you do it, or I’ll stripe your back for you!”
Why hadn’t Reuel mentioned that? Did he think that Zilpah already knew it? Or was he hoping that she’d make some gross mistake and get a beating?
But she drove her annoyance out of her mind. Grace, chastity, beauty, modest manners, and just under half of her bosom—that was what she was to show tonight, not pique at the foolishness of people who don’t tell you all that you must know to do your job properly.
From the first bowl she carried in, the dinner went perfectly—or at least her part of it. She sank straight down to her knees with each bowl and platter, offered it to each man as she was instructed, and held it firmly and steadily. When they jabbed with a knife to pierce some choice piece of meat, she offered just enough upward resistance that it was as smooth as if the platter were resting on a table. When they ladled soup from a bowl, she followed under the ladle just far enough to keep anything from dripping onto the carpet or their clothes—but never so far as to bump into their bowl.
She behaved with perfect modesty, and when—as predicted—Nahor called out for her to bring the plate of cheese to him, she did not so much as hesitate in her path. It was as if he had not spoken. Though she was not so intent on her task as not to notice the way Laban glowered at his son’s rudeness.
By halfway through the meal she was so sure of her perfection that she allowed herself to listen to their conversation. At first it ha
d all been about their mutual ancestors and reports of Rebekah’s and Isaac’s health, so it’s not as if Zilpah much cared what they were saying anyway. Later, though, as they grew more sated and the winebibbers from the village of Haran—not to mention the winebibbing Nahor and his wine-spilling brother Terah—began to doze in their places, the master began the serious conversation.
“To journey all this way, surely you will live with me now as my brother. All that I have is yours!”
This of course was merely courtesy, Zilpah knew, but it was wonderful how sincere Laban sounded as he said it.
“And I am ashamed to have brought no gift better than my service among your flocks and herds.”
“Does a beggar ask a prince to hold his cup?” said Laban. “It is I who should serve you.”
And so on and so on. But when it came down to it, Laban insisted that Jacob would only serve him so as to teach him and his men the herding lore of Isaac’s house, so that he was bestowing a great favor on Laban’s house. While Jacob insisted that he was here only to learn from Laban’s mastery of the husbandry of beasts, so he could one day bring this wisdom back to his father’s house.
Then there were the compliments about the meal—Jacob insisting that such a feast had never been seen at his father’s house, and Laban insisting just as firmly that he was sure that this feast would seem inconsequential.
“But my dear brother Laban,” said Jacob, “I can never learn from you properly if you put on feasts like this for me every night! I must eat a shepherd’s simple fare, or I’ll become so languid that a pregnant ewe could outrun me.”
Laban laughed at that, and then went into a fit of choking and hiccupping that was funny at first but quickly became alarming.
Laban’s face turned red. Zilpah was frightened. Should she set down her bowl and run for help? Or was Reuel watching from the tent door? Would he rush in and …
Yes, the steward rushed in, but before he could get to his master, Jacob had reached over, seized Laban by the shoulder with his left hand, and drove his right palm forcefully into the older man’s stomach.
Rachel and Leah (Women of Genesis) Page 7