Sisterhood meeting tonight and I’m worried Becca won’t even come. We’ve all missed Sisterhood meetings here and there, but I don’t think anyone has ever deliberately stayed away because she was upset with someone else.
Of course, that’s probably because Becca wouldn’t let any of the rest of us stay away. She would insist the angry person talk to everyone until the feelings were handled and everyone was happy again. The problem is that Becca is the one who is gone. Who’s going to go and talk to her?
I’ve been spending a lot of time at The Pews and, when Lizabett can’t help me, Randy has been helping me learn the role of Mary. He reads me the words of Joseph so I can practice Mary’s responses.
We’re doing that now.
“I love only you,” I say as I lean into Randy. Well, I try to lean into him. That’s what the script tells me to do, but the pillow I have tucked into my jacket makes me want to tip off the table rather than lean into Randy.
We are sitting on an edge of the table in our room at The Pews. I figure if I’m going to practice, I should practice as the pregnant woman I’d be if I ever had a chance to do the role in the play.
“I trust you,” Randy says as he takes hold of my arm to steady me. He’s reading from the same script that I am. “We won’t be long now.”
Randy bends down and gives me a kiss on the forehead. That’s in the script, by the way.
We let a minute pass. I’m wondering if Mary was content with that forehead kiss. I’m thinking a real one would be nicer. Like the one Randy gave me the night he drove me home.
Instead, Mary has words to say. “Do you think there’ll be work where we’re going?”
“God will provide,” Randy says as he puts his arm around me.
I have a denim jacket on so I’m a little warm when Randy puts his arm around me.
“I hope they have tomatoes there,” I read from the script. “There’s always work when there’s tomatoes.”
I look away from the script and up at Randy. “I hope no one thinks Mary is going to go picking tomatoes. I don’t care what year this play is supposed to take place in.”
The play has prompted me to do a lot of thinking about Mary, but it is, I think, an unusual kind of thinking.
“I guess that’s creative license for you,” Randy says. “I can’t imagine Joseph would let Mary do something like that, though. A man should take care of his wife. If he has one, that is.”
Randy clears his throat.
“Most women do some kind of work these days,” I say as I look up into his eyes. Definitely slate-blue cool, but I keep going. “Maybe not picking tomatoes, but something.”
Please have the right answer, I think.
Randy is looking back at me. “I know. That’s the way it is.” His voice gets a little funny and he smiles. “But my wife wouldn’t need to work. I’ll even have a maid to take care of the house. My wife will have time for whatever she wants to do.”
“Like going to the spa and shopping,” I say, looking back down at the script.
“Yeah, things like that,” Randy says. “Fun stuff.”
I notice he keeps his arm around me.
We keep going on with the script, but my mind stays back there with those tomatoes. It’s not that I want to work like a farmworker every day of my life. But I do want to be able to take care of myself if I need to do so. Some women might want to make a career out of leisure, but I’m not one of them.
Besides, in my observation, a man whose wife does nothing productive expects her to impress people for him. Maybe that’s her job: she’s supposed to look like she’s so rich she never needs to lift a finger and he’s so rich he can afford to support her in that style.
I’m not interested in being a princess all of my life. My mother has cured me of that, if nothing else.
I can’t help but wonder if Joseph treated Mary like a princess, though. He knew she was special, and not just special to him but to the whole world. If anyone deserved
Of course, that’s probably because Becca wouldn’t let any of the rest of us stay away. She would insist the angry person talk to everyone until the feelings were handled and everyone was happy again. The problem is that Becca is the one who is gone. Who’s going to go and talk to her?
I’ve been spending a lot of time at The Pews and, when Lizabett can’t help me, Randy has been helping me learn the role of Mary. He reads me the words of Joseph so I can practice Mary’s responses.
We’re doing that now.
“I love only you,” I say as I lean into Randy. Well, I try to lean into him. That’s what the script tells me to do, but the pillow I have tucked into my jacket makes me want to tip off the table rather than lean into Randy.
We are sitting on an edge of the table in our room at The Pews. I figure if I’m going to practice, I should practice as the pregnant woman I’d be if I ever had a chance to do the role in the play.
“I trust you,” Randy says as he takes hold of my arm to steady me. He’s reading from the same script that I am. “We won’t be long now.”
Randy bends down and gives me a kiss on the forehead. That’s in the script, by the way.
We let a minute pass. I’m wondering if Mary was content with that forehead kiss. I’m thinking a real one would be nicer. Like the one Randy gave me the night he drove me home.
Instead, Mary has words to say. “Do you think there’ll be work where we’re going?”
“God will provide,” Randy says as he puts his arm around me.
I have a denim jacket on so I’m a little warm when Randy puts his arm around me.
“I hope they have tomatoes there,” I read from the script. “There’s always work when there’s tomatoes.”
I look away from the script and up at Randy. “I hope no one thinks Mary is going to go picking tomatoes. I don’t care what year this play is supposed to take place in.”
The play has prompted me to do a lot of thinking about Mary, but it is, I think, an unusual kind of thinking.
“I guess that’s creative license for you,” Randy says. “I can’t imagine Joseph would let Mary do something like that, though. A man should take care of his wife. If he has one, that is.”
Randy clears his throat.
“Most women do some kind of work these days,” I say as I look up into his eyes. Definitely slate-blue cool, but I keep going. “Maybe not picking tomatoes, but something.”
Please have the right answer, I think.
Randy is looking back at me. “I know. That’s the way it is.” His voice gets a little funny and he smiles. “But my wife wouldn’t need to work. I’ll even have a maid to take care of the house. My wife will have time for whatever she wants to do.”
“Like going to the spa and shopping,” I say, looking back down at the script.
“Yeah, things like that,” Randy says. “Fun stuff.”
I notice he keeps his arm around me.
We keep going on with the script, but my mind stays back there with those tomatoes. It’s not that I want to work like a farmworker every day of my life. But I do want to be able to take care of myself if I need to do so. Some women might want to make a career out of leisure, but I’m not one of them.
Besides, in my observation, a man whose wife does nothing productive expects her to impress people for him. Maybe that’s her job: she’s supposed to look like she’s so rich she never needs to lift a finger and he’s so rich he can afford to support her in that style.
I’m not interested in being a princess all of my life. My mother has cured me of that, if nothing else.
I can’t help but wonder if Joseph treated Mary like a princess, though. He knew she was special, and not just special to him but to the whole world. If anyone deserved
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