tossed his shells into a puddle, where most sank but one floated—a boat big enough to save nothing.
“We are already so used to having a miracle with us that now she’s soaking wet and we don’t care to dry her off.”
Shame was a feeling that arrived all at once. The villagers had gotten away with everything so far. The stranger was like a communal pet and everyone figured she was lucky to have been adopted by us, to have the square, safe and clean, to live in. Now that our selfishness had been pointed out, we figured we did not deserve even one good thing on the earth.
So the village agreed to take another vote. Most of us did not want to turn our own house into the temple, even temporarily, even when the idea was floated that it must be a very godly thing to do. Where would we say the thing that was too private, too quiet a desire to bring even to the ears of God?
“I would do it,” the jeweler said, trying to sound as if he had only thought of this now. As if he had not racked his brain for a way to come home to the stranger each evening.
“Nah,” the old men agreed. “Too small. Too full of junk.” The jeweler bit his cheek.
“I could add a room,” he tried.
“It’s not really fair, anyway. What if you get closer to God than the rest of us? We don’t want any special privileges,” the banker said.
The jeweler was jittering. So taken had he been with the image he had sprung of the stranger in the low light of every evening for the rest of their lives, seated at the window with a book on her lap.
“What about the barn?” the butcher asked. “I’m sure the animals wouldn’t mind.”
“You’d choose the barn over my house?” the jeweler mumbled, his forehead turning red with shame.
The barn did not smell
like a house of God, it smelled like the house of goats—their buttery oil and their stamping hooves and interested mouths. The horses swished their tails and looked at us with eyes that seemed to be melting. The chickens tucked themselves into their nests or walked nervously around.
“Welcome to the holy temple,” we joked, kicking shit and hay. Our stranger dried off with some rags we had brought and sat down against the wall. “Thank you,” she said. “This is better.”
The jeweler got to work making the stranger’s bed and setting up a pile of carefully folded shirts from his own closet for her to wear. He thought ahead to the day he would come to switch them out—clean for dirty—only his plan was not to wash the ones she had worn, but to ball them up and sleep on them.
The rest of us took stock of the big room. At the far end, the animals had their quarters: shelves for the dozen chickens, a pen for two horses. The four goats walked freely around. Heavy-coated sheep were left outside, their oily wool beaded with rainwater. We smelled them when the wind shifted. Small windows, probably never washed, ringed the walls. Floorboards creaked with every step, and the high ceiling was festooned with ribbons of dust, like a celebration planned by ghosts and spiders. My first parents and I found reasons to silently brush up against each other, and when we did our skin felt lit up. I was still supposed to be a baby, and could not tell them about the family-shaped hole in my chest.
The greengrocer and the weaver moved the crumbling piano into the barn from the healer’s house, where it had sat since we had dragged it up from the river, its chest full of the other washed-up things. The piano smiled on. The weaver pinned the map of the summer sky to the wall above it. We had a temple. We were happy, in spite of the lack of ebony, of leather, of soaring arches.
Igor apologized for keeping our stranger out in the rain. My mother—Perl, I told myself to call her, the name she was given by her mother, the name she was called by everyone except her children, which I no longer was—apologized to the stranger for telling her we were glad not to have suffered as she had.
“I’m glad
“We are already so used to having a miracle with us that now she’s soaking wet and we don’t care to dry her off.”
Shame was a feeling that arrived all at once. The villagers had gotten away with everything so far. The stranger was like a communal pet and everyone figured she was lucky to have been adopted by us, to have the square, safe and clean, to live in. Now that our selfishness had been pointed out, we figured we did not deserve even one good thing on the earth.
So the village agreed to take another vote. Most of us did not want to turn our own house into the temple, even temporarily, even when the idea was floated that it must be a very godly thing to do. Where would we say the thing that was too private, too quiet a desire to bring even to the ears of God?
“I would do it,” the jeweler said, trying to sound as if he had only thought of this now. As if he had not racked his brain for a way to come home to the stranger each evening.
“Nah,” the old men agreed. “Too small. Too full of junk.” The jeweler bit his cheek.
“I could add a room,” he tried.
“It’s not really fair, anyway. What if you get closer to God than the rest of us? We don’t want any special privileges,” the banker said.
The jeweler was jittering. So taken had he been with the image he had sprung of the stranger in the low light of every evening for the rest of their lives, seated at the window with a book on her lap.
“What about the barn?” the butcher asked. “I’m sure the animals wouldn’t mind.”
“You’d choose the barn over my house?” the jeweler mumbled, his forehead turning red with shame.
The barn did not smell
like a house of God, it smelled like the house of goats—their buttery oil and their stamping hooves and interested mouths. The horses swished their tails and looked at us with eyes that seemed to be melting. The chickens tucked themselves into their nests or walked nervously around.
“Welcome to the holy temple,” we joked, kicking shit and hay. Our stranger dried off with some rags we had brought and sat down against the wall. “Thank you,” she said. “This is better.”
The jeweler got to work making the stranger’s bed and setting up a pile of carefully folded shirts from his own closet for her to wear. He thought ahead to the day he would come to switch them out—clean for dirty—only his plan was not to wash the ones she had worn, but to ball them up and sleep on them.
The rest of us took stock of the big room. At the far end, the animals had their quarters: shelves for the dozen chickens, a pen for two horses. The four goats walked freely around. Heavy-coated sheep were left outside, their oily wool beaded with rainwater. We smelled them when the wind shifted. Small windows, probably never washed, ringed the walls. Floorboards creaked with every step, and the high ceiling was festooned with ribbons of dust, like a celebration planned by ghosts and spiders. My first parents and I found reasons to silently brush up against each other, and when we did our skin felt lit up. I was still supposed to be a baby, and could not tell them about the family-shaped hole in my chest.
The greengrocer and the weaver moved the crumbling piano into the barn from the healer’s house, where it had sat since we had dragged it up from the river, its chest full of the other washed-up things. The piano smiled on. The weaver pinned the map of the summer sky to the wall above it. We had a temple. We were happy, in spite of the lack of ebony, of leather, of soaring arches.
Igor apologized for keeping our stranger out in the rain. My mother—Perl, I told myself to call her, the name she was given by her mother, the name she was called by everyone except her children, which I no longer was—apologized to the stranger for telling her we were glad not to have suffered as she had.
“I’m glad
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