“This is a scarab beetle,” Joseph said. “The Egyptians consider this beetle to be sacred or special. But why don’t we put it back into the garden so it can do what my God created it to do?”
Manasseh nodded, his face suddenly solemn. “I didn’t crush it, Abba. I did as you said and held it gently.”
“I know you did,” Joseph said, patting his back. “You did well.” He kissed the boy’s forehead and set him down to place the creature back into the garden.
Joseph watched him with an expression Asenath had not seen before. “Something is on your mind, my husband,” she said softly, while Manasseh crouched low to watch the insect and Ephraim nursed at the other breast.
Joseph faced her, his dark eyes open and sad. “He looks just like my little brother Benjamin. My only full blood brother. I cannot know what Benjamin looks like today, of course, but the last time I saw him, he was still a young child, barely more than an infant in arms. Manasseh has nearly all of the features that Benjamin had then. When I see our son, I also see my brother. Sometimes it is harder than at others.” He looked away, his gaze on Manasseh once more.
Asenath sat in silence beside him, struggling with how to respond. Joseph had rarely spoken of his family of origin. He’d been in Egypt, spoken in the Egyptian tongue, and looked Egyptian for so long that she sometimes forgot he was Hebrew. Did he miss the family that had betrayed him? That much he had told her. She thought Manasseh’s birth had caused him to forget them. Obviously not.
“Tell me about Benjamin and your mother and father,” she said at last, hoping the question would not cause him undue pain.
Joseph did not take his eyes off Manasseh, who now walked with Safiya to examine the lotus blossoms and the pool in the center, where he was not allowed to go without an adult by his side. Joseph’s silence lingered, but after a time he drew in a lengthy breath and released it. “My father and I were very close. My mother, Rachel, died with Benjamin’s birth, so he never knew her. I knew her well, and I’m afraid she probably spoiled me. Both my mother and father favored me above all of my brothers, even above Benjamin, for my father struggled with the grief of my mother’s loss.”
He swallowed and glanced at her. “I have not seen my father or Benjamin in seventeen years. And while I know God is with me and has helped me forget most of my family since He gave me you and our sons, there is always the reminder that part of me is missing, especially when I gaze on our firstborn. He does not bring me sadness, Asenath,” he said, looking at her with kindness. “He simply brings back the memories.”
“But those memories of your brother are good ones,” she said, hoping it was true.
Joseph nodded. “Yes. They are good ones. I only wish I could have known him and watched him grow up and taught him how to be a man of character, and taught him of our God.”
“Surely your father will do those things for him. It is what fathers do.” She lifted Ephraim to her shoulder and again patted his back in a slow, circular motion.
“My father will teach him of our God, but I do not know if he will teach him all he needs to know. And I do not know whether Benjamin will receive the teaching as I did. My brothers do not trust in Adonai as my grandfather, my father, and I do.” Joseph rubbed a hand down the back of his neck. He was still in the garb he wore when he went into the streets of the city.
“One day Benjamin will believe as you do, my husband. He is your blood kin. God will reach out to him, and he will know the truth of all that has happened to you. Perhaps then all of your brothers will believe.” It was wishful thinking, for who could know the mind and heart of another? But she had to give him hope.
Joseph smiled and cupped her cheek. “You are good for me.” He leaned closer and kissed her, then kissed Ephraim’s head as well. “But I must be getting back. I wanted to see you all, so I slipped away.” He glanced at the sun. “Pharaoh wants to meet with me to hear the progress of all we are gathering.”
Asenath nodded. “Then of course you must go. And we will be waiting with your favorite foods to eat when you return tonight.” She stood with him as he called Manasseh and held the boy once more.
“Abba will be back soon,” he said, tickling the boy’s belly. Manasseh giggled and squirmed, and Joseph hugged him close then released him. He smiled at her and walked back into the house.
Asenath watched until he was out of sight. What mysteries lay beneath her husband’s thoughts besides these few he had shared with her? Would she ever know?
34
CANAAN
Tamar sat at the loom in her father’s house, dressed in widow’s weeds. She should be used to her life by now, but to be widowed twice in less than a year . . . She still fought nightmares and could not seem to find a sense of peace. That Judah would send her back to her father was even worse.
“Go back to your parents’ home and remain a widow until my son Shelah is old enough to marry you,” he had said.
She’d stared at Judah, sure she had not heard him correctly. Return to her father? “But I belong to your household now. How can I return to my father? Such a thing is a disgrace to him and to me.”
How bold she sounded even to her own ears. But Kaella’s scowl and teary, red eyes only added to Judah’s insistence. “I will speak to Yassib,” he said. “Do not worry. It will only be until Shelah is old enough to take a wife.”
He had sounded so reassuring. So caring.
The cloak she was weaving held colorful threads, and she imagined herself wearing it if she could ever put off the black garments she was forced to wear until she remarried.
Would she marry again? Would she bear children and have a family to surround her? Or would she live here until her parents passed into the next life and she herself died alone? A deep ache settled inside of her where warmth and love once lived.
I just want to love someone. To be loved in return.
But Er and Onan had never loved her. They had used and abused her. Yet her father-in-law had acted as if their deaths were her fault. Not at first—not with Er. But when Onan died . . . Judah had sent her back to her father three days after they buried him.
The thread knotted in her hand as she wove, forcing her to stop the shuttle and pull the knot through the other strands. Her weaving used to bring her father a goodly sum at the markets, but since returning home she found everything tangled. Her threads. Her thoughts. Her life. She rarely left the house except to draw water, but even there the townswomen barely spoke to her.
Tears threatened, but her emotion was interrupted by a loud knock on her door. “Tamar? Come out of there. I have news.”
Her sister Donatiya poked her head in the room, and her expression softened as she looked into Tamar’s eyes. Tamar never had been very good at hiding her pain. She stood, leaving the knot, and followed her sister into the courtyard, where her mother sat grinding grain.
“There you are,” her mother said. “I wish you would come out of that room more often. You grow paler by the day. Just because you are a widow doesn’t mean you should wither away by yourself.”
“It is hard to move the loom, Ima,” she said, to give an excuse that her mother might accept.
“Then we will have your father move it.”