She probably thought the same thing. And now here we are.
Balthazar had experienced these tense silences with other women. Silences where the air seemed to become flammable. Where a single spark could ignite it all. That’s why it was best to say nothing. No good could come of words. Not when a single misplaced syllable might spark, might light the air on fire and get you blown to pieces.
Balthazar watched as she walked to the opposite side of the room, toward a water jug that sat on the sill of an open window. Pretending to cut away at his chest, he stole little glances at her as she wet her hands, washed the sleep from her face, and smoothed her hair over her scalp — all in unfairly beautiful silhouette against the fluttering curtains.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her back to him. “You know… about your face.”
He was surprised to hear her voice at all. Let alone hear it issue what sounded like a genuine apology. But Balthazar said nothing in return. He just sat at the table, half stitched. No good can come of words.
“It’s just… seeing you was a little… ”
What, upsetting? Surprising? So unbelievable that you needed to kick and punch me a few times to make sure I was real? Wait, why are you talking? Don’t you know the air in here might catch fire and kill us both?
Sela shook the excess water from her hands, opened the drapes, and stared out into the empty streets of Beersheba.
“After you left,” she said, “there were days when I would go and stand on the banks of the river. Stand there for hours, looking out into the desert. Wondering if you were out there. Wondering where you were, what you were doing. If you were even alive. Sometimes… sometimes I would hold my hand out in front of my body… lean forward and close my eyes. My arm stiff, my palm facing out — listening for you. I would stand there… as if I could feel you with my body. As if I could send you a message. Send a thought through that outstretched hand and ask you to come home. And it was so stupid, all of it.”
She turned. He saw tears massing in the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall.
“It was so stupid and naïve, but I’d go out there, day after day, convincing myself that sooner or later one of those thoughts would reach you.”
They did… I thought of you every —
“You destroyed me, Balthazar.”
I know.
“You showed me how good life could be, and then you left.”
And you of all people should know why I had to.
“You left, and over time… I forgot. I forgot that feeling. I even forgot your face.”
What was there to say? How many times had he been over this in his mind? How many times had he imagined having this very conversation, on the remote chance he ever saw her again? And now, here he was, and there was nothing to say.
“Your mother is dead, Balthazar.”
It took him a moment to hear this. When he did, he swore he heard the hissssss of all that dangerous air seeping out of the room.
Oh, don’t be so surprised, Balthazar. Don’t you dare get all weepy eyed, as if you didn’t already know. Of course she’s dead. You knew she would be by now. You chose this, Balthazar. You knew you could never see her again — not after Abdi. Not after you left.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve told you sooner.”
Balthazar found tears threatening to fall nonetheless. He couldn’t help but think of his mother alone at the end of her life. All alone, with so many unanswered questions, so much grief over the things she’d lost. He couldn’t help but picture her face. “Promise me… promise me that our happiness doesn’t come at the expense of another’s.” But of course it had. It had come at a terrible expense. Her expense. And now I’ll never get to see her and tell her how sorry I —
Balthazar turned away, not wanting her to see the tears that had made good on their threats. Sela walked closer to the table, wiping away tears of her own. He half expected to feel her hand on his shoulder. Even a kiss of condolence on his forehead. He wanted those things more than he knew how to express, but only if she was willing to give them. They weren’t his to take.
“Balthazar… if you still care about me at all, you’ll promise me something.”
He wiped his eyes and looked up at her.
Anything.
“Promise me that after you leave, I’ll never see your face again.”
With that, she left him to pull the last few threads from his chest.
VI
Morning was giving way to midday, and still no sign of Gaspar or Melchyor. Balthazar paced back and forth, his face and lip almost completely healed now, his movement enough to stir the curtains that had been drawn to ward off the sun. Where the hell are they? They’d gone for food and supplies shortly after breakfast, leaving their fellow fugitives with Sela to pack up the camels and prepare for their departure. They had a long ride ahead. If they pressed themselves, stopping for only a few minutes at a time and making camp in the open desert, they could reach the Egyptian border in two days.
Mary was in the next room, feeding the baby beneath her shawl, while Sela topped off their canteens, taking care not to spill a single precious drop. Joseph was praying again. Kneeling in the corner of the room, muttering to himself. Though his words were barely above a whisper, they’d slowly built to a crescendo in Balthazar’s ears. We have real problems. Real problems here in the real world, and he sits there and mutters to God. Finally, it was all he could take.
“Could you just… not do that?”
Joseph stopped muttering, though his eyes remained closed.
“You pace when you’re anxious,” he said. “I pray. Of the two of us, I’d say my method was less annoying.”
“Of the two of us,” said Balthazar, “I’m the one with the sword, so I’d shut up and go do something useful before I cut your tongue out.”
Joseph’s eyes opened. He rose to face Balthazar. “Why does my prayer bother you?”
“Because! It goes on and on and on and on and on and on! I’ve never heard someone babble to God so much in my life!”
“Well… I have much to be thankful for.”
“Like what? The fact that the whole world wants your baby dead?”
“Like you.”
Joseph’s answer had the desired effect of stopping Balthazar’s rant in its tracks.
“You rescued us in Bethlehem,” he said. “You led us through the desert, led us here. And you nearly gave your own life doing it. I thanked God for sending you, because if he hadn’t, we’d be dead.”
“In the future, instead of thanking God, you can save yourself the trouble and just thank me directly.”
Joseph smiled. “I know men like you,” he said. “Men who believe that God has forsaken us. That he’s grown tired of our imperfections. These men are burdened by sin. By weakness, and temptation, and guilt. And so they think all men must be this way. And if all men are this way, why would God want anything to do with man?”
“And I know men like you,” said Balthazar, “who believe that every drop of piss is a blessing from ‘almighty God.’ Men who spend their miserable little lives shaking and mumbling, reading their scrolls and setting their goats on fire — afraid they’ll eat the wrong thing, or say the wrong word, or think the wrong thought, and SMACK! God’s fist will fall out of the clouds and flatten them. Well let me tell you — and I speak from experience — God doesn’t care, okay? He doesn’t care about you, or me, or what we do or say or eat or think.”