"Ah," said the Rabbi.
"Someone says different?" demanded James.
"Who is talking about this?" demanded Aunt Esther.
"You have some doubt on this matter!" asked Bruria. "Lord Jacimus, surely you don't think - ."
"None," said the Rabbi. "I have no doubt. So you helped her to her feet and you gave her your mantle."
"I did," I answered.
"Well, then!" said Bruria.
"Let us take things one at a time," said the Rabbi. "What good is it for a Pharisee to go talk to this man who has in his mind no use for Pharisees, no use for Essenes, no use for anyone or anything except old farmers like himself who bury their gold in the ground? What good is it for me to go to his door?"
"And so what, this poor child is now walled up alive in that house with this angry man who can't string three words together except when driven by rage?" demanded Bruria.
"Wait, that's what you have to do," said the Rabbi. "Wait."
"The girl should be seen now," said Bruria. "She should be attended, and she should come out of the house and visit with her kinsmen, and she should tell the tale in a soft voice to those nearest her, and she should go to the stream again, accompanied by her kindred, and she should go in and go out! What does it say that she is locked up as if she's not to be seen!"
"I know this, Bruria," said the Rabbi somberly. "And you are her kindred."
"How many witnesses does this require!" demanded Uncle Cleopas. "This girl's done nothing. Nothing's happened to her, except that someone tried to harm her, and that one was stopped."
"The witnesses were all women and children," said the Rabbi.
"No, they were not!" declared James. "My brother and I saw all of it. My brother - ." He stopped, staring at me.
I looked up at him. It wasn't necessary for me to say anything. He understood.
"No, say whatever it is," said Bruria, looking from me to James and to the Rabbi. "Say this aloud."
"Yeshua," said the Rabbi, "if only you hadn't gone to the girl and embraced her."
"Good Lord, Rabbi," said James. "He did what was natural. He did what was kind."
My mother shook her head. "We're the same family," she whispered.
"I know all this. But this man, Shemayah, is not one of your family; his wife was, yes, and Avigail is, yes. But this man is not. And this man does not have a subtle mind."
"I don't understand it, truly I don't," said James. "Have patience with me. Are you telling me this man thinks my brother hurt Avigail?"
"No, only that he took liberties with her. . . ."
"Took liberties!" cried James.
"These are not my thoughts," said the Rabbi. "I am only telling you why the man will not let you in, and as you are her kindred, and her only kindred in Nazareth, I say wait because waiting for him to change his mind is all that you can do."
"What of her kindred elsewhere?" asked Bruria.
"Ah, well," said the Rabbi, "what are we to do, to write to her kindred in Bethany? To the house of Joseph Caiaphas? It would take days for the letter to get there, and the High Priest and his family have more on their minds than the goings-on in this town, must I remind you of that? Besides, what is it you think your kindred in Bethany can do?"
They went on talking, softly, reasonably. Joseph sat with his eyes closed as if he slept. Bruria went about this as if it were a knot that she could loosen if she were patient enough.
I heard their voices but their words didn't penetrate. I sat alone, staring at the sunlight as it cut into the dust, and thinking only this: I had hurt Avigail. I had added to her woes. At a time of violence and disgrace, I'd added to her burdens. I'd done this. And this could not stand.
Finally I made a motion for silence. I stood up.