Fake It ‘Til You Make It: Ruth Part II

~ Natalie Hart ~ 2 Comments

Ruth dug her thumb into her right side as far as it’d go, but she couldn’t reach the itch on her stomach. She grimaced and plucked at the wrappings, but they were too wet from sweat to budge.

“Look alive,” Naomi said. “Shepherds.”

Two youngish boys, not quite within hailing distance, walked the same path straight at them.

“Keep the donkey between you and them,” Naomi said. “They might be from Bethlehem and that,” her gaze dropped to Ruth’s stomach, “won’t help anymore.”

Ruth slid back until she was at the donkey’s left flank, which put her on the downhill side of the animal. “Red,” she whispered, “you’d better not slip.” Its footing was sure, but its side bags kept bumping her stomach, which kept knocking her off the path.

“Good morning,” the boys yelled.

The women waved.

“Good sons,” Naomi called when the boys were close. “What is the nearest village?”

“Bethlehem.”

Naomi crumpled to the ground as if she were a grain sack with a large tear. Ruth was used to it, so she merely cried, “Oh no,” and reached out one arm, but the boys dashed forward.

The older one was fast enough that he caught Naomi before she fully hit the gravel, and eased her down. “Do you have water?” he asked Ruth.

Ruth leaned over the donkey as much as her stomach allowed and looked as pitiful as she could. “We ran out yesterday.”

“What are you waiting for?” He snapped at the younger boy, who scrambled to pull out their water skin. The older one held it to Naomi’s lips and she miraculously recovered enough to take a healthy gulp.

“Did you say Bethlehem?”

Ruth never stopped being amazed at how weak Naomi could make her voice sound.

“Yes, mother,” the older boy said. “Two hills over.”

Naomi brushed her hand over her forehead. “Who is your father?”

“I am Enoch of Hiram.”

“And your grandfather?”

“Seth.”

Naomi managed a weak smile. “I grew up here, but I’ve been gone a long time. Seth is my cousin.”

“Was,” the younger boy said.

“His legs were like tree trunks.” Naomi sighed. “Hard to think of him as gone.” She pushed herself up on her elbows and accepted another drink of water. “I used to take care of your father and his brothers when– You don’t want to hear an old lady’s stories. Help me up.”

He hoisted her up and she put a steadying hand on the donkey. “Time to go, daughter. Time to see whether anyone remembers old Naomi.”

“Brother,” Enoch said. “Run home and let them know Naomi is coming back.”

“But the sheep–”

“I got the flock. Go on!”

The younger boy took off across the grass. By the time Ruth got the donkey going again, he was out of sight.

“You are a good son,” Naomi said to Enoch. “May God bless you for your kindness.” She trudged away with a stooped-over posture until Ruth gave her the “all clear” signal.

Ruth’s breath came faster as she allowed herself to hope. “Does this mean I can finally take these pads off?”

Naomi waved a careless hand. “Being pregnant would only be a problem now.” She kept moving forward.

Ruth whipped off her scarf and robe and clawed at the knot between her hip bones until it gave way and she could unwind the wrappings and let the lump of wool that had passed for a baby for the last month fall to the ground. She’d daydreamed about this moment many times a day, every day, but now that she was staring at the bundle in the dirt, her first instinct was to rush to pick it up and brush off the dirt and cradle it. Which was ridiculous. Why was she on the verge of tears about losing the lump that had caused her so much discomfort for so long?

Her breath hitched. It seemed like her hand migrated to her stomach without her wanting it to. She’d lost that baby years ago. It shouldn’t be able to still make her cry.

She gritted her teeth, picked up the wool and shook it out of its balled-up state. When it flapped freely in the breeze, it lost its power, and she hurried to catch up to Naomi.

The path wound down to a valley and around one more hill, and then the village was in sight. From here, she could see the grain fields ripening on every slope. She wrinkled her nose. Those wheat fields were a month away from ripeness, so again, it was barley. They’d been following the barley harvest since they left Moab.

Naomi motioned for her to come closer. “Remember to look down as if you’re younger and more insecure.” She grabbed Ruth’s chin and tilted her head up. “At least the oil we used on your skin every day hasn’t been wasted. You could pass for eighteen, which is still a little old, but that can’t be helped. You are a widow, after all.”

As they trudged up the path, Naomi transformed back into the bent old lady and Ruth tried to look sweet and innocent, although all she felt was raw and exhausted. A couple of women ran down from the village, crying out, “Naomi, Naomi. Is it really you?” They fussed over her, but didn’t give Ruth a second glance.

When they were in the village proper, Naomi picked up a handful of gritty dirt and let it slowly trickle over her head. “Naomi? Who is this Naomi?”

More women crowded around. “It’s you.” “I know it’s you.” “We were children together.” “We were married the same year.”

“Don’t call me by that name. I’m no longer beautiful. And pleasant? Bah!”

The women herded Naomi toward someone’s compound, even as she was speaking. Ruth followed, unnoticed, with the donkey.

“No,” Naomi continued in her public speaking voice, “call me Mara, for the Lord has made my life bitter. I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty. Why call me Naomi when the Lord has caused me to suffer, when He has sent so much tragedy to me?”

By now, the village’s children had joined the women, and also a few men in from the fields for their midday meal. They jostled Ruth as they pressed closer to the scene, and she was pretty sure she felt at least one hand grab her behind, which meant the end of the meek and innocent act. She was not a servant to be groped at will.

“Mother,” Ruth said. “Mother Mara!” She let a hint of panic into her voice, which wasn’t much of a stretch.

“Ruth, my Ruth,” Naomi cried. “My one blessing from the Lord. Daughter, where are you?”

The two women pushed their way through the crowd. Naomi put her hands on Ruth’s shoulders and kept her at arm’s length a moment. The longer they looked in each other’s eyes, the tearier they got. When Naomi whispered, “We’re here. We did it,” Ruth felt it as a genuine moment, not one manufactured for the greatest crowd impact. They embraced, rocking back and forth.

When they separated, Naomi kept one hand firmly around Ruth’s arm. Their moment was over; time to get back to the performance. Ruth kept her gaze downcast.

“This girl.” Naomi paused as if overcome by her emotions. “This girl is not of my body, she is not even of our people. She is Mahlon’s wife.”

“Where is Mahlon?” someone shouted.

Naomi gave a keening mourning cry that raised the hair on Ruth’s arms, especially when some of the women joined in. “The Lord took him. The Lord took him and my Kilion and my Elimelech.”

The noise of the crowd became too loud for any one person to be heard over until an older man raised his hand and hushed them.

“This is Ruth.” Naomi walked them in a circle. “You could call her a foreigner, a Moabitess, but I call her daughter in truth. She left her family and her people, rejected her gods and idols for the Lord Almighty, and kept this old woman alive on our journey. If the Lord is just, he will bless her for what she’s done for me.” With that, she collapsed and had to be half carried into the nearest home.

Women put their arms around Ruth and patted her head and ushered her through the doorway, up stone steps built into the wall of the house and over to where Naomi sat in the center of the room, weeping, allowing herself to be fussed over. A bowl of goat’s milk was placed in Ruth’s hands and someone crumbled a dried raisin cake into it. She didn’t bother keeping her tears in checks as she ate and drank.

It was suddenly too real. She would be living among strangers. Strangers who were being kind now, but who knew how long that would last. Where were they going to live? How would they eat? When would life stop being a performance?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Your People Will Be My People: Ruth, Part I

~ Natalie Hart ~ 2 Comments

No matter how close to sunrise Ruth woke up, Huldah was already at the village cistern, waiting with her “helpful advice.” Lately, that made Ruth turn tail, but today, she waited longer than usual to make sure Huldah and her cronies were there. Today, she was on a mission.

And she had a friend. “Orpah,” Ruth whispered. “Are you ready?”

Orpah just sighed.

Since their husbands had died, sighs were her main form of communication. Ruth would have to take that for a “yes.”

“I hear a loose sandal flapping.” Huldah’s voice was too loud to be just for her cronies’ benefit. “It must be Ruth.” She turned to face the path. “Ruth, honey, is that you?”

“Yes. It’s Ruth.” She plastered a smile on her face. “Good morning, everyone.”

None of the dozen women there bothered to be subtle. Their gazes dropped to Ruth and Orpah’s midsections while they got the morning pleasantries out of the way.

“It’s been how long since Kilion died?” Huldah’s head was tilted and her forehead furrowed, as if she truly were concerned.

Ruth took her place in line. “Over two new moons ago.”

“So neither of you is….”

Orpah sighed and shook her head.

Huldah smacked her tongue. “We were just talking about you and your situation now that there are no men at your house.”

Ruth smiled as if she were interested in her opinion.

“You really don’t have any ties to that foreign woman anymore,” Huldah said. “You should move back to your father’s house and let him find you another husband. One of us.”

First, her father hadn’t invited her to rejoin his household. Second, “Who? I was married for ten years and had no children.” Her father hiring her out as a servant was more likely than him negotiating another marriage.

“You’re not barren,” Beulah, who’d always been a real friend, said. “It’s all the fault of those foreigners. The voice of their god cancelled out all the offerings we made to Ashtoreth for you.”

Behind her, Ruth could hear Orpah begin the low keening sound that meant a wail was coming soon. Better start their conversation now. “Orpah–”

“That’s right,” another woman said. “Just get out of that house and back with your own people and I’m sure your troubles will be over.”

Huldah sidled near Ruth. “My brother-in-law was talking to my husband just this morning. You know my husband is the father of the household now? Anyway, he might be interested in bringing you into the fold.”

“As what?” Ruth asked.

“As a wife, of course.” Huldah giggled. “Don’t be silly.”

“Oh, good.” Ruth kept her voice as level as possible. “Which brother?” The one too stupid to keep his face out of the way of a donkey’s hoof or the one with cheeks so sunken he looked about to die?

“Bustan.”

The stupid one. Ruth nodded and tried to look regretful. “That’s so kind of your family, but it won’t be necessary. We’re leaving.”

There was a chorus of “leaving?” “how can you leave?” “where are you going?” as the women pressed closer.

Ruth elbowed Orpah.

Orpah cleared her throat. “Our mother-in-law is taking us back to her land.”

The women circled around them like buzzards. “Why?” “Are you crazy?”

“The traders that came through here a while back said that there’s rain in her land, Judah, now,” Ruth said. “She wants to go and we will support her.”

“She’s in Kerak now, figuring out the best route,” Orpah said.

Ruth gave Orpah a real smile. Those were more words than she’d said in ages. “We’re just waiting for the barley harvest, so we’ll have food for the journey.” Ruth lowered the bucket into the cistern, speaking louder so she could be heard over its banging. “I hope the wild animal that destroyed some of our fields doesn’t come back. If it does, we’ll have to wait another moon until the wheat harvest.”

She gave all her attention to filling their two water skins while the other women whispered amongst themselves, and several of them left in a hurry. With the real purpose of this chat over, she could relax. Her mother-in-law Naomi was right: the women’s network would get the word out that whoever was sabotaging their fields should stop, and without openly accusing anyone or confronting any of the men.

“What’s going to happen to the house and fields?” Huldah asked.

Ruth grunted at the effort of hefting the full skin over her shoulders. “Naomi will sell it. Maybe back to the man her husband bought it from. Maybe to the highest bidder. Your fields are next to ours, aren’t they?”

“That’s right, they are,” Huldah said as if it had just then realized it. “But you won’t get top price for it with your cistern problem.”

“How did you know there were issues with our private cistern?” Ruth asked.

Huldah scratched behind her ear. “You’ve been coming here for water every day. You used to come every five days or so.”

Yeah, right. But it wouldn’t help to directly question Huldah. It wasn’t like the woman would publicly admit to fouling their water. “I’ll tell Naomi to expect a lower price. Come on, Orpah, we’d better get back and keep packing.”

“Don’t forget to fix that sandal,” Huldah called, prompting a hailstorm of tittering from the other women.

Ruth had her back to them already, so she indulged in an eye roll before giving a thumb’s up. She couldn’t wait to leave this place.

*****

Fourteen days later.

With every step away from the village, the echoes of her “friend’s” words faded. Only the faintest strains of, “You’ll wind up a veiled woman,” and “Maybe the bandits won’t kill you,” remained.

But they weren’t even half a morning’s walk away when Naomi pulled the donkey to a halt. “I can’t do it. I can’t do this to you.”

“You aren’t doing anything to us,” Ruth said. “We’ve been preparing for this for days. There is nothing for us in Moab.”

Orpah whimpered.

“Your families are in Moab. Go back to your mothers’ homes.” Naomi put her left hand on Orpah’s cheek as her right hand cupped Ruth’s cheek. “You’ve been so kind to me and you were so good to your husbands. May the Lord bless you with the security of another marriage.”

Ruth couldn’t keep her tears in when Naomi kissed her, and soon they were all crying and wiping their eyes with each other’s head scarves.

“N- n- n- n0,” Orpah said.

“We’re going with you to your people,” Ruth said.

“Come on,” Naomi said. “There’s no reason for you to come with me. Can I give birth to any more sons who could grow up to be your husbands? No use waiting around for that.”

Naomi’s attempt to make them laugh failed.

“Think about it.” Naomi shook their shoulders. “Even if were to get married again and the Lord blessed me with a miracle to equal the mother of my people who had her first baby at age ninety, would you refuse to marry other men while you waited for my sons to grow up? Ridiculous.”

Ruth shook her head more vigorously than did Orpah.

“My daughters,” Naomi said. “My beautiful daughters. I’ve sold you a lame donkey. Things may not be more secure where we’re going. They have rain, but nothing can change the fact that we’re three widows, and we’ll have to survive on the kindness of people who are strangers to you. The Lord himself has caused me to suffer and there will be more suffering on this journey. I can guarantee it. The path to the Salt Sea from Kerak is easier than trying to cross the valley of Amon or of Zered, but it’s still steep and treacherous. The rains have just ended, so where there’s water, it’ll be plenty, but there will be stretches of this journey when we can’t find any. Not to mention the crevasses, the bandits, the heat. Show the good sense I know you have and stay here with your people.”

They huddled together, weeping, again. This time, Ruth wasn’t sure if she was crying out of shock at hearing the depth of the bitterness in Naomi’s voice or because she knew Orpah wasn’t strong enough for such a journey. When Ruth pulled back, Orpah was gazing up the road at their village.

“Go,” Ruth whispered to her. “We’ll be okay.”

Orpah’s breath came in whooping gulps, but she managed to kiss Naomi and hug Ruth before heading back where they’d come from.

Ruth smacked the flank of the donkey and followed it. She glanced back at her mother-in-law. “How long are we on this road?”

Naomi crossed her arms and stayed put. “Orpah is the wise one now. You should follow her example for once and go back to your people and your gods.”

Ruth ran back to Naomi, clenching her fists at her sides to prevent herself from poking her finger into her mother-in-law’s chest. “Don’t ask me to leave you again. I will go wherever you go and live wherever you live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God.” Her voice became louder and louder until she was shouting. “I will die where you die and be buried there. May the Lord punish me severely if I allow anything but death to separate us!”

For a few heartbeats, the only sounds were the wind through the fattening heads of wheat and the donkey’s plodding hoofs.

“You’ve always been the sweetest girl,” Naomi said. “So easy-going. Except when you really make up your mind.”

Ruth was still panting from the passion it took to get her to speak her mind so bluntly.

Naomi gave an almost-smile. “Let’s pray that death separates us later rather than sooner.” She linked her arm with Ruth’s. “Come on. Let’s catch up to that donkey.”

 

 

Joab, the War-Crazed Traditionalist

~ Natalie Hart ~ 2 Comments

Joab is David’s nephew. As I’ve written him, he’s a couple of years older than his uncle, David, which is an example of me stealing from life: in my mother’s family, the oldest nephew is older than his youngest uncle. In high school, the nephew apparently took great pleasure in needling his uncle about this in the crowded hallways.

We first meet Joab in It Is You just after David  has killed his first lion. Most of David’s family responds with a combination of awe, irritation, and hostility, but not Joab:

“Show-off!” someone shouted from behind the family.

They turned around and David went up on his toes to see his accuser.

“Always boasting,” the voice continued.

By then, David knew: it was Joab.

A smiling Joab broke through the rest of the family. “You go off to live with the king and then come back and kill a lion with your bare hands. How are the rest of us supposed to compete with that?”

When Joab goes off with David on a mission to find running water for David to clean himself with properly (there’s a spring a few km away), we get a sense of his life’s obsession.

Joab shouldered him sideways. “Someone said that the king has been training the men of Benjamin all winter. That true?”

David nodded.

“Man. You get to hang out near the army, see their weapons, watch them train. You get all the luck.”

David shrugged.

“Details. I need details.” Joab held his bundle out in front of him. “I’ll drop your clothes right here and make you walk back naked if you don’t tell me something soon.”

“Okay, okay.” David laughed. “A hundred or so men from Benjamin live in Gibeah and train year-round. Commander Abner hopes it’ll grow when the tribes see the success of an army more like the armies we’re fighting against. We’ll never again scatter in fear because an army lines up in ranks against us.”

Joab drove his right fist into his left palm with a satisfying smack. “Oh yeah.”

In this scene, David is 14. At 17, Joab is just a few years from the age of military service (20), close enough to imagine himself as a soldier.

As they walked back to the village, they weighed the merits of various weapons and retold old battle legends until David said, “But our best weapon is the Lord. Only He can throw a whole army into confusion so they kill each other and all we have to do is stand and watch and reap the plunder.”

“See, that’s why you’d make a great king,” Joab said. “You say stuff like that and even I want to follow you into battle.”

“Did you have a fever that boiled your brain while I was gone?”

“I’m serious.”

David pointed at the half-dead fig tree ahead of them. “You’d follow that tree if it meant you could be a soldier.”

Joab sniggered. “You’ve got me there.”

In the rest of the series, I build on that basic character trait: he’s always primed to fight.

After he hears that David has left King Saul and that the Lord has told David that he’ll be king some day, he does the one non-traditional thing in his history: takes off with his two younger brothers — leaving his father with nobody to work the land with him — and joins David. I think his war craziness is behind this. It was a calculated risk to give him a chance to command his own army, just like he and David used to play when they were kids.

In the early years of being on the run in the wilderness with David, and there are less than a hundred men with them, David takes his parents to Moab to ask the king to protect them. He’s gone for at least a couple of weeks. During that time (in my version), Joab gets the men all riled up to march on Gibeah and overthrow Saul. David has to talk them down and remind Joab that the Lord hasn’t given him the go-ahead for that.

This is a continual frustration between the two men; after all, David twice refuses to kill Saul when it’d be easy to do so. It deepens when David becomes king and has to learn diplomacy. It gets really messy in the story I told this week (Parts I, II, III, and IV), because David is trying to wrestle people into a new age and Joab doesn’t recognize either the dawning of the new age or the need for one.

Saul was the first king, but he wasn’t like what we think of as a king now. There was no golden throne, no formal court, no glorious castle at the capital of the country. There was no capital until David made one in Jerusalem. Saul was more like the most powerful tribal lord. So when David tries to get Joab to see that he should put away the idea of getting revenge for the death of his brother for the greater good, Joab just doesn’t see it.

As I see them, Joab is right and David is right. Joab is correct that every custom of Israel says he has the right to kill the man who killed his brother. It’s a little dicey in that Asahel was killed during a combat situation while he was chasing the people who were retreating and who gave him every chance of stating his intention and avoid being killed. But, in Joab’s eyes, his brother was killed, therefore he can seek revenge.

But David is also right. It would be better for Joab to sacrifice that old tribal ideal in order to make a peaceful transition to a united Israel possible. Abner was going to go out and negotiate allegiances for David, so that Ishbosheth would see every tribe arrayed against him and give up without a civil war. With Abner dead, there was nobody else with as much clout with the Saulean traditionalists to present David’s side with any authority.

When David makes Joab attend Abner’s funeral, it’s a public shaming. Joab does become commander of the tribal army (but not of the elite, permanent force), but the balance of power between him and David is way on David’s side until David sends word to put Uriah at the front line and then retreat behind him to leave him alone. But that’s a story for another day….

The real commander of Israel’s army, Part IV

~ Natalie Hart ~ 1 Comment

The scout came with good news: Abner was close. Joab and Abishai sent their two officers to hide with the other men in the olive grove, while they moved to the middle of the main road, out of sight of the guards at Hebron’s gate.

Joab hadn’t taken in any food or drink since that morning. His men had been pushing wine and water on him all day, but he never broke a sweat, despite the heat. It was like winter rain flowed through him.

The old commander ambled towards them on a donkey, but Joab didn’t run to him. That would be a sign of submission, and Joab didn’t acknowledge that Abner had any authority over him. It took forever for Abner to draw even.

“I was already at the well at Sirah. Now I’m going to have to stay here overnight. What’s so important that you had to delay your master claiming his kingdom?”

The nagging, old-man tone in Abner’s voice made Joab think of lambs being led to slaughter. He gripped the hilt of the dagger hidden under his sleeve.  “We need to talk privately.”

“My guards are discrete.”

Joab grabbed the donkey’s lead. “It’s a matter of some delicacy.”

“Then why is David sending you to deliver it?”

Joab made a noise he hoped sounded like laughter, to prove he was a good sport. “He didn’t send me.”

“So you’re talking to me behind your master’s back?”

“We’ve spoken privately before. Please just come over here.” Joab walked twenty steps off the road, into the olive grove.

Abner conferred with his guards. “Not in the trees. Closer to the wall.”

Joab didn’t care where it happened. He was across the road before Abner had dismounted. When Abner was several steps away, Joab dropped the dagger, blade down, out of his sleeve, but kept it hidden.

“What’s this about?” Abner asked, but there was no bite of authority in his tone, just weariness.

Joab put his left arm around Abner’s shoulders and leaned in as if he were going to whisper his secrets, but instead thrust up with his right arm, stabbing Abner between the ribs before he could register what was happening. Joab did it again and twisted the blade for good measure.

Joab nodded at Abishai and kept Abner in the bear hug until his brother was there. When Abishai was blocking the view from Abner’s guards, he let the old man drop.

Abishai unsheathed his sword, and the old man’s guards yelled and ran towards them, but they couldn’t get there in time to stop Abishai from running Abner through.

“Just like you did to our brother,” Abishai said as he brought the blade down.

Abner coughed out one word: “Traitor.”

Joab spat in his face.

The guards arrived. One man knelt at his master’s head and wiped the spit off. He and another man stripped off their robes and pressed them to Abner’s wounds. The two standing guards drew their swords and pointed them at the brothers.

Joab and Abishai put their hands up, which was the signal to their back-up, and maneuvered themselves so the guards had their backs to the olive grove. If they could kill the guards without a big fuss, they could drag everyone off and all anyone in Hebron would know was that Abner never did what he claimed he would. And Joab’s counsel to David would be proved right.

The guards on the ground were focused on their master. The guards with the swords out were focused on Joab and Abishai. As long as nobody noticed Joab’s men creeping towards them, this would all be over in a heartbeat.

“Just so you know,” Joab’s tone was conversational, “this wasn’t a political thing. Abner killed our brother. His blood was crying out for justice.”

The guards said nothing.

“Were you at the Pool of Gibeon?” Joab asked. “It happened then, after we were no longer fighting.”

“That’s right,” the shorter one said. “Your brother chased after a retreating army.”

The back of Joab’s neck got hot. “Are you implying that Asahel was in the wrong–”

Abner rasped something that sounded like, “Behind you,” and his guards turned their heads.

Joab’s men raised their weapons. The guards with the swords were outnumbered twelve to two, fourteen including Joab and Abishai, and surrounded. They voluntarily dropped their weapons and put their hands in the air. While Joab was reclaiming his dagger, he saw the backs of Abner’s other two guards almost at the city gate.

That was stupid. They were so fixated on securing the guards with swords that they didn’t cover the two with Abner, and now they’d pay for it.

Abishai said in an undertone, “What do we do now?”

Joab watched one of the city guards run out and glare at the scene.

“I’m not ashamed of what I did.” Joab strolled over to Abner’s body, stepped over it, and stood, his legs planted wide, hands clasped behind his back. “Every custom of our people gives us the right to seek revenge for our brother’s murder. Let them come.”

The city guard went back in. They’d be running to get David now.

Joab sent all his men, except for Abishai, back into the olive groves to hide out until the pressure eased.

They waited in silence.

It didn’t take long before David arrived with a full entourage: Abner’s two guards, half of David’s own guards, the leaders from Judah and the other tribes, and then the kinds of hangers-on who always seemed to show up at the first sign of drama.

Joab didn’t budge.

David didn’t do him the honor of a private word first. He scowled at Abner’s body and shouted, “Nephew, did you do this?”

Joab said, “Yes,” while Abishai said, “We did it.”

“Both of you?”

“Yes,” they said.

David lifted his gaze from the body and stared at them. “You killed a great and courageous man, a hero of Israel, for your own selfish purposes.”

“It was—”

“Enough! There is no defense against this, only thin excuses.” David went into what Joab called his desperation position: standing with his arms open wide to his sides and his head tipped back. “I vow by the Lord that I and my kingdom are forever innocent of this crime against Abner, son of Ner.” He straightened his head. “Joab and his family are the guilty ones.” He was looking at them, but it seemed like he saw right through them. “Joab, may your family be cursed. May every generation produce a man who’s plagued by sores or lame or dies by the sword or begs for food.”

A chill went through Joab. David didn’t go around cursing people. This was more than an ordinary disagreement about tactics. Would David send them home? What could he do after leading an army? Plow his father’s fields again? Become one the bandits he fought against? Better to fall on his sword than come to that.

No. He would not fall on his sword. He’d done nothing wrong. Righteous anger brought warmth back to his limbs. Moreover, he was beginning to see why David’s brothers were often so annoyed at his piety.

David dropped his arms. “Guards, wrap him up and bring him to my compound. We’ll bury him in the morning. Tell everyone to come. And you,” he rounded on Joab and Abishai, “you will be there and you will tear your clothes and you will wear sackcloth. We will all, all mourn for Abner.”

He stood shoulder to shoulder with Joab and put his mouth on Joab’s ear. “We were on the verge of peace for all of Israel, you idiot. Abner was seventy-five. He wasn’t going to challenge you.” David shoved his cloak behind him as he swept back through the gates.

Joab blinked at the crowd who blinked back at him. He wasn’t being sent home. David wouldn’t order him to attend Abner’s funeral procession if he wasn’t going to be around. He would be the sole commander of the army of Israel. The corners of his mouth began to turn up, but Abishai whacked his shoulder. Right. That would look bad.

Speaking of which, he wasn’t waiting for the crowd to decide to turn into a mob and go after him and his brother, so he copied David and exited with a flourish of his robe, his head held high.

The real commander of Israel’s army, Part III

~ Natalie Hart ~ Leave a comment

Joab didn’t know which part of a raid he loved best: when the enemy realized all was lost, or when he and his men paraded through small villages loaded down with plunder, tossing bits and pieces to people who came out to greet them — to the women who sang his praises and twirled and played their tambourines. The women of Juttah had sung so sweetly that he’d given up several headscarves he’d planned to give his own wife.

Coming in to Hebron was up there, too, because it was home. He’d sent a messenger ahead, so their children would be waiting to be hoisted onto shoulders, their wives would be laughing and crying, and David’s servants would be readying the feast. They’d have started slaughtering the oxen and sheep by now. Tonight, no more dried rations, no more sour water.

They were within sight of the gates when a man sprinted down the road at them. It was his messenger. Probably bringing word from David. Joab’s high dipped a little.

“My lord.” The messenger was panting so hard he could barely speak. “Ab- Abner–”

Joab narrowed his eyes. “What now?”

The messenger gulped. “At the citadel. With twenty men from Benjamin, Dan and –”

That was all Joab needed to hear. He pulled his brother close under the pretense of giving Abishai his pack. “This is it. Take your twelve best men and wait for me outside the gates, by the huge atad tree. Everyone else should go in and celebrate with their families. Wait for my word.”

He barely paused long enough for the gate guards to recognize him, and sprinted all the way to David’s citadel. The royal guards let him right through without making him give up his weapons, which might come in handy, depending on what Abner came here to do.

The courtyard was still set up for the feast, so Joab skidded to a stop, flattened himself against the wall, and peered around the corner. More than twenty men sat in a circle. David, of course, Great-Uncle Jonathan, Benaiah, leaders from Hebron and other self-important looking men. No Abner.

Joab stalked over to David. “You should’ve sent a message.”

David didn’t even give him the courtesy of looking at him. He just pointed at the ground with his finger.

Joab frowned. He didn’t have time to sit. “Where is he?”

David crossed his arms and looked into the distance. He barely moved his mouth while he spoke. “They’re deciding on me. They say yes and you get the whole army.”

Great-Uncle Jonathan stood and walked past him, adding, “Do it right for once.”

Joab almost left. Someone else could tell him where Abner was. He didn’t need David for that. But he did need to stay as close to David’s good side as he could, especially if he was successful, so he gritted his teeth and jerked his head, sharp and no-nonsense, like a soldier. “My lord,” he announced for everyone’s benefit, “the Amalekites will think twice about bothering Beersheba. And they made a generous donation to the military fund.” He grinned, but it felt more like he was baring his teeth.

David stood and put his right hand on Joab’s shoulder. “Elders of Israel, this is my nephew Joab, the commander of my army, the man your fighters will serve under.”

Joab stumbled forward a few steps, thanks to a not-so-gentle shove from David.

“He’s returned from a successful campaign against the Amalekites.”

“Just a small raid.” Joab did what was expected of him and did the teeth-numbing meet-and-greet, boasted about the results of his army, listened politely as they trumpeted their tribe’s fighters and their skills, refrained from mentioning that their men weren’t such great fighters that his army hadn’t already beaten them numerous times in the last six months. Each and every moment, he knew that Abner might be slipping away from him. Again.

“My lord,” Joab said to David the moment the elders’ attention wandered. “May I have a private audience?”

“Of course.” David opened his arms to the group. “My servants should bring in the midday meal soon. Stay and enjoy.”

Once they were two turns of the hallway away from the others, Joab grabbed a fistful of David’s soft linen sleeve. “Where is he?”

“Let go of me.”

“Fine.” Joab let go as if he were throwing the material away, which flung David’s arm back.

The next thing Joab knew, David pinned him against the wall. He could barely breath thanks to the forearm pushed against his neck.

“You even think about going for your dagger and I’m shipping you back to Bethlehem in shame,” David said. “You will not manhandle me, either when we’re in public or when we’re alone. You will treat me at least with the respect due to your uncle. Better if you could at least bring it up to the level of our time in the desert.” He pushed harder against Joab’s windpipe. “Clear?”

Joab nodded, because that was all he could do.

David freed him and shook out his arms. “Abner was here. He’s gone to the northern tribes to secure their support. He’s behind me.”

Joab spat.

“You’re letting your personal feelings get in the way.”

“It’s not my feelings,” Joab said. “It’s Asahel’s blood that’s in the way.”

“It was a battle.”

Joab’s chest heaved with the effort of keeping in all the things he wanted to say and do.

“We’re operating on a different level now. Blood feuds are part of the old—”

Joab sliced his hand through the air between them. “It’s not about that. Abner is too crafty. He started this war and managed to turn it around on me and make it seem like my fault. His visit wasn’t a peace offering. He’ll twist your words and turn you into–”

“I am not a green boy,” David ground out. “I tested Abner myself and I asked the Lord to confirm Abner’s sincerity, which He did. I am satisfied.”

Joab pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I can’t believe you just let him walk away.”

“With my blessing.”

They stared each other down for several long moments. Joab broke eye contact first and left without saying another word.

Abishai and his men were waiting just where he’d told them to. Joab sent two of them to run north and bring Abner back. Abishai and two lieutenants stayed with him under the atad. The rest of his men waited behind some ancient olive trees; nearby, but not close enough to be apparent.

When Joab’s messengers came over the hill with Abner and his four guards, the sun was low, but it wasn’t dusk yet.

Joab and Abishai exchanged a look, but didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. The plan was set.

 

The real commander of Israel’s army, Part II

~ Natalie Hart ~ Leave a comment

[possible pool of Gibeon, from bibleplaces.org]

The old commander looked as solid as he always had, although his hair and beard were now completely grey. Abner and his men were dressed in short leather battle tunics, too. Joab had made the right choice.

“About time!” Joab yelled across the Pool of Gibeon.

Abner stood with his feet planted wide and his arms crossed.

“We’ve been here three days.”

Abner raised his hand and his men sat as one.

So Joab had to order his men to sit, which they didn’t do in unison. The back of Joab’s neck burned as if Abner’s men had shown up his, which they hadn’t. Not really. He pointed to his left to indicate a spot halfway between them, by the stairs into the water.

The old commander dropped his belt and sword, unwound his mantle, removed one dagger and did a slow turn with his arms wide open. Then he gave Joab a “your turn” gesture.

Joab sighed. Fine. He’d take off his weapons, too. He dropped his shield, shucked his sword, unhooked his waist dagger and then tossed the dagger from his left thigh holster so it stuck in the ground point down, handle waving. He poked his own chest and pointed at Abner, who reached inside the neck of his tunic and pulled out another dagger. That was the benefit of having defectors on your side: they could tell you all your opponent’s tricks.

“Stay here,” Joab said to his brothers and his men. “But don’t take your eyes off the men across the way. Assign people to watch the opposite hills, and me, and him. Be ready for my signal.”

Abner sauntered to the meeting spot, hands clasped behind his back, but Joab strode there. He wasn’t going to pretend this was a pleasure visit. “Greetings, Commander of the Armies of Israel.” Joab loaded his voice with contempt.

“I’ve heard I might say the same to you.”

Joab’s claim was not a joke, no matter how lightly Abner took it. “You called this party.”

“Yes,” was all Abner said.

“Why?”

“To discuss what we might do to further our kings’ agendas.”

“And do some intelligence gathering?”

Abner shrugged and gave Joab’s men a once-over. “Your men look kind of small.”

“Have you gone blind in your old age? Those are combat veterans who’ve fought hand-to-hand against Philistines and Amalekites and come out on top.”

“Of course, of course,” Abner said. “I mean you no disrespect.”

“Are you going to get to the point?” Joab picked at a bit of dried blood on his tunic. “I thought we were men of action, not old women who need to gossip for half a day before getting around to business.”

Abner chuckled. “Have it your way, but from one commander to another, you’d do better to avoid that way of speaking to your superiors.”

“Are you referring to yourself? Because I will happily dispense with all these niceties and take you on myself.”

“Calm down. I meant David. Even though you ran together as boys, I bet he still wants to be treated like a king.”

Yes, but Joab didn’t meet Abner to have a heartfelt chat about it. “Thanks for the advice. Will you get one with it now?”

“That’s the problem,” Abner said.

Joab raised his eyebrows.

“Our kings won’t get on with it.”

“You’ve been after yours to do something decisive?”

Abner cleared his throat.

“So you’re as frustrated with Ishbosheth as I am with David.” Joab made that a statement, not a question.

“That’s a safe assumption.”

“So what are we going to do about it?” Joab scanned the hills behind Abner for any telltale glint of a sword. “Not ambush me, because one move from you and my men blow the trumpet and a delegation will rush to my aid.”

“Good strategy.”

“How do you think we survived so long on the run from you?”

“No need to be offended,” Abner said. “I merely complimented you. Shall we dispense with this charade and call our reserves, then?”

So Abner had hidden back-up, too. Joab made a show of nonchalance although there was thunder in his ears. “Is that a declaration of war?”

“We came all this way,”Abner swept his arm towards the east. “Across the Jordan, over the mountains, through the wilderness. It would be a shame to travel this far without engaging in some kind of combat.”

Some kind of combat? “What did you have in mind?”

“I made the first move.”

Joab sliced his hands through the air. “I don’t know what I was thinking. David has forbidden me to attack you and you’re clearly not going to oblige me by attacking first. This has been a huge waste of my time and my men’s time.”

“Almost forty, and still you lead like a hot-headed boy.” Abner spoke quietly, almost to himself.

Nothing Abner could’ve said would have made him angrier than that. More so because David told him the same thing. He’d show them. “The Philistine kings-”

“Ah, yes, your good friends-”

“Cut it.” Joab lunged towards the old man. “That line might work to rile up your men, but you know what we were about with the Philistines.”

“Yes, yes. You used them as cover to dig your claws deeper into Judah. Very smart. What did they teach you?”

Plenty that Joab had no intention of saying now. “The kings of the different cities liked to get small groups of their best soldiers together for fighting exhibitions. But all the winners got were bragging rights.”

Abner shrugged. “That’s a good place to start.”

“I’d like better stakes, but I’ll take it. You’re on.” Joab looked back at his men and calculated how many he could afford to lose if about half of the group were bested by Abner’s men, which was a fair assumption. “Twelve men.”

“No weapons.”

“What do you mean no weapons? I thought that was the point of this, to see who was better. You’re afraid of our hardened iron. That’s it, isn’t it? You know that our equipment is so superior to yours that you—”

Abner put up his palm. “A wrestling match, but they can keep their swords nearby on the ground. Does that make you happy?”

“As a bee after the rains.” Joab stalked back to his side, muttering about Abner’s patronizing attitude. “Men! We’ve got action!”

It took longer than he thought it would to choose twelve men who could win, but that he could also stand to lose, which meant that neither of his brothers made the cut. They were good, well-trained soldiers who took the news with proper stoicism, but once the twelve men had gone to the strip of clear land just south of the pool, they let their feelings be known.

“You know I’m better than them,” Asahel whispered.

“I could beat ten of them by myself,” Abiashar said. “I’m their unit commander. What does it look like that they fight while I stand?”

“I need you both too badly.” Joab put his weapons back on while talking. “I won’t risk losing you on some stunt of Abner. If this is an ambush, our soldiers will need your leadership.”

That seemed to placate them.

He and Abner moved among the chosen, pairing up fighters, each one switching men out for others. Finally, it was time to fight.

The rival units were no longer on opposite sides of the pool, but were spitting distance from each other, crowding close to egg on the wrestlers.

At first, Joab tried to show the same gravitas as Abner, the same calm leadership. The first time one of his men hit the ground, he grunted to himself. The second time, he clenched his fists and growled until the man got up. The third time, he gave up and screamed and waved his arms like the rest of his men were doing.

Every match was close. The thuds of bodies hitting bodies and the ground, the grunts of pain and effort, the trash talking — it was intoxicating. Joab looked to his right and his man knocked the feet out from under Abner’s man. Joab’s side cheered, but then Abner’s man levered up suddenly and kicked Joab’s man in the face; they heard the crunch of his nose breaking, and blood from it dripped down his opponent’s back as they grappled.

Then Joab looked to his left and Abner’s man kicked his man in the stomach, which made him fall to his knees. Abner’s man leaned over and prepared to kick again, but then his man pushed up and drove the back of his head into Abner’s man’s face, causing him to stumble back, clutching his eye.

Joab didn’t know who first screamed it, whether it was him or one of his men or Abner or one of his men, but once the words, “Pick up your swords,” were out there, the wrestlers lunged towards their weapons and grabbed their opponent by the hair. Each pair looked like a strange creature attached at the head. Someone gave a battle cry and the wrestlers gave up the pretense and went at each other. Within a few heartbeats, all twenty-four fighters lay on the ground, dead.

There was a pause, and then a roar from each side as they surged past their dead comrades and fought like enemies.

The real commander of Israel’s army, Part I

~ Natalie Hart ~ 5 Comments

In November, I will post a new fictionalized biblical story every two days. I will. I asked some friends for stories they’d like to hear more of, and there are some great and tough things coming up, but one friend asked for a story I’d already drafted as part of my David and Saul middle school novel series. I felt kinda guilty at the idea of posting it as if it were freshly written, so I’m going to do it as a two-part warm-up over these last days of October.

I still have story slots open, so if there’s something you’d like to see (must be from the Bible), leave the suggestion in the comments or message me. Thanks for reading!

Part I is the buildup to 2 Samuel 2:12-17. It appears nowhere in the biblical record, but it’s how I imagine Abner and Joab wind up with a select group of fighters at the Pool of Gibeon. Joab, Abishai and Asahel are the three sons of David’s sister Zeruiah. In my version, Joab is a couple of years older than David. This story takes place six years after David was made king of Judah, but before he was declared king of a united Israel. Abner is the commander of Israel’s military, and has been since the early days of Saul’s reign (as such, he was the commander when David was in the army). Now he’s based in Mahanaim, across the Jordan, trying to keep the rule of Saul’s son Ishbosheth going.

********

Joab punched the ground under his head, but he didn’t have to be a seer to know that the rock that jabbed into his jaw when he lay down was not what he was angry at.

It was his uncle.

He punched the roof of his tent this time.

Abishai turned over. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“Shove it,” Joab said.

“What is it now?” Asahel mumbled.

It was an insult to his position and a constant thorn in his side, one of those really long seerim thorns, that he had to share a tent with his brothers. He was the commander of the forces of Judah. And not just of Judah.

What Joab really was, was the commander of the army of Israel, no matter what Abner called himself. “I have thousands of men from every single tribe in Israel,” Joab blurted. “Including Benjamin, including relatives of Saul and of Abner, including Manassah, even from all the way north, from Naphtali and Asher. Who does he think he is?”

“Is this rant about Abner or about David?” Asahel asked.

“It sounds like the one about Abner,” Abishai answered.

Joab ignored them both. “We’re just as much the army of Israel as his army is. More so, unless there are thousands of defectors from Judah, which there aren’t.”

“Some day you’ll be the—”

“I don’t want some day.” Joab flipped over onto his back. “I want it now.”

“We’re doing good work,” Abishai said. “Work the king has asked us to do.”

His middle brother’s point was reasonable, but Joab didn’t want to be reasonable, he didn’t want to be measured. “And what work has our uncle the king been doing? I’ll tell you. He and his wives have been parading around in the clothes and the jewelry we earn with our sweat and our swords. Speaking of wives, how many is he up to now?”

Asahel said, “You know it’s six.”

Joab sniffed. “A new wife every year he’s been in Hebron.”

“Not really,” Abishai said. “He brought Ahinoam and Abigail with him.”

“You have to admit, it was a major coup getting the king of Geshur to give David one of his daughters,” Asahel said.

“Are you denying that you loved every moment of leading the delegation to escort King Talmai back to Geshur, right past Mahanaim? The gold-plated shoulder guards alone….,” Abishai trailed off as if he were lost in the memory.

Joab almost smiled. “I even waved at Abner.” His brothers were right, but only about that one instance. “That’s my point. We’ve been living like we’re still in the desert, conducting raids and protecting travelers for a pittance while David lives it up in Hebron, stuffing his coffers, marrying more wives, having more sons. That sounds a whole lot better than this patch of hard ground.”

“He’s got his job and we’ve got—”

“I swear, Abishai.” Joab pushed himself up on his elbows. “If you try to jolly me one more time, the next thing I punch will be you.”

“I just want to get some sleep,” Abishai said.

“I just want my respect,” Joab said. “I want what’s due to me.”

“You’ll get it, brother.” Abishai reached a hand over to make some kind of comforting gesture, but Joab grabbed it in his fist.

They pushed at each other for several long moments before Joab let go and turned over.

 

The next morning, two messengers came for Joab.

They bowed, but their heads barely dipped past their shoulders.

Joab narrowed his eyes at them, but they didn’t redo the gesture. “No time for warm-up nonsense. Spit it out.”

“We come with an invitation from the commander of the army of Israel,” the taller one said.

This was the wrong morning to use that phrase. Joab growled and Abishai had to step in front of him.

The messengers backed up and put a hand to the hilts of their swords.

“What is it?” Abishai said. “And as a favor to all of us, just use the name of the person who sent you.”

“Abner requests a meeting at the Pools of Gibeon.”

Joab shook off his brother and stood with his arms crossed. He was twice as wide as these skinny little runners. “Why?”

The taller one stammered. “He, he, he just told me to make the request.”

“Bull. Is this a peaceful meeting? Should I bring my whole army? Is he bringing his whole army? Has he sent word to my king?”

The messenger flicked a glance at Abishai.

Joab rolled his eyes and gestured for the man to continue.

This is a private request from my lord,” the messenger said.

“No kings?” Joab asked.

“No kings,” the man said. “What can I tell my master?”

Joab pointed a thick, scarred finger in the middle of the man’s chest. “Tell him I’ll see him there, not with the full army, but he should bring his best unit.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Joab was already walking away when the messenger spoke again. “May I trouble your hospitality for some bread and water?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Joab said. “You come here saying you’re representing the commander of the armies of Israel, when that’s what everyone here calls me, and you expect me to give up my hard-earned supplies to you? You’re as much an enemy to me as someone from Gath.” He spat. “Feel lucky that I don’t slice your beard off. Get outta here.”

He watched the men walk away, their outrage at this treatment obvious in their exaggerated dignity. Joab smiled. Finally, it was on.

High Hopes, Low Expectations

~ Natalie Hart ~ 6 Comments

Parenting Edition

Those couple of years when my kids were 3 & 1 and 4 & 2, my biggest parenting epiphany was this: have no or low expectations for how the day would go. When I had no expectations — i.e. we could go to the grocery store or not, go to the park or not, the children would play nicely on their own while I got things done or the things weren’t that necessary so I could drop them if need be — the day went well and we were all happy but tired at the end. I had hope that things could get done and small people would nap when I wanted them to, but low expectations of it actually happening.

This mostly had to do with time pressure: if I let go of the idea that certain things had to happen at certain times, and let the day flow, everything went smoother. But it also had to do with the level of the hopes: the more time I spent daydreaming about how well a certain thing was going to go, the more out of control I’d feel when it didn’t go as I’d imagined. And then that out-of-control feeling would compound itself into a really bad day.

I was mostly unsuccessful at this, but it was my goal.

Publishing Edition

But this post isn’t about parenting; it’s about publishing. Every time I send out a query to a new potential agent, I play the same game of high hopes but low expectations.

I love to imagine the agent requesting a full manuscript and loving it and offering representation and they’re the right agent and we do some revisions (because I’m not crazy enough to think the manuscript is perfect) and the agent sends it to the right publisher who buys it and everything goes awesomely and the book finds lots and lots of readers and I’m able to sell my subsequent books and even get interviewed on Fresh Air or any other NPR show that will have me. I even imagine hostile interviews with people who might be upset that I’m making stuff up about biblical characters. Seriously, this is what I do while I’m driving. And I do a fair bit of driving.

At the same time, I’m a realist. I send each packet off, either by snail- or email, knowing it will most likely garner me another rejection. High hopes, low expectations.

There is no external time pressure: the world doesn’t (yet) know it’s clamoring for my stories. But I create the pressure, the wanting it to happen now. Which sucks. Especially the more I let my imagination go on the “high hopes” side.

High Hopes = Vainglory?

At Breathe, the Christian writer’s conference I attended a couple of weeks ago, the final speaker, Sharon Brown, talked about sins that can be traps for writers. One of them was vainglory, which she defined as the “need to maintain an image with a high approval rating … compulsively desiring recognition.” This is different from pride. Pride is being all impressed with yourself because of what you have done. Vainglory is the need for others to be impressed with you.

It’s particularly brutal for the unpublished writer, because you can know that you’ve written a good and satisfying story, but if you want to publish traditionally, you need that approval of others — agents, publishers, reviewers, readers. Even if you self-publish, you need readers to approve enough to buy your book, and your next one, etc.

These needs and compulsive desires supplant the sense of self we are to receive from God. We’re ambitious for our own glory, not for God’s. Which is where I’m all tangled up, because the David and Saul novel is telling a story from the Bible, it was written with loads of prayer, and I’d love for it to drive people back to the original stories. But I need that external approval to make it happen on the scale I think it could happen.

Oh. Did you catch that? I’m making my own problem again. Not only do I want it to happen SOON, I want it to happen BIG. I can almost taste how big it could get.

Hello, vainglory. I am Natalie.

The antidote?

A friend who is a poet has an admirable goal in the next year: she wants to get 100 rejections. Because putting her work out there often enough to collect that many “no’s” means that she’s working every angle she can, and not letting herself get stuck when all those no’s come, which makes it more likely that some yeses will come her way.

I’ve gotten fewer than a dozen rejections in six months on It Is You. I’m not putting it out there enough.

Is repeated rejection the antidote for vainglory? I don’t think so. I think it can make the need for that approval more desperate: the longer it takes, the worse it gets. Somehow, I need to move from high hopes, low expectations, to some hopes, low expectations.

Because the thing about vainglory is that it’s feeding my Resistance to working on the next book. After all, how can I work on the next thing if I don’t know the status of the first thing? And all that picturing my future glory supplants the imagining I used to do about my works in progress.

So what can I do about it, other than pinching myself when I go into that vainglorious daydream place?

1. In November, instead of doing the normal NaNoWriMo novel, I’m going to write 15 pieces of short biblical fiction and post them here. I’m going to take a scene, a moment from the Bible and imaginatively retell it. That should keep my brain way too busy to have time for vainglory. (Also, I’m looking for suggestions — let me know if there’s a story you want me to delve into.)

2. Try the prayer Sharon Brown recommended: “Deliver me from the impulse to impress and make me ambitious for Your glory.”

Amen. May it be so.

 

What’s Your Superpower?

~ Natalie Hart ~ Leave a comment

What if you were normal and all your friends were superheroes? And at your wedding reception, your superhero wife’s superhero ex-boyfriend (the Hypnotist) hypnotized her into not being able to see or hear you. He went a step further: when you tried to touch her, her reactions ranged between muscle spasms all the way to stopping breathing if you tried to hold her in her sleep. How would you get her to see you? To know that you didn’t abandon her?

This is a different take on the issue of invisibility in relationships than I’ve written about here and here, more malicious and focused (because everyone else can see the main character except his wife), but just as devastating. Thank you to a blog reader for alerting me to Andrew Kaufman’s marvelous novella, All My Friends Are Superheroes.

Woes of the newly married

The situation in the novella is unlikely, but it got me thinking. How common is it, shortly after being married, to stop truly seeing our spouse? Maybe the rest of you had a glorious honeymoon period, but I did not have a smooth transition to the married state. The actual living with another person was fine. The having someone there to send out to the store when I had an ice cream craving at 10 p.m. (we were living in the Bronx without a car, and I didn’t walk around by myself much after dark) was great, although I gained back the weight I’d lost my first year of graduate school. And other stuff was … enjoyable.

The tough part was the mental adjustment to being married. Being married put me in a different category than my fellow graduate students, none of whom were married. Professors were married. Students lived together or had long distance relationships, or none at all. I was a feminist studying to be a philosophy professor. What was I doing, under 30 and married?

The conventionality of being a wife bothered me. I didn’t think of myself as a conventional person, but there I was, doing the conventional thing. It was odd to feel simultaneously unusual and conventional. I was a little embarrassed to be married. That changed in time and as we got to know other young married couples. But it was an adjustment.

My poor husband. I burst into tears once because he bought whole milk. Was he trying to kill me? Didn’t he care about my family’s history of high cholesterol? How could he be so insensitive? I became obsessed with what patterns of behavior we might be establishing, inflexible about him doing the dishes when I cooked and folding the laundry when I washed, about me never ironing his shirts (back when he still wore ironed shirts), not even to act “wifely” in a self-aware yet ironic way.

All this is to say that I spent much of the first year of marriage wrapped up in my own internal drama (deciding to quit graduate school during that year didn’t help). I don’t know how much I truly “saw” my husband, how much I thought about his experience of our marriage. After 18 years, I think I’m better about that now. And I’ve come to terms with my conventionality — for goodness’ sake, I’m a Midwestern stay at home mom who drives a minivan.

Unusual superpowers 

Even though All My Friends Are Superheroes got me thinking about the heavier stuff above, it isn’t a heavy story. It’s warm-hearted, and charming, and sweet and funny. I loved the superhero names and descriptions. Most of these superheroes can’t fly, and they don’t have superstrength. Their superpowers are ordinary things magnified. Here are a few of my favorites:

If you arrive at a party and suddenly find yourself completely relaxed, there’s a good chance the Stress Bunny is there. Blessed with the ability to absorb the stress of everyone in a fifty-foot radius, the Stress Bunny is invited to every party, every outing.
Her power originates from her strict Catholic upbringing (p.33).

All through her youth, the Battery had two things: an overpowering father and an over-rebellious mind. In combination, these forces gave her the ability to store great amounts of emotional energy and release it in one blinding bolt. But beware: the Battery’s allegiances aren’t to good or evil, but simply against whatever stands in her way. Friend, foe or innocent bystander — the Battery’s emotional energy bursts are unpredictable and she will strike at will (p.32)

Mr. Opportunity knocks on doors and stands there. You’d be surprised how few doors get answered (p.75).

The main character even talks about the difficulties this style of superhero has:

Try it, right now; boil down your personality and abilities to a single phrase or image. If you can do that, you’re probably a superhero already.

Part of the problem with finding your superhero name is that it may refer to something you don’t like about yourself. It may actually be the part of yourself you hate the most, would pay money to get rid of (p.71).

The Big Question

What is your superpower? What is mine? It’s easier to come up with someone else’s superpower first, so I’ll do my husband.

I’d call him Mr. It’ll Work Out, because he lives as if things are going to work out. This superpower only works in ordinary life situations; i.e. it doesn’t prevent people around him from getting or dying from cancer. But he doesn’t get stressed or anxious, not even about new things or experiences. And the thing is, things usually work out. It makes him a great person to have around, and a great leader. I both rely on this calmness and security, and get irritated by it (because it makes my anxiety seem so meaningless).

As for myself, I could be some combination of some superheroes in the book: Mistress Cleanasyougo, the Dancer, with a bit of the Battery thrown in. But I’m going to go on a limb and call myself The Presence. I have a strong physical presence; people always think I’m taller than I am. I have a strong presence on stage when I’m dancing. My face and entire body will radiate my emotional state, which will affect those around me. If you’ve known me awhile, I reveal myself as very passionate about many things, and I can express myself quite forcefully. I’ve got an effective “don’t you even think about doing that” parenting look I can put on. I don’t know if it’s as true these days, but people used to find me intimidating. A few people have told me that, before they knew me, they were scared of me.

There are mitigating factors, of course, but if I’m looking for a trait that has both positives and negatives, I think that’s it.

So, sharing time. What is your superhero name?

CPR for Conversational Dead Zones

~ Natalie Hart ~ 2 Comments

I was at a writer’s conference this weekend with a friend who writes poetry. She told me that when people ask her what she does or what she writes, the answer of “poetry” is a conversational killer; she gets something general like, “that’s nice,” or “oh,” and nothing else. I observed it myself, and, indeed, dead in the water once she said “poetry.”

Which made me embarrassed — for myself — because I’d never asked her specific questions about her poetry. We’d talked about being writers, and I thought I was being supportive of her pursuits, but she’d mostly volunteered info. So I asked her what she’d like people to ask and then did so myself.

I’ve experienced the same thing when I tell people I’m a stay-at-home mom. I get, “how nice that you can do that,” or “good for you,” and then nothing. Heck, I don’t always know what to say to other SAHMs and I am one.

Whether one doesn’t ask a follow-up question out of fear that the answer will be somehow disagreeable, or fear that the asking will make the other person uncomfortable, or just plain shyness, letting the answer lie there, dead, sucks. It makes the askee feel like a weirdo or a bore, and the asker (at least when it’s me) feel like a conversational failure.

Several years ago, I stopped making “what do you do?” my first question. I usually go with “are you originally from here,” which goes pretty well, but at a certain point, you’ve kind of got to ask what a person does with their days. I tend to put it, “Do you do any work for pay?” because of my own experience of working hard for no money. (Similarly, I answer, “not for pay,” when people ask me whether I work.) But that second question can be a stumper.

As a service to shy or fearful conversationalists like myself, below are some follow-up questions to common conversation ending responses to, “what do you do?”

I’m a stay-at-home mom.

  • How old are your kids?
  • What are your kids into these days?
  • What’s something you love to do that you don’t have time for anymore?
  • What are you working on with your kids now?

I write poetry.

  • What kind of things do you write about?
  • How long does it typically take you to finish a poem?
  • What are you working on now?

I’m a physics professor.

  • What’s your specific area?
  • What are you working on now?

I include the above as an example of what to say when someone has a job the average person can’t hope to understand. There’s a physicist in my life and I’ve asked him the above two questions once each in the 20 or so years I’ve known him. I felt like I could understand and even explain his answer to someone else for all of five minutes, and then it was gone. But it’s good to ask, even if you know the answer will go over your head.

In fact, “what are you working on now” is a great question for pretty much any endeavor, because we’re always working on something. Mothers may be working on potty training, teaching kids to cook, or even teaching a child with a disability to swallow. Artists and academics and freelancers and master craftspeople of all stripes always have a current or recent project to talk about.

I work in a factory.

I admit that I’ve always been a little stymied by this one. But here’s what I’ve come up with:

  • What shift do you work?
  • Do you like the people you work with?

Those of you who’ve worked or currently work in factories or other manual labor jobs, what follow-up questions do you wish people would ask?

I’m a psychologist.

Another tough one, because there are very few specifics they can give, but here are a couple:

  • Is there a kind of therapy you specialize in?
  • Is there a specific group of people you specialize in / avoid working with?
  • Do people at parties try to get you to diagnose them or their family members for free?
That’s all I’ve got for now. If you have an unusual job or situation that makes people draw a blank, tell us what you wish they’d ask you. You’d be doing a service to shy and awkward persons, like myself.