Baby’s on Time
And it came to pass in the year one thousand five hundred and thirty-six, in the second month, on the third day of the week, that the Old Man slipped into our bed before sunrise, dripping with sweat.
“Five hundred years old today,” he announces.
I roll over. “Five hundred and two, but who’s counting?”
“Five hundred,” he repeats, louder, as if his great age were a prize.
Flat on my back, I rub my belly. “Trust me, Old Man, I’ve counted every day these past nine months. I can tell you the exact month and day when I knew I was with child. I know my dates and times. Do you?”
Sensing he had lost yet another argument, he shifted the discussion to another subject he would soon lose.
Shim/ Shem
“You still stuck on the name Shem?” he asks. “I mean, what if it’s a girl?”
“It won’t be. This one kicks like a wild donkey.”
“But Shem? Makes him sound like a child born to fill in a gap until someone better comes along.”
“You’re thinking shim, Old Man. Shem means ‘name,’ one who is ‘renown.’ I have a good feeling about this one—even if he does kick the daylights out of my ribs.”
Before he can protest further, Irène from lot thirteen leans in through the open window that the Old Man had promised to fix three years ago. Back when you were four hundred and ninety-nine! I’m tempted to explain, but don’t.
“So, Noah, will you be joining us in the Hamptons this year?”
Hair braided, face adorned as if she were one of the town harlots, her sing-song voice sounds like a ram’s horn snapped in half.
I sit up in bed, clutching the sheet like a queen’s robe. “Oh my dear Irène,” I say sweetly, “do us all a kindness and go bathe in the cement pond. The pigs have been rooting for you to join them.”
Her smile stays fixed, but her eyes narrow. “The Hamptons, Noah. It’ll be such fun. Sun, wine, music—and by then you’ll want a break from that baby’s all-night crying.”
“If you escape to the Hamptons,” I whisper to the Old Man, “do not think of returning home.”
“Our home will soon be gone, as will the Hampton,” he replies. “For the end of all flesh is at hand.”
The Old Man speaks in code.
I understand some of it. Irène, that ditsy Nephilim-loving ninny, would need the alphabet spoon-fed to her before she could hazard a guess at the nonsense the Old Man spouts.
“So that’s a no?” she asks.
I rest my head on the Old Man’s forearm. “All flesh? You and me and the boys, too?”
“Boy,” he replies. “I’m still hoping this one is a girl. But yes. All, as in, well… all.”
“Does that include goats?”
He nods.
“And chickens?”
He bobs his head.
“And Irène?”
Irène responds, “Um?”
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” I say.
“Especially her,” he confides. “The daughters of men are beautiful, and the sons of God take any they wish to… You know… make babies with.”
“And I’m not?” I ask. “Beautiful, I mean?”
“Wife, you are radiant. Lovely as the day is long. But the Voice has said to me, ‘My Spirit will not contend with man forever, for he is mortal. His days will be a hundred and twenty years.'”
“But you’re way older than that.”
“I’m grandfathered in.”
Before I can demand again that the Old Man cease speaking in code, a sharp pain grips me—then my water breaks. Groaning, I look down at my sodden tunic.
The Old Man leaps to his feet. “Water! It’s a sign! I’d better hurry and get started on my boat.”
“You’d better stay here with me.”
“Irène!” he shouts toward the window. “Help the Wife deliver this child. I’m off to hunt for gopher wood!”
“That’s code for what?” Irène asks me.
“I’ll explain later,” I answer.
A quick peck on the forehead and
…the Old Man is out the door.
Still staring at the spreading stain between my thighs, I grumble, “Boat, gophers, wood, pitch, tar — always it’s something with The Voice, nu? Never me. Never, ‘How are you doing, dear?’ Always some project, it is. Tell me, has he forgotten already what The Voice said? Whom He has joined together, let no one put asunder?”
“I think you mean put asunder,” Irène replies.
“What do you know about any of this? You don’t even believe there is a God.”
“I know your old man has you under his thumb, and you deserve better.”
No Arugument
“Can’t argue with you there. And if I had my way, I’d demand that The Voice Himself tell husbands everywhere to ‘Love your wives!’ As is, they’re too stiff-necked to figure out such a thing themselves. Spend their weekends playing games, they do, and their nights at the tavern. Should The Voice ever say such a thing to husbands, the pronouncement could not come soon enough.”
“I like the way you’re thinking. We should invite other wives to join us in this. We shall chant and say it often, ‘A man who doesn’t provide for his household is worse than a heathen. He who doesn’t honor his wife? His prayers go unheard by the gods.”
Still staring at her, I ask, “I don’t suppose you’d consider inviting me to the Hamptons, would you? I would dearly love some time away from this place. The drudgery of keeping this humble hut and chasing our toddler never ends.”
“Let’s deliver this baby first. Then we’ll talk about a girl’s weekend at the beach.”
Noah’s Wife’s Advice to Wives
The Voice says plain: “The husband is the head of the wife“ (1 Corinthians 11:3). Fine. Let him be the head. We’re the body, and it is the body that draws the looks. A chicken without a head can still run for a bit. A head? It’s dead.
The husband is the head “as Christ is the head of the church“ (Ephesians 5:23). This truly is good news, for one of the last things Jesus did was give his disciples foot washing. Next time you’re tired, call him over. Ask your husband to give you a pedicure. Mutual service — that is the way of Christ. No more, “Oy, I’m too tired to take out the trash.”
“Man is the image and glory of God, but woman is the glory of man“ (1 Corinthians 11:7). Translation: if he wants to look good, we’d better look good first. New nail polish. New dress. New shoes. And more new shoes. A lovely wife is a happy life.
Let him lead, ladies. In a parade, the clowns go first — then the queen.