Anointed Mindy Misener (bio) For years, Mary would lie awake at night tallying her memories of her mother, making sure none were slipping away. Martha, Mary's older sister, cared more for their mother's things—her shawl, the sandals imprinted with the shadows of her heels and toes. Martha disdained Mary's obsession with memories as much as Mary disdained Martha's obsession with objects, but even at eight and ten years old they each knew to allow the other her grief, and so their relationship, which could have turned into a permanent battleground, was mostly a place of peace. Their mother had been capable of great joy, but sadness could also steal her away, for she longed for more children, but did not conceive. Then, finally, she was pregnant again, and her pregnancy proceeded until she was large with child. As the birthing time approached, Mary found herself in strange, impulsive moods. One morning, in a moment of carelessness, she knocked their mother's best jar off a shelf. It broke with a dull crunch, as if stepped on. Martha rushed to pick up the pieces, but their mother said, "Wait," and bent awkwardly in front of the fragments. "I've had this jar for years and never seen the inside," she explained. "Well," Martha said, "it's useless now." "Useless," their mother agreed. She added, "But not hopeless." Three days later, she was dead. Mary was supposed to help prepare the body, but she felt choked by the anointing perfume and used her baby brother, Lazarus, as an excuse to flee whenever possible. Someone had found him a wet nurse, but the woman was shared with another family, so Mary took charge of him when the nurse was away. Not that she felt a bit of tenderness for the boy who brought her mother's death. Her plan was to drop him down a well, say a dog dragged him off. But there were too many people around for her to dispose of him just yet, so she gave him a pinky to suck and bided her time. Days passed, then weeks. She couldn't help learning which tones he liked murmured in the tiny whorls [End Page 328] of his ears, the exact pace of walking and bouncing that soothed him. Eventually, when she remembered her plan to drown him, she shuddered and held him so tightly he squawked in protest. _______ Their father had had some success as a trader of minerals from the mountains, but after their mother's death, his standing slipped until he was earning only a fraction of what he once had. Martha and Mary sold weavings to supplement the household income. Lazarus became their intermediary, but he worked as secretly as possible, because though their father had to know the extra money came from somewhere, the charade of his success was all that mattered to him. Over the years, the siblings' business grew to the point that they even sold to some wealthy customers in Jerusalem. They wove and sold more openly now because their father's vision and hearing were faltering. He was wracked with headaches and mostly remained in bed. He didn't like to be helped, though, which is how he ended up under the wheels of a Roman chariot. Bystanders said that when the driver's commands to move went unheeded, he'd urged his horses straight for their father, then glanced back only once at the insolent obstacle. Mary helped Martha and Lazarus prepare the body until the anointing oil was brought out. It had been years since she'd counted up her memories of her mother—she'd realized that the more she handled them, the duller they became—but the nard did something altogether different and more powerful than call to mind a picture or event. It bewitched past into present. Again, she was eight years old, her mother was freshly dead, and the light in the world had been snuffed. Again, it seemed that if only one simple thing could be changed—maybe if the jar could be perfectly restored—her mother would live again. Again, Mary was not up to the...
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