Act I
I examined my face in what was left of the water.
The skin around my eye was turning dark purplish blue, and it was throbbing so
hard I thought for sure that I would see the reflection pulse to the painful
rhythm. Eli had hit me again, but what of it? There were worse things in the
world than getting smashed in the face one more time. Like feeling you were
worthless. Like waiting for the day when your neighbors would finally throw you
out on the trashheap where you belonged.
The chores wouldn't wait. I did all the usual
things, filling that big empty hole inside by planning what I would cook for
him tonight. I had all kinds of ideas, new experiments that he would certainly
enjoy. He liked it when I cooked new things for him. He liked it when I paid
attention to him.
Noonday came—as it usually did—and the water
wouldn't fetch itself. I wished it would. But at least I wouldn't have to go
out with all the others, feeling their eyes on me, seeing them talking to one
another, saying things behind their hands that they would never say straight to
my face. At least if I went out at noon they would all be in their little
houses where it was safe and cool and clean. I would go out to Jacob’s well
alone.
My village of Sychar sat on the southeastern slope
of Mount Ebal, not far from the gloomy ruins of old Shechem. Below, shimmering
in the noonday sun, lay a crossroads, a little plain, and Jacob's well. Mount
Gerizim, the holy mountain, frowned at me from across the valley. It was only a
fifteen minute walk from my house to the well, not unpleasant in the cool of
late autumn.
It was usually a lonely walk, but of course I didn't
mind. On that day though, I met a group of men coming from the south. Jews. You could tell it by their
clothes, their mannerisms, and the way they wrinkled their noses as if smelling
something nasty. What they smelled was
Samaritan flesh and Samaritan homes and Samaritan mountains. They looked like
butterflies forced to feed on dung. They were taking the shortcut through
Samaria, no doubt, the "unsavory" way to get from Judea to Galilee.
I kept my head down, sticking to the opposite side
of the road, ignoring them as best I could. I felt their stares, but shrugged
them off. When I got to the well, though, there was another one there. A Jew
like the rest, he had apparently lingered by the well to rest himself while the
others went into the village to conduct their business. He was staring into the
well as I approached, then he looked up at me and I put my head down.
Jewish men don't talk to women out of doors. Much,
much, much less a Samaritan woman. I
prepared to lower my waterpot into the well, but almost dropped it when I heard
a low voice say, "Give me a drink." I looked around, as if there were
someone else—a Pharisee or something—standing nearby whom this man might have
been talking to. No such thing. I noticed his soft brown eyes following me as I
drew the water.
"How is it that you, a Jew, ask me for drink,
since I'm a Samaritan woman?"
"If you knew the gift of God, and who it is who
says to you, 'Give me a drink,' you would have asked him, and he would have
given you living water."
I don't know what I was expecting, but that wasn't
it. I looked at him. Hard. Should I be skeptical? Should I be amused? I decided
on somewhat sarcastic. "Sir, you have nothing to draw with and the well is
deep (about 100 feet deep). Where do
you intend to get that living water?" He didn't respond, Just sat there,
placid. I wanted to needle this man, this Jew who was sitting on our well as if
he owned it. "You are not greater than our father Jacob, are you, who gave
us the well, and drank of it himself and his sons and his cattle?"
