Zacchaeus

They had talked of Jericho, over courses of lamb and beef and soup and herbs . . .

What did Zaccheus do the morning after he hosted the one he wished to see so innocently? Jesus and the twelve had left early, left their woolen blankets folded, left their places on the floor scattered throughout the house unblemished, left the house having filled a basin fresh with water from his own well for his own ease. He was accustomed to rising with the sun, and had promised and anticipated a mild farewell late into the night to the unified response and slow nods of his guests, he had woke with sun and risen to enter the kitchen and dress the collection of farewell supplies of meat and biscuits and wine he had ordered his servants to lay; and he had risen to an empty house with a pile of folded wool and a table identical to how it was laid for the taking: excepting a handful of the leaven rolls. He sighed and sat near the east window and looking outward toward the faint horizon smiled softly, with a hint deep in him that he would never see the Son of Man again.

The talk around the fourteen at the table had been lively and measured, and he had spent the evening between the novelty that he had so eagerly sprung on himself— “Lord the half of my goods…!”— and the inescapable presence, always trapping his eyes to the point of forced aversion, of Jesus of Nazareth. They had talked of Jericho, over courses of lamb and beef and soup and herbs taken all that day from within the bounds of his estate, of that city so cursed in its day for the benefit of their race, of Rahab and their proximity to the ruins of her portico, of Joshua, Moses’ bitter inheritance, of the trumpet blasts now humorful compared to the music of the three hired players opposite the large table, and of the state of that fateful and vivacious city since. The streets had been packed earlier, storefronts unwalkeable and bulged, and a lone tree somewhere, that may have been the only and last thing standing in the rubble fifteen hundred years before.

Zaccheus had plenty of means, and would still have plenty after the keeping of his word: charity and repayment both. He had had Jesus come to his town, to him, and he had quickly proclaimed his vision after being called and the lord, “the son of God?”, had quickly come and quickly left: leaving nothing but his disciples’ tales of days before: a young righteous rich ruler scorned for not selling all he had for alms, another healing—“The blind see!”—; they had talked of investing in a manner he did not understand, and Jesus had made known his anger with the temple’s tradings, that was the first and only time he saw his eyes glow. He had left, and he had left Zaccheus still all the way down, sitting on pale carved wood as the morning came through the crisp air blue, green, pink, red, peach— now clear. He had much in his bank to part with, an estate to manage and many debts to pay; he stood and poured himself a cup of water, it would be painless.