The Virtue of Sin Page 4

  What does Daniel expect me to do? It feels like one of our Lessons, where we must decide who is righteous. I almost never get those right. Even now, I feel like the other brother in the story of the prodigal son. Where was his reward? I am the faithful. I am the righteous. I am the son of a Council Member. Aaron is none of these.

  I’m not saying I’m perfect. I shouldn’t have spoken to her, not even those two small words. It’s against all the rules. But when Aaron said her name, I was in shock. And when I heard her voice—I wanted—so soft, yet so earnest, it was like someone else took over. I wasn’t a Seeker of Wisdom, or strength trainer, or devoted pupil of our Leader. I was just Caleb. And I wanted her.

  So maybe this is my punishment. Maybe Daniel knows, somehow. Maybe I’m supposed to choose another wife to show my contrition. Except I’m not sorry. Instead, I regret not saying more. Why didn’t I talk to her, instead of leaving those stupid messages in the sand? Surely that punishment couldn’t be any worse than the pain I feel right now.

  I could have told her how I’ve loved her since before the time of Separation. Back when we were still allowed to play together, and Marcus liked to give us biblical riddles and then show off how smart he was when we couldn’t solve them. I was usually the slowest, and I took the brunt of his teasing. But Miriam never laughed, even when the others did. In fact, once she stumped Marcus with a riddle of her own. He’d just given me one: Who came close enough to Heaven to kiss the gate, but ended up in Hell? The answer was Judas, though I hadn’t guessed. In the midst of everyone’s laughter, Miriam had spoken up. “Who broke every commandment?”

  Marcus had snorted a laugh, so sure he was right. “That’s easy. If you’re going to play, Miriam, at least try to come up with a riddle that doesn’t have the same answer as mine.”

  But he was wrong. “It’s Moses,” she’d said, making sure he got it before she’d looked at me. “He dropped the tablets. Broke the commandments. Every single one.” Then she’d hopped on her bike and ridden off, her hair blowing behind her.

  I love her hair. I should have told her that. It’s like a spring of coiled energy that can’t be contained—just like her. I love her voice, too. My family sits near hers at Chapel, and I can hear her voice above everyone else’s. It’s like a kind of prayer. Or I could have told her about the way her laugh makes everything inside me tingle. Or that I’ve dreamt of her. That I meant to choose her.

  I should have tried harder. I don’t know how many of my messages she got, or if she even understood them. It took me a long time to figure out how to say I love the way you sing with just a stick in the sand. I settled on a heart and a music note. I dreamt you were my wife was just a cloud and a circle-cross. I’m not good with words. Even less when I’m limited by symbols meant for godly worship instead of forbidden love. Though it wasn’t really forbidden. I was supposed to choose her. I just wasn’t supposed to let her know.

  Now I’ll never get the chance. Especially not if I marry someone else.

  “Caleb,” Daniel says again, his voice even more commanding than his magnetic stare. “Choose.”

  “I can’t.” I drop to my knees. “I will do anything, any sort of penance, if you will just—”

  “God has a message for us,” Daniel says, stretching out an arm as his voice carries across the cave. “Brothers, close your eyes, so that He might better communicate.”

  The men obey.

  Daniel presses his thumbs over my eyelids. “You too, Caleb. Listen for His instructions.”

  I kneel in the dirt, my eyes pressed tightly shut. So faint is the voice of God as He whispers in my ear, “Delilah.”

  Delilah? The redhead? She’s the same age as one of my younger brothers, a child. I shake my head, once, then more firmly. “No,” I say, opening my eyes and struggling to my feet. And then, “I won’t choose.” I say it louder, into the microphone this time, my denial echoing off the cave walls. It worked for Aaron, when he spoke Miriam’s name aloud.

  And so it must for me, because though Daniel’s gaze burns with a dangerous light, he merely tilts his head. Then he says, “So be it.”

  I barely feel Father’s hand as he pushes me into the tunnel. Alone. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go now or what will become of me.

  The reality of what I’ve done presses on me like these suffocating walls. I’ve defied Daniel. And God. I’ve refused to take a wife. No man in New Jerusalem, other than our Leader, has ever gone unmarried. I’ve never felt so scared, or so lost.

  I’ve also never been this angry. With a roar that comes from deep inside, I beat my fist against the rock wall. Pain winds from my blood-slick knuckles up my arm, and I’m glad. It pushes out all the other feelings, at least for a second.

  Daniel says my temper is my weakness. Tonight, it feels more like Aaron’s problem.

  4

  MIRIAM

  OR DO YOU NOT KNOW THAT YOUR BODY IS A TEMPLE OF THE HOLY SPIRIT WITHIN YOU, WHOM YOU HAVE FROM GOD? YOU ARE NOT YOUR OWN, FOR YOU WERE BOUGHT WITH A PRICE.

  —1 Corinthians 6:19–20

  My skin still burns from the feel of their hands on me—my arms, my shoulders, my head. Every man I know took a turn. Once I was married, they were allowed to touch me, so they did. It’s actually one of the few things I knew would happen tonight. Phoebe told us in Lessons, after swearing us to secrecy. She said she wanted us to be prepared, but I didn’t realize how belittling it would be.

  What else have I neglected to consider?

  Aaron stumbles, and I reach out to steady him automatically, before I remember what he’s done. His skin is sallow, and beads of sweat line his forehead. I don’t know him well enough to tell if his discomfort is pain or something else, and though Church law states that since we’re married we can speak, for the first time in my life I can’t find the words. Instead, I study the tunnel we’ve been shunted into.

  Every Child of Daniel has been taught the importance of these tunnels. Many years ago, after Genesis but before the birth of Christ, lava flowed beneath the earth in certain sacred spaces. When the lava cooled and drained, it left behind tunnels. Their existence was foretold to Daniel in a dream, and they are the reason New Jerusalem was settled here, at the base of the Soda Mountains, away from the rest of the corrupt world. The tunnels and the Marriage Cave are sacred spaces, and before tonight, I’d never been in either. Now that I’m finally here, the damp, craggy space lit by flickering candles is yet another disappointment in this nightmare I thought would be a celebration. Maybe the reason none of the Elders talk about this night isn’t that they want to keep the memory private, but that they’d rather forget.

  Aaron sags against the tunnel wall, eyelids fluttering. “How bad is it?”

  I kneel to examine his heel. It’s red and puffy near the wound, but the redness hasn’t spread past my scarf, which is still tied around his ankle. My fingers itch to snatch it off, to turn and run. But then I remember the handwriting. As in the Bible, the hand of God wrote a coded message on the wall of the tunnel for Daniel, giving him directions for forming our community. This is my first and only chance to see it.

  “Look, I know you’re pissed.” Aaron pushes off the wall. “And you’ve got every right to be. But just tell me, am I going to be okay? Shouldn’t I go to a doctor or something?”

  “Pissed?” I don’t know this word that sounds like steam escaping a kettle.

  “Okay, super pissed.” He throws his hands in the air and bumps the candleholder, and only then, in the sputtering light, do I see it. The handwriting of God. Aaron has been leaning against it.

  I shove him aside, both so he won’t deface it any further and so I can read it.

  But I can’t. And it feels like yet another mistake in a night of many. Though I’ve been taught the message is a code only Daniel can comprehend, deep down I always imagined when I saw it, I’d understand it. But this is just a bunch of drawings an
d scribbles. Caleb’s messages are easier to decipher than this, and they are mere scratches, easily erased by a footstep or a soft breeze.

  Aaron watches me run tentative fingers over the stick figures and shapes.

  “You act like you’ve never seen them before. They’re petroglyphs.”

  I glare at him, and he holds up his hands in supplication, more careful of the flame this time. “Or maybe not. What do I know?”

  “Nothing.” I pinch my lips together and manage to hold back my tears. How foolish of me to assume that once I was married, my husband could teach me. Now I’m married to an Outsider who knows even less than me.

  “Let’s go,” I say. “My mother is a nurse. She can take care of your foot. Although you should have done that earlier.” If only he’d gone for medical attention, maybe Daniel would have halted the Matrimony and we wouldn’t be here now.

  “A real nurse?” he asks.

  “What other kind is there?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I keep walking and he limps behind. The silence is broken only by the occasional crunch of rock beneath our feet, until the path grows steep and the walls narrow, and we emerge into the city from a rocky outcropping wedged behind the guard shack. The old wooden door that normally blocks this tunnel has been rolled away, and as I step into the cool night air, I choke. New Jerusalem is bigger than the cave or the tunnel, but the fence is impossibly high and the floodlights perched atop it blindingly bright and I’m suffocating. I turn back—to run, though where would I go? But my mother steps forward and holds out her hands, and I force myself to breathe. One breath. Then another.

  “Mother. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to welcome you home,” she says. “You left here tonight separately, as children. But you return as husband and wife.”

  The words sound flat, rehearsed. She’s adopted a mask of serenity, but I have had years of practice, and I know her tells. The thinning of her lips as she surveys my dingy work dress means disappointment. The wrinkles in the corners of her eyes convey worry. Does she know this marriage is a terrible mistake? Does everyone? Or is this how every wedding night begins? Maybe she isn’t concerned about the Matrimony. Perhaps it’s the night to come that worries her.

  It certainly worries me.

  “Miriam?” she asks.

  “Aaron’s been bit.” I point to his foot.

  “In the tunnel?” Her mouth puckers, and the wrinkles spread to her forehead.

  “No. Before . . .” He doesn’t finish.

  She kneels beside him, and he lifts his foot and pulls off his sandal, her fingers lingering on the fabric knotted at his ankle. She must recognize the scarf; it’s my favorite, the same shade of light purple as the Mojave asters that grow wild along the fence. Aaron winces but doesn’t protest as she moves it aside and probes the heel with expert fingers.

  I think of the men, back in the cavern, with their grasping hands. How does he like it? Has he ever been touched by a woman he barely knows? But if he feels anything other than pain, it doesn’t show.

  “I think you got lucky,” Mother says, standing and brushing dust off her long skirt. “It must not have been poisonous.”

  “Really?” Aaron grimaces as he shifts weight back onto his injured foot. “I was sure it was a rattlesnake . . .” He trails off.

  She gives me a sharp look and waits a beat. When I don’t speak, the creases in her forehead deepen. “About one in four rattlesnake bites are dry—they don’t inject venom. We should keep an eye on it, of course. Miriam can help. She knows all about first aid. Apparently.”

  Can Aaron hear the suspicion in her voice, or is it only me? Surely she knows I couldn’t leave him to die. No matter what his gender.

  “Why don’t we get you two settled in your apartment? Get you off your feet.”

  As we walk past the front of the guard shack, Aaron glances back at the tunnel. “I didn’t realize . . . is that the only way in?”

  My mother pauses, turning her back on the gates, which still stand ajar. “No. There’s also the cave.”

  He ducks his head. “Oh. Right. I’m just . . . a little turned around.”

  Maybe Mother is wrong about the bite, and the poison has spread to his brain.

  Mother begins walking again, toward the newly renovated Cooperative Dormitory. It used to be a motel, many years ago, when New Jerusalem was a health facility for the spiritually unwell, but that was before our time here. For most of my life it was an empty shell, waiting for a purpose.

  “Every new couple has been allotted a dwelling space,” she tells us, as if we don’t already know. The boys helped fix and furnish the dilapidated stucco building. As for the girls, my friends and I snuck over many times to wander the open-air corridors that ring both stories of the building. We tried to peer in the darkened windows and ran our fingers over the corroded brass numbers on the doors and argued over who would be lucky enough to get the apartments overlooking the lake. But mostly, we talked about what we thought marriage would be like.

  I never imagined it would be like this.

  “It’s been furnished with everything you need to start your lives together.” My mother trips over the last word. “That way, you can spend time getting to know each other, without the worries of daily life intruding.”

  That strangling feeling comes over me again, and I cling to the iron railing as she leads us up the stairwell. Daily life? I don’t want to think about one day with this man, let alone a life with him. Everything is happening so quickly, and I don’t know how to stop it. I can barely remember how to breathe.

  Once we’ve entered the building, we pass Susanna’s mother, just leaving, on our way up the stairs. Are Susanna and her husband, whoever he is, already settled in to their new home? I open my mouth to ask, but Lydia nods at my mother, glances at Aaron, and then scowls at me, so I snap it closed. The woman shares her daughter’s warm personality.

  “Someone will be bringing by your meals for the time being,” my mother says as we walk down the outside corridor until we’ve reached the door to our apartment. Her smile falters for only a moment, and she almost catches her lower lip between her teeth. “Myself or one of the other Council Members’ wives. These first few days you’ll be free from Lessons and Vocational Duties. There will still be Prayer, of course. Thrice daily. More, if you wish. It helps with the . . . adjustment. That and talking. I imagine you have much to say.”

  This is directed at me, but for once it sounds more like a plea than an admonishment.

  She opens the door and leads us inside. It’s smaller than I pictured. There will be no room for me to avoid my new husband here. Our “house” is essentially one room, broken only by a half wall. My mother switches on a table lamp, but the light does nothing to improve my view. The window beside the door looks out over the corridor we just left. On the wall to my right, there is a couch and an end table with the single lamp. Centered above the couch hangs a large portrait of Daniel. To our left, a small table and two chairs, and behind it, a door I hope leads to the bathroom. In the far corner, a short countertop juts from the wall, partially obscuring a small refrigerator and cooktop.

  The double bed lies just beyond the half wall in front of us.

  “Daniel will come by soon. To . . . visit,” my mother continues, stepping around me to pat at the couch cushion.

  Aaron sinks down on the couch with a grimace. “How soon? Tonight?”

  Her teeth try to grab her lip again. “Probably not. Maybe tomorrow. He will talk with you about your new Lessons. And your duties.”

  “What kind of duties?” he asks.

  I struggle to keep the desperation off my face as I wait for her answer. Please, let her mean the weaving. I don’t want to think about my other duties. Not with him.

  She pauses to prop Aaron’s foot on a pillow, then says, “I’m told you will both be appren
ticing in the Woolen Mill. Daniel will also answer your questions about . . . other things.”

  Aaron collapses back into the cushions and closes his eyes.

  I’d scream, but panic has taken my ability to both breathe and speak.

  In a moment, my mother will leave, and we will be alone. And then what? I’m not naïve. We do our own work in this community. I’ve seen the barn animals. I know the basic premise. I have also studied scripture. But if they cannot exercise self-control, they should marry. For it is better to marry than to burn with passion. 1 Corinthians 7:9.

  Why have I never noticed the passage is exclusionary? Can the two not exist together, passion and marriage? I have allowed myself to imagine what both might be like. Cooking dinner in my own kitchen while I hum softly to myself, no one there to quiet me. Walking to Chapel in the middle of the city, hand in hand in hand with our children. Waking up next to Caleb, the sunlight stretching warm fingers across his chest.

  But only Caleb. Never have I pictured another man, and certainly not this near-stranger.

  My mother kisses my forehead, then hesitates before she kisses Aaron’s. “I have to go help Rachel settle in to her new home.”

  The pang of longing is so sharp I almost cry. How I wish I were with Rachel, back in the bedroom we’ve shared since we were babies, instead of here in this unwelcoming apartment.

  “Where is Rachel? Who did she marry?”

  “Phoebe escorted her, so that I could come with you,” she says, not really answering either of my questions. So that much hasn’t changed.

  “Phoebe?” I pray Rachel’s been chosen by a more suitable husband than I have. If not, if she has doubts like me, Phoebe is the last person she’d want to share them with.

  Mother knows this, too. “I should go to her and leave you to get acquainted.” But she doesn’t. Instead, she hovers near the door. What is she thinking? Is it difficult to leave her daughter with a man she doesn’t know? This is our custom, and I’ve never questioned it. Not until this moment. But she also once sat in a strange room with a man she had never exchanged so much as a single word with. That man became my father. She must know this panic welling inside me. So why doesn’t she console me?