The Virtue of Sin Page 8

  “That’s what you think.” She slaps my hand away and pulls my hair back with practiced strokes, the way she has a thousand times before. “I married Jacob,” she whispers, and her happiness is evident in the tremor in her voice. “What about you? Who is it?”

  This simple request sends my heart into my throat. I shouldn’t have come to Lessons today. I should have pled illness and gone to the Medical Shed. What was I thinking? Aaron was right. Speaking about my marriage in public is wrong; the act of uttering his name will seal my fate.

  I pull away, leaving a chunk of hair wound through Rachel’s fingers.

  She blinks. “I’m not finished.”

  “I have to go. I forgot . . . something . . .”

  “I’m sure Aaron can wait until you get back. After all, it’s only been a half hour since breakfast,” Susanna says, planting herself behind me so that I run straight into her when I turn around.

  “Aaron?” Rachel’s hands go still at the back of my neck, then rest on my shoulders with a tiny squeeze.

  Susanna tosses her hair. She isn’t wearing a head scarf either, though I assume her lack is intentional. “I could see if you were in a hurry to get back to, say, Caleb. But since he didn’t bother to choose, I guess none of us get to reap those benefits.”

  The sound of his name is like an electrical shock.

  Caleb didn’t take a wife?

  Susanna has a talent for knowing exactly what’s going on in the city at any given time. I don’t know how she does it, but she’s usually right. Which is the only reason I give her words any consideration now.

  Behind me, Leah and Eve erupt into excited chatter. “Is that allowed?” and “What was he thinking?” and my body continues to hum with a low-level current as I try to take in the implications of what Susanna has just said. When faced with the choice between me and someone else, he chose . . . no one? What does that mean? Is there still a chance for us to be together?

  Rachel squeezes tighter.

  Susanna watches me, like a coyote eyeing a fresh carcass. But I refuse to give her the satisfaction of letting her know she’s stunned me.

  “And who is it you married, Susanna?” I ask. “You seemed to know last night before you even saw him. How’d you recognize his voice?”

  Her eyes narrow. “Are you accusing me of talking to one of the boys? After what you did? Is it any wonder the Outsider chose you, after you all but threw yourself at him last night?”

  My vision blurs as I blink back sudden tears. I can’t be with Caleb, even if he isn’t married. Because I am. It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m only a woman. I don’t get to choose.

  “I know it’s hard to keep your hands off him at first,” Susanna continues. “But don’t worry. Evening will come soon enough, and then you and Aaron can—”

  “We shouldn’t be talking about this.” I can’t listen to her go on, and not just because I have only an abstract idea of what she’s talking about. Based on her casual reference to marital relationships, her husband wasted no time in introducing her to all aspects of marriage. And judging from the embarrassment on Rachel’s face, and the way Leah and Eve look away, this is probably true for the rest as well. But only Susanna is brazen enough to say the words out loud.

  She throws back her head and laughs, golden hair cascading down her back. “We’re married women now.” She shares a glance with the others. “What are we to discuss, if we can’t talk about our husbands? Surely this is a benefit of marriage. Not the best one, of course.” Her eyes gleam wickedly. “Besides, it’s God’s will. Wives must submit to their husbands.” She cocks her head. “You have submitted, haven’t you, Miriam?”

  I fear everyone can read the answer on my face.

  Susanna spreads her hands wide, encompassing everyone. “It might be said that wives who don’t wish to boast about their husbands’ . . . assets . . . have something to hide.”

  My mouth is suddenly dry, but I manage to quote Psalm 94:4: “‘They pour out their arrogant words; it is the evildoers who boast.’” Then I stumble away from the girls, drop my things, and vomit into the dirt.

  I wipe my mouth and run blindly down the path toward the housing circle. The concrete-block houses are all the same, but I have no trouble finding mine—left side, just around the curve. I’ve been running here for as long as I can remember.

  But this isn’t my house anymore. I won’t be allowed to stay, or even go inside. How could I have forgotten? I stumble and fall to my knees on my parents’ front terrace, a prayer on my lips that God, in his infinite wisdom, can help me find my way home. Wherever that is now.

  9

  CALEB

  The walk to the apartments passes in a blur of longing and resentment. Both Daniel and Father think last night was my fault. By not choosing a wife, somehow I’ve become the sinner. I need to make them see that they’re wrong. Aaron is the Faithless. Not me. He took my wife. I don’t know why, but the easiest way to find it out is to ask him. Right after I beat him senseless.

  The girls have all been called to Lessons, but I don’t pass Miriam on the path. Is she already in the classroom? Or running late? Maybe I’m too late. I wanted, she said, but she didn’t say what. What if one night of marriage has changed her mind? One night of . . .

  I have to physically shake the paralyzing thought from my head. I can’t get distracted. I need answers. I slow in front of the building, scanning the doors on the first floor as I pass by. I don’t know which apartment is theirs. The easiest way to find out would be to stand out front and yell his name. What would he think, that runt, if he heard me roaring outside his door? He’d probably pee himself a little.

  What the hell. “Aaron!” I yell.

  I jump back as droplets spatter the dirt beside me.

  When I look up, Aaron stares down at me from over the railing a few doors down, a coffee mug dangling from his fingers.

  “I figured Daniel would come himself, not just send a lackey,” he says.

  I don’t know what a lackey is, but I’m not going to ask. I sprint for the stairs, running up and around the open corridor at the front of the building. He’s waiting for me, lounging against a doorframe with his hair wet and his shirt unbuttoned. Like he’s perfectly at home here. Just the sight of his smug face makes me want to hurt him. Does he walk around half naked in front of Miriam?

  I walk right up to him, fist cocked.

  He sees it coming and ducks, and I just graze his jaw. His head snaps back, but he recovers quickly and delivers a sharp jab to my gut.

  I double over. Damn. He doesn’t look like a fighter, but he knows how to hit.

  He backs up, tripping over a metal chair on the terrace. He manages to stay on his feet but keeps his distance from me. He may have caught me off guard with the punch, but I’m stronger and he knows it.

  “Let’s not do anything we’re going to regret.” His eyes flick to the apartment doors on either side.

  But I don’t care who hears us. “I don’t think I’ll regret this.”

  After that, I’m not sure what happens. One minute I’m lunging at him, the next I’m up against the side of the building. Aaron shoves my arm back and up, so my fist is pointing at my shoulder blade. Then he leans in, the stucco cutting into my cheek as he whispers in my ear. “Listen, you fucking ape. Beating me up might feel great. For about a second.” He leans harder on my arm, and my vision goes blurry. “But it’s not going to get us anywhere.”

  I suck in air through my teeth. “Get. Off. Me.”

  “Not until you promise to stop acting like a Neanderthal and listen. Can you do that?”

  I try to nod, my face scraping against the building. It’s enough of a concession for him. He shoves one last time, pushing his weight off me.

  I gasp at the sudden relief and turn slowly to face him as I try to rub feeling back into my arm.

  He holds
his arms wide in a gesture of surrender. “Look, man. I was late. I know. It sucks, and I’m sorry. But none of this was my idea.”

  I roll my eyes. Does he honestly expect me to believe anything he says?

  “Don’t believe me? Ask your brother.”

  “What does Marcus have to do with it?”

  He glances down the corridor and lowers his voice. “Like I said, talk to him. The important thing now is Miriam. Neither one of us wants her to get hurt.”

  “Miriam is mine. Not yours.” God, I hope that’s still true. Is he in love with her, too? “I don’t even want to hear you say her name.”

  “Jesus,” he says, almost under his breath. He runs a hand across the top of his hair, and it springs back up. “Look, I get that you’re pissed. And I’m not saying you don’t have a right. But she doesn’t belong to anyone. You get how messed up that sounds, right?”

  “She’s supposed to be my wife. God whispered her name to me.”

  He crosses his arms over his bare chest. “So what? Maybe He whispered her name to me. You can’t prove that He didn’t.”

  This is exactly what I was afraid he’d say. But it isn’t possible. How could God make a mistake like that? Aaron has to be lying.

  “Anyway, we’re married now,” he continues. “From what I hear, that’s not going to change. So if you love her like you say you do, let it go. You keep up this fight”—he circles a finger between us—“all you’re gonna do is piss off Daniel. Just be patient and play it cool, man, and it’ll all work out. Trust me.”

  “Trust you? Why in hell would I trust you?”

  He opens the door behind him and steps backward into the apartment. “Who else are you going to trust? Daniel?” He snorts a laugh and slams the door in my face.

  I raise a fist to pound the door, catching sight of the blood on my knuckles. The tender flesh of my cheek throbs with every breath as I lower my hand. Daniel says anger accomplishes nothing, that it’s an emotion for the weak-minded. I know he’s right. I have to control my temper. It’s just that turning the other cheek never feels as good as punching someone else’s.

  10

  MIRIAM

  THE WOMEN SHOULD KEEP SILENT IN THE CHURCHES.

  —1 Corinthians 14:34

  I manage to pick myself up off my parents’ yard before anyone sees me, leaving the housing circle and turning down the dusty path to the girls’ schoolhouse. I’ve been following this road since I was old enough to walk. Everything else in my life may have changed overnight, but not this. Square and squat, the schoolhouse sits at the bottom of the hill beneath the Council House. Close enough for Daniel to watch over us, but far enough that the mountain shadows at the longest part of the day just brush the eaves of the shiny metal roof.

  I slip in quietly, but I’m late. The others are already praying, so I slide onto one of the juniper benches, the swirled surface worn smooth by years of this same motion. Only the newly married women have been called this morning. Our younger Sisters have apparently been given another free day, and because of their absence, there is more room than I anticipated. There aren’t that many of us of marriageable age. Instead of thirty-seven whispering and giggling Sisters, now we are only nine. But inexplicably, the benches have been clustered together on one side of the room, where we all must huddle, hot and breathless, the air thick with the secrets we’re guarding.

  My Sisters are reciting Ephesians, and Phoebe is nowhere in sight. I resist a sigh of relief. At least this much is familiar. We still start the day with our repetitions, and I know the scripture well enough that I can go to another place in my head. I imagine myself floating above the room. We all look alike, at least on the outside, especially now that we must cover our hair. But is this all we’ll ever be? One bowed head in a sea of wives? Despite the stifling heat, this unsettling thought leaves me cold.

  Leah is on my left, and on her other side, Eve. Susanna is in the front row, along with her close friends Tabitha and Elizabeth. On the bench across the aisle to my right, Rachel holds her head high, her voice clear, while Claudia sits beside her, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. I can’t tell if she’s unhappy with her marriage; Claudia always looks like that.

  Where is Delilah? I count again, but there are only seven other scarf-covered heads.

  From across the aisle, Rachel sees my confusion and gives me a tiny frown as she pulls at her own cotton work skirt in an effort to get me to straighten mine.

  Delilah? I mouth, raising an eyebrow.

  Rachel pinches her lips into a thin line and gives one small shake of her head.

  What does that mean? Where is she?

  Rachel begins the next passage, and the others join in. “‘For a man must leave his mother and father, and cleave to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.’”

  Usually, I love recitation. It’s the most we’re ever allowed to speak out loud. Today, instead of washing over me, the words sting like tiny insects. Leave. Cleave. How can two words that sound so similar have such different meanings? I flip them around as we recite. “For a man must cleave his mother and father, and leave his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.” One tiny change, and the words take on ominous tones of murder and abandonment. Did Paul think about that as he was writing his letter? Or am I the only one who sees marriage as a threat?

  Leah wrinkles her nose. Though she’s kneeling right beside me, she probably can’t hear my actual words, just enough of the discordant sounds to cause her to stumble over her own.

  I study her from beneath lowered lashes. Whose wife is Leah? She’s tall, like many of the boys. Her height and her strength would be an asset to a husband. I try to ignore the sweat pooling on the back of my neck and press my hands to my cheeks to stop the heat. The rest of the girls all look equally flushed. Equally dazed. Are they all having sinful thoughts of their own? They probably have more experience to base them on. All I have is an embrace, some longing glances, the whisper of two words—me too. Does my love count less than theirs?

  Phoebe hurries in, her skirt wrinkled and her blouse buttoned wrong, as if she came here right from her bed. As if the call to Lessons this morning surprised even her. She presses a hand to her chest as she reaches the front of the room. “I apologize, girls. Ladies. Women of God.” She pauses to catch her breath, smoothing her hair with two quick strokes, then holds out her arms. “Welcome. I see you started without me.”

  A few titters of laughter. Most of my Sisters look to Rachel, and Phoebe follows their gaze. “Rachel. I trust I have you to thank for that.” But she doesn’t sound especially thankful.

  So Rachel started Prayers. It doesn’t surprise me. She’s a born leader, and she hates being behind schedule. Rachel ducks her head, but not before I see her pained expression. Marriage may bring blessings, but it will not bring her freedom from Phoebe’s judgment.

  “Where is Daniel?” asks one of my Sisters. Normally, a query like that would have come from Delilah, whose constant questioning Phoebe calls “natural curiosity,” though her irritation is often evident. But today it’s Susanna displaying an avid interest markedly different from her normal disdain. Maybe marriage really does change people.

  Phoebe takes a moment to put her books on the table and collect herself, then frowns in Susanna’s direction. “Daniel has never taught your Lessons. Why should today be different?”

  “Because we weren’t supposed to have Lessons today. So when he called us, I thought it might be to offer some kind of specific instruction. About marriage.”

  “Daniel is . . . busy . . . this morning. And besides, he is espoused to the Word,” Phoebe says, touching the crucifix around her neck. “Since he has never taken a wife, he has limited insight into these particular Lessons.”

  “You were hardly a wife yourself,” Susanna says. Several of us gasp. Susanna has changed, all right. Marriage has made her even meaner.

&
nbsp; Phoebe appraises her coldly. “Be that as it may, I’m the only teacher you’ve got. So.” She clasps her hands together. “How is everyone feeling this morning?”

  How am I feeling? Lost. Angry. Terrified. But I don’t know how to say these things, even to Phoebe. Especially Phoebe. Aaron’s caution holds me back. Do I want everyone to know I’ve been chosen by the wrong man? That I don’t want to be married to him? What will happen then? A Shaming? Or worse? This is exactly what Delilah was worried about.

  “Where’s Delilah?” I call out.

  Phoebe flinches, then smooths back her hair and crosses her arms. “Delilah was not chosen at the Matrimony.”

  My heart begins to pound. First Caleb, now Delilah. And I’m married to Aaron. What happened last night?

  “What does that mean?” Rachel asks. “Does she go back to her parents’ house? To Lessons with the younger girls?”

  Of course. That makes sense. She’s younger than us. Even Phoebe looks relieved at this suggestion. “Perhaps. It is up to Daniel.” She turns away from Rachel. “Does anyone have any questions about the Matrimony? Or marriage in general?”

  “How did they decide?” Once again, I speak without thinking. “The boys, I mean. How did they . . . know? Whom to pick?”

  Fabric rustles against the benches as my Sisters shift in their seats. Have none of them wondered? Or maybe they’d rather not know.

  Phoebe clears her throat. “They pray, of course.”

  “And their dreams? Do those count?” I ask.

  “I expect so. I’m afraid there’s not much about that side of things that I can tell you. Because I simply don’t know.”

  Phoebe has always been honest with us, more so than our own mothers. If any woman would know how it works, it would be Phoebe. “But they’re just boys,” I say. “So it’s possible they . . . that some of them got something wrong, right? That they misunderstood, somehow?”

  Phoebe looks more alarmed the longer I speak. But as I finish, her face clears. “That’s what we have Daniel for. He’s the Intercessor. Between God and self. He makes sure there are no mistakes.” She studies me a beat longer. “Miriam? Is there something else—”