The Virtue of Sin Page 9

  “Do they ever get tired?” Susanna interrupts, and the rest of the room explodes into nervous laughter, dragging Phoebe’s attention from me.

  “Everyone gets tired. Eventually,” she says, to more laughter. Her face flushes and she tilts her head. “But that’s okay. That’s what’s supposed to happen. This initial”—she searches for the word—“attraction, it changes. Into something deeper. Stronger.” She makes a fist.

  I can’t help but wonder if she was married long enough for any of that.

  “And what if we get tired before they do?” Eve asks, her brow furrowed. “Or what if we’re . . . bleeding?” She whispers the last word. “What do we tell him?”

  Susanna snorts. “Like he’d care.”

  “You’re allowed to tell him that, Eve,” Phoebe says, shooting a glare at Susanna. “He’s your husband. You can talk to him. Remember, scripture urges husbands to love their wives. But that love need not always be expressed physically. He will understand.”

  “But wives must submit. That passage comes first,” Claudia says. She’s a stickler for details.

  I’m pretty sure that everyone in this room has submitted already. Everyone but me.

  “Try not to think of submission as something passive,” Phoebe says. “It’s active. An act of love. Do as he asks, and love will follow. For your husband, and for God.”

  Is that all it takes? I want so desperately to believe her, and yet something inside me resists. It’s the same voice that insists on speaking whenever I am forced into silence. Sometimes I think that voice might be stronger than even Daniel.

  “And remember,” Phoebe continues, “he can ask you to submit. Order you, even. But he can’t hurt you. And he can’t force you.”

  Susanna snorts again.

  “That’s not true,” Eve says. “Vashti resisted, and the king took a new wife.” Her dark eyes are wide, as if she can’t imagine a worse fate than Queen Esther’s predecessor. And maybe she can’t. Eve doesn’t have a lot of imagination.

  “I don’t think that’s the lesson—” Phoebe begins, but Leah interrupts.

  “Well, he did ask her to dance naked for his friends, so I don’t know if it’s the same thing.” She nudges her best friend. “Don’t worry, Evie. I doubt Peter will ask you to do that,” and they both dissolve in laughter.

  So, Eve married Peter. I never talked to Eve about the marriages, so I don’t know if she wanted him to call her name or not. But she doesn’t look particularly upset this morning. No one does.

  Claudia frowns and holds up her Bible, already open to the correct passage. “Scripture says he asked Vashti to dance wearing her crown. It doesn’t say only her crown.”

  “Well, it doesn’t mention any other clothing, either,” Leah points out.

  “Does it matter?” Susanna asks. “If my husband asked me to dance, naked or not, I’d do it.”

  No one doubts this.

  “And who is your husband, Susanna?” I ask.

  Susanna sits up straighter and tosses her hair. “Marcus,” she says, as if it should be obvious. And in some ways, it is. She’s beautiful; he’s handsome. They both know it.

  It still doesn’t explain how she recognized his voice.

  “Okay,” Phoebe says, clapping her hands together. “I think we’re getting a little off topic. It occurs to me that with the excitement of last night and this early morning call to Lessons, some of you may not have had a chance to record in your journals. Why don’t we take a few moments to do that? While your dreams are still fresh.”

  My journal. I check the bench on either side of me, though I know it won’t be there. I dropped it. Outside. After I fought with Susanna . . . I look at Rachel, and she holds it out to me.

  Thank you, I mouth, reaching across the aisle. She just shakes her head. She probably thought that once we were married, she’d be looking after her husband instead of me. I’m going to need to pull it together, unless I intend to tell everyone of my concerns. What’s worse? Staying married to Aaron? Or the punishment I’ll endure for speaking up?

  I draw a spiral, an unending line that twists on and on. How can I record my dream of Caleb? Daniel will read it and Shame me for dreaming about another man. Or worse, his interpretation might have nothing to do with Caleb. I can’t risk him taking the memory from me. “What if we didn’t dream last night?” I ask Phoebe.

  “A favorable dream is a sign of a favored marriage,” she says, touching her crucifix again. “I’m sure you dreamt. You probably just need a moment to call it to mind.” She smiles with her mouth but not her eyes.

  Once, I dreamt of the fountain in our lake, so writing about that isn’t quite a lie. Only in my dream, I was the fountain, and words flowed from my lips like magic, as clean and slaking as water. And beneath me in the lake, everyone talked, all day long, about everything they saw and everything they felt. Daniel told me then that it was a warning: If everyone is talking, then no one is listening. The fountain was meant to take away my words and my sin, washing me clean.

  Perhaps if I repeat that dream now, I will finally believe it.

  11

  CALEB

  Whom do I trust? Daniel. Of course, Daniel. I stare at Aaron’s door for a while, but he doesn’t come back out, so I head down the stairs.

  I’m still angry, but mostly at myself. I should have stood my ground. So what if Aaron says God promised him Miriam? And that he and Miriam are going to stay married? What does he know about any of it? Clearly, he wanted to be with Miriam—who wouldn’t?—and somehow he made that happen. I’m the one who failed. Father is right. I am weak.

  I glance at the Lake of Fire as I stomp past, through the row of fat palm trees, then do a double take. Marcus is climbing the fountain in the middle of the narrow lake, wearing what looks like overalls made from trash bags, and rubber gloves pulled up to his elbows. He’s stretched tall along the column that holds the bowl of fire, his fingers gripping the brass edge dangerously close to the flame.

  “Marcus! What are you doing?”

  He jerks and almost slips off the cement base at the bottom. Then he sees me and raises a hand halfway in the air. Weak, as far as greetings go.

  I wave back.

  How did he get out there, along with that bucket and mop? What is he . . . is he cleaning the fountain? My head aches from all this confusion. Miriam is with Aaron. I’m unmarried and without a home. Marcus, the golden boy, is doing manual labor. Nothing is as it should be, and I’m already tired of trying to figure out why. Marcus is smart. Maybe he can tell me. Isn’t that what Aaron said? Ask your brother.

  I wave my arms again, this time in an arc. Gesturing him over.

  His shoulders slouch. Then he inches his way down the three cement steps at the bottom of the column, backward, and eases himself into the water before turning toward me and the shore. I find myself holding my breath, as if he’s swimming. Or I am. The water gets shallower as he gets closer, and I’m relieved to see him emerge from the water unsinged. I know, deep down, that the water isn’t actually flammable. That this isn’t the real Lake of Fire from the Bible. Still, it’s not like I’ve ever thought to chance it and take a dip.

  Marcus drags his legs through weeds and muck. When he’s nearly ashore, I extend an arm and he grabs hold. His grip is tight around my wrist, and the rubber from his glove pulls at the hair on my arm.

  “Thanks, Brother.” Thick mud splatters on the pavement as he stomps off his boots.

  “What were you doing out there?” I ask. “Cleaning?”

  He eyes me warily as he pulls off his gloves and runs his fingers through his long, sweat-soaked curls. “What can I tell you? Menial tasks for the unrepentant.”

  “There are no menial tasks.” I repeat the phrase because it seems called for, not because I believe it. We both know there are, and they’re usually reserved for those who’ve strayed from their
Path. “Jesus washed—”

  “Jesus washed feet. He didn’t scrape bird poop into fetid water.” He finishes my thought, only better. Typical Marcus.

  Then I realize what else he’s said. “Unrepentant for what?”

  He won’t meet my eye as he slaps the gloves against his rubber pants. “Daniel is angry. That I chose Susanna.”

  My stomach aches, and not just because Aaron has a sharp right hook. This is that Outsider’s fault, isn’t it? He chose wrong. Not my brother. “What do you mean? Why would Daniel be angry with you? You love Susanna. You said you dreamt of her.”

  He nods. “I do. I did. We had it all worked out. As long as I went first and Aaron went second, nobody else would’ve been affected.”

  “But the Newcomer chooses first.” That was Daniel’s rule. It makes as little sense now as it did when he first said it, but who am I to question his word?

  “Yeah, well, I figured Daniel would be less likely to stop me than Aaron. Assuming he even wanted to stop us.”

  The hair on the back of my neck rises higher each time he mentions Aaron. “What are you saying?” He can’t mean . . .

  Marcus grimaces and shakes his head. Once. “We switched names.”

  I shake my head, back and forth, as if trying to shake loose some kind of understanding. It doesn’t work. “So you were supposed to choose Miriam?”

  “No!” He scratches at his cheek with the back of his hand. “I did dream of Susanna. Every night. You know that. But during my Dream Sessions, Daniel said the only dream that mattered was the one I had of Rachel.”

  “You dreamt of Rachel?”

  “One time! Back when she was the first to . . .” He holds his hands in front of his chest, fingers spread. “You remember.”

  I do remember. We’d all noticed Rachel’s changing body, especially once Jacob called it to our attention.

  “I’d forgotten all about the stupid dream, until Daniel pointed it out in my journal. He said that since she was the first girl I’d dreamt about, God’s directive was clear.” He rubs hard at the stubble on his chin. “But I knew it had to be a mistake.”

  “You thought Daniel made a mistake?”

  He doesn’t answer my question. “Since the blossoming, the only one I’ve dreamt of is Susanna. Since Aaron wanted Rachel, the answer seemed simple.”

  “Simple?” I want to yell, but I lower my voice instead, afraid of letting the anger overtake me. This is so like Marcus. To just assume he’s in the right. And usually he is. But not this time.

  “There are so many things wrong with your story, I don’t even know where to begin,” I say, clenching my fists, as if my temper is a physical thing and I am holding it back as tightly as I can. “How did you know Aaron wanted Rachel? Did you talk about it? Because that’s Blasphemy. And anyway, he didn’t choose Rachel. He chose Miriam.”

  Marcus talks faster. “I don’t know what happened. Aaron was late. I mean, he was supposed to be late. But only a little. Enough for me to choose Susanna, But then he didn’t show up, and Jacob went next. He chose Rachel, which didn’t surprise me. You know how he’s always staring at her.”

  I can’t make sense of anything he’s saying. “So you all dreamt of Rachel? You and Aaron and Jacob? But how can that be?” We’d all wondered what would happen if God sent more than one of us dreams of the same girl. But Daniel assured us that God wouldn’t make a mistake like that. We might, though. That’s why we need Daniel to interpret for us.

  “I told you, I only dreamt of Rachel that one time. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “And Aaron told me God whispered Miriam’s name to him. Not Rachel. How do you explain that?” Actually, he’d said I couldn’t prove He didn’t. Either way, he was lying. If not to me, then to Marcus.

  “I don’t know why Aaron chose Miriam. That wasn’t part of the plan.” Marcus sighs, but I can’t tell if he looks repentant or just exhausted. It doesn’t matter. Even if he is sorry, do I owe him my forgiveness? These are the kinds of things I should know. But scripture has always seemed a slippery thing to me, full of contradictions and loopholes. The same book that urges us to turn the other cheek also asks for an eye for an eye. So which is it?

  “Aaron wanted Miriam, so he took her. Just like you did with Susanna. What kind of men decide to replace God’s will with their own?” I ask, even though I know the answer. The kind of men who think they’re above everyone else. Smarter than everyone else. The kind who deserve to lose an eye.

  “But isn’t God’s will for us to be happy?” Marcus asks, in that irritatingly clever way he has of twisting my words. He pulls his gloves back on as he continues, “If we pray hard enough, and Follow the Path to Righteousness, He rewards us with a full heart. That’s how it works.” The rubber snaps, and I wince. “So what happens if our Path and our hearts diverge? Which way do we go?”

  Marcus waits for my answer, but I don’t have one. My Path and heart have not diverged, and yet, I’m the one with no wife and no home. Not him. “We’re not all happy. I’m not happy!” So much for keeping my anger in check.

  He flinches, then stands with his hands spread, as if waiting for a blow. And if I’m being completely honest, there are times I’ve thought about hitting him. Who hasn’t? And now that I know this is his fault? That while I spent the night alone, trying to calm my rage, he got to lie with Susanna? And Aaron got to do the same with Miriam. Just because they thought they could get away with it. So yes, a part of me wants to punch him in his satisfied little face.

  But he’s my brother. He’s my blood.

  He senses my weakness and grabs my arm. “You’re not with Miriam, and I know that must be killing you. But hurting me won’t change that. I’ll survive Daniel’s disappointment, as well as his punishments. But I can’t live without Susanna. It would be no life at all.”

  This is my chance—to yell, to scream. Tell Marcus he ruined my life. That he traded my happiness for his own. That he’s a selfish bastard, and that I am going to make him pay.

  But maybe we’re more alike than I realized, my brother and I.

  When given a choice between his heart and his Path, Marcus chose his heart. Based on the effect it’s had on the rest of us, I’d say he chose wrong. But if I’m being completely honest with myself, when God whispered another name to me—a name that wasn’t Miriam—I did just the same.

  So instead, I say, “I know.”

  And I leave the tarnished golden boy to his polishing.

  12

  MIRIAM

  IF WE CONFESS OUR SINS, HE IS FAITHFUL AND JUST TO FORGIVE US OUR SINS AND TO CLEANSE US FROM ALL UNRIGHTEOUSNESS.

  —1 John 1:9

  When the door swings wide, everyone turns, like sunflowers toward their namesake, drinking in both the cool breeze and the light of his presence.

  “Sisters!” Daniel cries, and our greetings surpass his in jubilation as we swarm him like drones to a queen. He bestows greetings, touches, and smiles upon all of us before dropping his arms and zeroing in on our teacher. “Phoebe.” He takes in her narrowed eyes and folded arms. “Are you upset with me, Sister? Because of the unexpected call to Lessons this morning?”

  I shift my weight nervously from one foot to the other and hold my breath as Phoebe says, “Of course not. I am happy to serve.” The rest of my Sisters look as relieved with her answer as I am, except for Susanna, whose smirk gives way to a pout of disappointment.

  “I know you are.” Daniel tilts his head, just slightly, and Phoebe looks away from him, her cheeks going pink.

  “We’re happy you could join us. What an unexpected treat.” Her gaze flicks to Susanna and then away. “We were just about to read from our journals. Who would like to start?”

  I go as still as the statuary in Chapel, willing Phoebe not to look in my direction. It’s one thing to write a false dream in my journal, quite a different sin to lie about i
t in person, especially to Daniel.

  Daniel circles our tiny group slowly, stroking his beard. I keep my head down even as he pauses in front of me, until it’s uncomfortably clear that he wants my attention. When I finally look up, I am lost in the depths of his deep blue stare. It’s as if he sees only me, as if only he and I exist, and we will stand here, forever, wordlessly. There is no need to speak, as he can read my thoughts.

  “Miriam?” Phoebe asks, breaking the spell. “Could you share with us from your journal?”

  I press my lips together, but my fear is whispered aloud by the fluttering of the pages clutched in my trembling hands. Daniel must already know, but the rest are waiting. What should I tell them? That I dreamt of a man who is not my husband? I scan the pews, imagining their reactions. Eve will be shocked, Susanna delighted, Rachel disappointed. My gaze falls on the empty seat beside her. Only Delilah would understand.

  “What’s going to happen to Delilah?” I blurt.

  There is a collective intake of breath, and then the room goes silent. It is not my place to question our Leader, and thus my sin is twofold—Disobedience and Insubordination.

  Only Daniel seems unsurprised by my boldness; his calm is divinely bestowed, and it’s nearly impossible to shock him. In fact, he almost looks amused. “Your concern for your Sister is touching,” he says, fiddling with one of my escaped curls before leaning down and snatching my journal off the bench. “I believe I can relieve at least some of your concerns. Excuse us,” he tells the others. “Please, go back to your gathering of knowledge.”

  He clasps a hand to my shoulder and propels me toward the door, pushing me past Phoebe and her troubled stare and out into the unforgiving sunlight.

  When we are alone, Daniel twists me to face him, and I choke on his unique scent of body odor and woodsmoke. He looms over me, blocking the sun—no, he is the sun, and this is the closest I’ve ever been to his scorching presence. “Dear Miriam. First Blasphemy, now this? I have grave concerns about the state of your soul.”