The Virtue of Sin

by Shannon Schuren

  But this is about Rachel. I want her to know ordinary freedoms. Sleeping late on a rainy day. Grabbing a burger at a drive-thru. Texting with a girlfriend. Smiling at a cute boy in the park. Bike riding. Window shopping. Reading the backs of all the novels in the bookstore. Reading ANYTHING. Have you given them books yet? I doubt it. That would be dangerous, letting them know other people have voices. I’m betting yours is still the only narrative you allow in there.

  That’s why I’m writing. I’ve contacted a lawyer. and I’m suing you for custody. There’s a hearing in thirty days. Consider this your notification. I was underage when I signed away my parental rights. And there isn’t a jury in the world who could fail to see your influence over me as “undue.”

  I have friends, Daniel. And with their help, I’m going to take you down. You aren’t as powerful as you think, or as clever. It turns out you were right. The end IS coming, just not the way you predicted.

  The pounding of my heart and the rattling of the paper in my shaky hands must be loud enough to drown out everything else, because I don’t realize anyone is watching until I hear a voice.

  19

  MIRIAM

  DO NOT FORSAKE YOUR MOTHER’S TEACHING.

  —Proverbs 1:8

  After dinner, my mother invites me to help her with the clean-up while my father and Aaron step outside for an evening walk. In her cozy kitchen, nothing has changed. Though we’ve just finished dinner, nothing is messy or out of place. Even the dirty dishes are stacked neatly on the washboard to the right of the sink. The only decoration is still her calendar, hung on the side of the refrigerator, where she carefully crosses off each day that brings us closer to the Tribulation. With the sound of running water and the feel of the threadbare dish towel between my fingers, it’s as if I’ve slipped back in time. Was it only a week ago I stood here, staring out this same window at the tiny strip of sand, stone, and desert holly as I tried to pry whatever information I could from my mother about married life?

  Now that I know firsthand, I’m angry at that naïve girl.

  “This is the last time we can feed you,” my mother says from behind me. “You will need to start procuring your own food. Preparing your own meals. You’ll be given your own account at the Commodities Exchange, like we talked about. If you have any questions . . .”

  I shake my head. I long to tell her that she doesn’t need to worry, that I won’t go hungry. Because my husband cooks. But I don’t want to talk about meal planning, and neither does she. Not really.

  When I turn from the sink, she is smile-frowning, which means she is about to say something I probably won’t like, but I should accept it because she’s my mother and she means well.

  “It is always hardest the first time,” she says. “Sometimes it takes a few tries. To get it right.” Her lips barely move. It’s almost like she hasn’t spoken, except the words lie heavy and sharp between us, like a treacherous mountain I don’t dare attempt to climb.

  We didn’t fool her at dinner.

  She is my mother; she knows something isn’t right between Aaron and me. But she assumes if we can get past our first embarrassing attempts at lovemaking, things will somehow get better. Of course, she expects we’ve at least made an attempt. If nothing else, Aaron should have forced my submission by now. Our awkwardness has somehow led her to believe the first time went badly and now we’re reluctant to try again.

  Or is it only me? I’m probably the reluctant one in her eyes, the one who must be chided and coerced. Talked into another attempt. It’s my duty as a wife, after all.

  I’m not sure how to respond, and the silence drags on. Should I tell her there has been no such attempt? That there never will be, if I have anything to say about it?

  I hold my tongue as Aaron and my father pass by the window. The low tone of my husband’s voice and the even deeper one of my father’s waft past without settling. What are they discussing? How best to maneuver me into Aaron’s bed? Are these the things men talk about when they’re together? Maybe that’s what tonight’s dinner was really about. Divide and conquer. Probe and lecture.

  “It is an expression of love. And God wants us to love. You may not believe me now, but someday you will see it as such.”

  “But I don’t love him.”

  “Not yet. But you will,” she promises. “That is the beauty of submission. Do as he asks, and love will follow.”

  I shiver at the echo of Phoebe’s words in her mouth. “He hasn’t asked anything of me.”

  When I finally meet her eyes, they are worried.

  “I know this marriage is not what you expected.”

  “Not what I expected? Is that what you think? That I’m somehow confused by all this? Or shocked at the prospect of intimacy? That I can’t handle living with a man?” I wave the dish towel at her as the words pour out like lava, hot and painful and unstoppable. Not that I want them to stop. They’re all true.

  “Maybe the sudden, complete . . . upheaval has unhinged me. Maybe I’ve gone completely mad with . . . with . . .” I stomp my foot when I can’t find the right word, and as if by magic, it appears. “With regret.”

  “It is this way for everyone,” my mother says.

  And at that, I realize an awful truth. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own tragedy, I haven’t given a moment’s thought to my friends. Maybe Rachel is struggling as well. And what of Delilah? How does she feel, not being chosen? Being sent away?

  “That was the point of resuming the Lessons,” my mother continues. “So you could draw strength from one another.”

  “I don’t need strength. I need someone to listen to me.”

  She frowns—a slight pucker of her lips and a wrinkle across the bridge of her nose. “This is the only way. You spoke to him, after all. What did you expect?”

  “I expected you to understand, for one. You’re my mother. I was only trying to help him. I didn’t think it would . . .” I throw down the dishrag. “I don’t want to be married to him. I don’t want to be strong, because I don’t want it to continue. I will be weak if it will undo this thing.”

  “Miriam. You couldn’t be weak if you tried.” She touches my wrist, but I yank it away.

  “And anyway, it would not matter,” she says, and perhaps only I would be able to read the hurt on her placid face. “When you spoke, you created a bond. And once a bond is consecrated by the Prophet, it cannot be broken. It is one of the tenets of our faith.”

  “It isn’t a bond. It’s a mistake.” I clench my fists, forcing each word from my lips. “Surely you can see that. Surely everyone can see it.”

  She bows her head. “I have heard of some of the women who felt this way after the first Matrimony. But they soon realized God had a plan for them. Just as He has for you. What about your dreams? Have you been journaling?”

  I haven’t. Daniel still has my journal. I don’t want to tell her this, though. It’s unusual that he’s kept it so long, and only a matter of time before he will want to talk to me about the lies in it. “I forget,” I mumble.

  She presses her hand to her heart. “You must have faith. Pray, and He will guide you. There are no mistakes. There is only God’s will, which, sometimes, is hard for us to fathom.”

  “How can you know that? How can you be so . . . so calm? Aren’t you listening to me? I can’t do this.”

  “Of course you can. Miriam . . . what choice do you have?”

  She knows the answer as well as I do. I’m a woman. I have no choice.

  “How?” I manage to whisper. The words I normally struggle to hold back have vanished into a vapor that chills my hollow chest.

  She grasps my hands, and this time I let her. “Submission. And dreams. This is our way. Open your body to your husband, your dreams to Daniel, and your heart to the Lord.”

  The Lord has sent me dreams of Caleb. But I can’t tell her this, or anyt
hing else. Not anymore. Eventually she kisses my forehead, tells me “Keep faithful,” and leaves me to finish drying the dishes alone.

  It’s only after she’s gone that I replay our conversation in my head and realize she said “women.” Some women have felt there was a mistake. Not men. Of course. In our community, the men don’t own their mistakes. They do what they like and leave the women to pick up the pieces.

  20

  CALEB

  “What are you doing with that?”

  My heart stutters so hard I see nothing but stars. When they recede, Susanna stares back at me.

  She grabs the letter with a finger and thumb and yanks it from my grip. “That isn’t addressed to you.”

  She pulls out a set of keys and fumbles with them, trying to fit one into the lock on the other drawer. This is my brother’s wife. Though God may not have chosen her for him. Yet another of the many riddles I can’t answer. They’re piling up.

  I step around her, but she kicks the chair out to block me. So she takes her job seriously. That’s something, at least. It might be part of what Marcus sees in her. If only I didn’t blame her for his downfall and my misery.

  I still have the envelope. Zzyzx, I know, is the old name for New Jerusalem. But I’ve never heard of Santa Cruz, and I have no idea what the string of numbers means. In the opposite corner, there’s a bright picture of a blue butterfly, partially obscured by a black circle with some fuzzy writing in it. I look closer. It’s a date. Last September. Which means whatever was supposed to happen in thirty days has long since transpired.

  Susanna finally succeeds in opening the drawer. Without looking at me, she holds out her palm until I place the envelope in it.

  “This is from Naomi. Rachel’s mother.”

  “I know who Naomi is,” she snaps.

  “Has Daniel seen it?”

  She hesitates just long enough that I can’t tell if she’s lying. “Of course. It’s his letter.”

  “So why do you have it?”

  “I’m his secretary. It’s my job to take care of his correspondence.”

  Even correspondence that’s more than six months old? But her glare dares me to contradict her, so instead I ask, “What did Daniel say about it?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t discuss it. He reads his letters, I file them.”

  “But you must have read it.”

  “He reads them. I file them.”

  I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved by her answer. Naomi’s words are shocking and blasphemous and not meant for our eyes. But at the same time, I need someone to help me figure it out. Naomi seems to be accusing Daniel of taking Rachel away from her, which is ridiculous. She was the one who sinned. And when she was ordered into the desert, to spend her seven years wandering like an animal, as is the law, she begged Daniel to keep Rachel so she could be raised to Shine with Righteousness.

  She doesn’t even mention Azariah. And the other things she’s written? About the Outside? They must be lies. They have to be.

  I watch as Susanna shoves the letter back into the envelope, slides the envelope into the drawer and locks it. I wait for her to leave, but she doesn’t.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, suddenly suspicious. “Why aren’t you at the Gathering?”

  “It’s a husband-and-wife Gathering.” She fiddles with the key and bites her lip. “Somehow, I seem to have lost my husband.”

  “But how did you know he was here?” I ask.

  “Marcus is here?” The whites of her eyes gleam as she looks about the darkened room.

  She’s acting odd. Nervous. Did she follow Father and Marcus here without them knowing? “I thought you said . . .”

  “I read the letter,” she blurts, her voice low and husky, like there’s something caught in her throat. “And I know what Naomi did. The sin that was so terrible, no one can talk about it.”

  I knew I wasn’t the only curious one.

  She cocks her head and smiles up at me in a way that feels dangerous. “Do you want me to show you?” She raises her hands to her chest, and I look away, embarrassed. When I look back, she has slipped open the top button of her shirt and is working on the second.

  Oh.

  No.

  Please, God. I’ve never seen a naked woman before. Yes, I’ve prayed for it, but that was wrong. I see that now. I’ve changed my mind. Make it stop. Make her stop.

  But God isn’t answering tonight.

  “For God’s sake, stop!”

  Her laugh is low and mocking, but she drops her hands. She doesn’t button back up. “Anyone who has dreamt of a woman lustfully has already committed adultery in his heart,” she whispers.

  I don’t think that’s the way the verse goes. But she has me so confused, with her wet lips and her gaping shirt. I’ve never dreamt about her, never even thought about her until tonight. And these are thoughts better left un . . . well, unthought.

  She steps closer and I back up, jabbing the corner of the desk into my thigh. I’m suddenly aware of how alone we are. Somehow, whispering in the dark feels much more intimate than anything I’ve dreamt of doing with Miriam. My heart pounds so loudly, we both hear it. What is wrong with me? She’s my brother’s wife. What is wrong with her?

  Before I can figure it out, she whirls away, moving noiselessly across the room and out the door.

  When I can breathe again, I realize she never asked me where Marcus went.

  21

  MIRIAM

  ONE WHO IS RIGHTEOUS IS A GUIDE TO HIS NEIGHBOR, BUT THE WAY OF THE WICKED LEADS THEM ASTRAY.

  —Proverbs 12:26

  It’s only the second day of my wool-washing sentence and already I think I may lose my mind. When Lydia announces we are out of wool, I don’t wait for her to give me another assignment. I simply grab a basket and run out the door, pretending I can’t hear her calling me back. I’ll deal with her accusations later.

  “You said we were out of wool. I was only doing what you asked.”

  I imagine her shocked face, unable to form a logical retort, and I giggle. For a small moment, I remember what it feels like to be content. To be walking alone and free in the glorious outdoors. The wind nudges me gently along while the sunshine warms my face.

  Then I see the Farmhouse and the barn, and my delight in these simple pleasures abandons me once again. Things will never be as they were. Rachel is someone’s wife now, as am I. We both live in cramped apartments, on opposite sides of the old motel. And while Aaron and I learn to weave, she works beside Jacob on this farm, set back behind a wide expanse of scrub-brush lawn.

  This used to be Caleb’s home. And before that, Daniel’s. My parents’, too, back in the beginning. Back when New Jerusalem was just a dream, a scattering of dark caves and broken buildings in the middle of the desert. Long before Daniel built the Council House up on the hill. Before my mother and father became one of the first married couples to move into the tiny concrete-block houses down in the flatland. Even before my father stood on that dais in the firelight and chose my mother, in the first Matrimony so many years ago.

  I pass the pasture on my left, and as the breeze shifts the goats bleat softly. They’ve already learned the scent of their caregiver, Rachel, now standing in wait at the mouth of the walkway, where the tight, pebbled path widens into a welcome smile.

  Rachel’s hair, like mine, has a tendency to frizz, and she usually wears it cinched tight and wound around her head. Now that she’s married, it stays hidden under her brightly patterned head scarf. It makes her look older, and if not for the way she folds her arms over her work dress as she leans on the fence post, I might not even recognize her. Does she look happy? I can’t tell from this distance.

  I take a deep breath and open my arms so I can soak up all of the freedom of this open space. If only I could take a bit of it back with me to our dark, boxlike apa
rtment.

  “‘I shall lie down in green pastures,’” I sing.

  Rachel hurries forward and catches me into a hug. “Miriam,” she chides me, a hint of laughter in her voice. “You haven’t changed. No singing outside of Chapel. Don’t make me report you.”

  “I’m praising God,” I argue. “How can I resist, in a place like this? How can you? You should be singing with me. You’re so lucky you get to work outdoors like this.”

  “I am lucky.” Rachel beams, her slightly sallow complexion taking on a warm glow, which I doubt is due only to her Vocational assignment.

  “You’re happy with your marriage, then.”

  Her smile widens so much I fear her cheeks must ache. Then she blushes.

  “Yes. I’m happy. I never dreamt I would be good enough for a man like Jacob.”

  Rachel’s circumstances lie heavy on her shoulders. She has a lot to live up to, or perhaps the better word is overcome. She does it with a smile and a willing heart, always the first to quote scripture or raise her hand in class. Even those who insist on reminding her of the shame of her mother—Phoebe, for one—have to admit Rachel has proven herself to be above that.

  We used to speculate about Naomi when we were young, sharing whispered little-girl fantasies between our twin beds after my mother tucked us in. About how she escaped the heat of the desert and went to cool herself in the ocean with the whales. Or sometimes, we imagined she was still wandering out there, a kind of Prophetess, sharing Daniel’s Word. And one day she’d come home, bringing more followers with her, and Daniel would have no choice but to welcome her back into our fold, just like a lost sheep.