The Virtue of Sin

by Shannon Schuren

  We stopped the game when we got older, mostly because Rachel refused to play. Was it because she knew her mother was dead? But she couldn’t have; if she did, she would have told me. We’ve never kept secrets from each other. Until now.

  Rachel is oblivious to my scrutiny as she loops her arm through mine and squeezes me close. “And you? I’ve missed you. We have so much to talk about.”

  I’ve missed her, too. Up until yesterday, we at least had the consistency of seeing one another every day at Lessons, even if we didn’t have an opportunity to talk. But now that we’ve begun our Vocations, I have no idea how often our paths will cross. It unnerves me how much my life has changed in such a small amount of time. How much I’ve lost.

  “Have you heard anything about Delilah?” I ask. “Will we be allowed to say goodbye?”

  Rachel shakes her head, studying our sandaled feet. “I only know what Susanna’s said in class. She’s supposed to be taking this time to be alone with her family, before . . .” She stops, shudders. “Can you imagine?”

  “No,” I say, because none of this is like anything I ever imagined.

  “Tell me about Aaron,” Rachel says, changing the subject. “He is so handsome, yet so quiet. Mysterious.” She bumps my hip with her own. “What’s he like?”

  I struggle to come up with a truthful answer, one that will satisfy her without bringing more questions about our relationship. I settle on “He’s a good cook,” and immediately regret it.

  “He cooks?” She says this in the voice she might have used had I told her he falls asleep in Chapel.

  Clearly, Rachel wants an explanation. Yet Aaron is my husband. Should I defend him? Pretend his cooking is normal? Isn’t that what spouses do? I’ve watched my mother over the years, stressing my father’s strengths, downplaying his weaknesses. But Aaron and I are not my parents.

  “You mean he helped you prepare the Council meals?” she asks, rubbing at the bridge of her nose.

  I hesitate. I’ve already given too much away. Aaron took care of all of the cooking even when the Council was sending meals; now that they have stopped, I’ve refused to shop for food, much less cook it. Or at least I intended to refuse. In reality, Aaron has never asked. He just does it himself. “He likes to do it.”

  “Jacob loves my cooking. He says it’s nearly as good as the Council meals.” She smiles. “I’ve promised him I’ll work on it. Once we’re through our Private Period, I’m going to ask your mother for advice. Then we’ll have you and Aaron over for a Gathering.” She’s still smiling but her eyes are troubled, and I know she’s concerned about me. “We can’t really visit yet,” she adds. “What brings you by?”

  “Wool,” I say, holding out my basket. This is at least true enough that it shouldn’t get either of us in trouble.

  She pulls me forward by our still-linked arms. “Come. There is wool in the barn.”

  “How about a cup of tea? I’m parched.”

  She presses her lips together, and I know she’s weighing her duties as hostess against the rules for newly married women, which call for our socializing to be kept to a minimum. Once we’ve passed through our Private Period, we will be allowed more freedom, but early on we must confine our visits to Lessons and sanctioned Gatherings. Like the one I missed last night. Only I’m sick of feeling so confined.

  “Oh, come on, Rachel. I doubt tea violates any rules. We’re allowed to take sustenance.”

  She gives me a look I know well, one of weary exasperation. “We’re allowed sustenance with our husbands, you know as well as I. How else will we learn they are our first priority?”

  “I’m sure someone will find a way to remind us. Repeatedly,” I say. My words might be filled with disdain, but I am enjoying this exchange—far more than I should. Not only does a visit to the Farm offer me open space, it gives me a chance to use my voice. Though Rachel works hard to keep me faithful, she also loves me enough to tolerate my vocal complaints without too much chiding.

  “Don’t involve me in your anarchy,” she says, as she pulls me into the barn. “I don’t want to start my marriage with a Shaming.”

  It’s an invitation to tell her what mine was all about; I can tell by the wary gleam in her eyes. But I don’t want to talk about it. She’ll be more disappointed in me than she already is.

  “Where is Jacob?” I ask, changing the subject.

  She smiles at the mention of her husband, and envy whispers faintly in my heart. “He’s shearing. I’ll join him shortly. Not because he needs help,” she’s quick to add. “He’s . . . not as fond of the crops as he could be, but he’s good with the animals. He must have learned a lot from your mother. Remember how he used to hang around the Medical Shed all the time?”

  “I think he just did that as an excuse to see you, Rachel.” I give her a knowing look, and she blushes.

  “He helped her,” she insists. “He’s a natural healer.”

  We step into the office in the front corner, and Rachel stops short, nearly jerking my arm loose.

  “Judith. I thought you were up at the house . . .” Rachel trails off, then gestures to me awkwardly. “Miriam has come. For the wool.”

  I hold up the basket once again, my cheeks burning as I await Judith’s reproach.

  But Caleb’s mother merely smiles and says, “Of course. Welcome, Miriam.” She puts her hands on both my shoulders, and I try not to flinch under her careful scrutiny. Once, I had hoped she would become like a second mother to me. Can she read the longing in my face?

  Judith drops her hands and turns away. “I imagine before you get the wool, the two of you might like a visit.”

  “Oh no,” Rachel protests. “We were just going to—”

  “Sweetheart, please. I remember what it was like, those first few weeks of marriage. How lonely.” She moves to a cozy corner of the barn, where a few wooden chairs form a half circle around a small table with a teapot on a hot plate, as well as a few cups and spoons. Judith wraps her hands briefly around the insulated pot. “I think this is still warm. You’ve been working so hard, Rachel, here from nearly dawn to dusk. And Miriam, too, I imagine. You and . . . Aaron, isn’t it?” Her face darkens briefly, as if in disappointment. But that might just be wishful thinking. “Don’t worry.” She squeezes Rachel’s arm gently. “Take your time. Catch up. I’ll cover for you in the barn.” She winks at us on her way out.

  I settle into one of the creaky chairs as Rachel takes the pot from the burner. “What do you think of married life so far?” she asks, pouring for both of us.

  My pulse beats wildly. Can I share my fears with Rachel? If not with her, then with whom?

  “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she continues, handing me a cup. “Just like Daniel always promised.”

  The flutter in my chest slows as I sink down into the chair. Rachel won’t understand. Still, she knows me almost as well as my own mother.

  “You’re unhappy.” She sits in front of me and rests her cup on her knees. “Marriage isn’t what you expected.”

  I bite my lip and blink the tears away. “He’s not who I expected.”

  She cocks her head. “Ah. This is about Caleb.”

  The mere mention of his name sends a jolt through me, and I slosh tea onto the hem of my dress. “Aaron made a mistake,” I say, after looking over my shoulder to be certain Judith has really left us.

  Rachel frowns and sips her tea. “There are no mistakes.”

  “If one more person says that to me, I’ll scream.”

  “Perhaps you’re hearing it so often because it’s true.”

  “Caleb would have chosen me. I’m sure of it.”

  “How can you know that? Miriam?” Her voice is sharp as she taps my knee with her fingers. “There is no interaction allowed before marriage. Even you wouldn’t—”

  “Of course not,” I say, grateful she is willing to
grant me that small concession of faith. Even if she’s wrong. “Caleb and I only exchanged glances. I just know.”

  She laughs. “Always such a dreamer. There is no way of knowing what is in another’s heart. Especially a man. Not until you lie with them.”

  Little does she know, I have lied with a man. Just not in the way she means; Caleb and I are both liars.

  “Remember how it used to frustrate us, the Separation?” She says this as if it were years in the past, and not just last week when we were forbidden to exchange a single word with any of the boys. “Now that I’m married, I understand.”

  “I don’t want to talk about your marital bed.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not Susanna.”

  “Thank heaven.”

  “I’m talking about . . . well, talking. Don’t you and Aaron ever just talk?” Her eyes sparkle. “After, I mean?”

  “We don’t . . . anything.”

  “Miriam!” Her cup clatters against the saucer, tea sloshing over the side. “Have you resisted him?”

  “He hasn’t asked.” My voice is ragged, the words tiny enough to slip into the empty chasm left in the silence of my admission.

  Rachel stares at me, the spilled tea soaking into her apron as she tries to contemplate such an aberration.

  “He shouldn’t have to,” she finally says, sounding even more certain than unmarried Rachel, who used to lecture me incessantly on the virtues of marriage. The virtues of anything, really. “You must speak to him at once.”

  “I can’t talk to him. Not about this.”

  “You can and you must. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. To speak to your husband, and only your husband, it’s a special kind of intimacy. Sharing your hopes and dreams. That’s why Daniel urged us to keep silent all those years. Think of the confusion if we had shared openly! Our hearts and minds would be clouded with all that unnecessary chatter. It’s so much better this way. Now Jacob and I know only each other. The same way you and Aaron will know each other.”

  I yearn for her absolute conviction, and at the same time, I’m frightened. Is she right? Has the intimacy confused me somehow? I’d much rather feel a connection to Caleb. But Aaron and I have shared details about ourselves. He has dined with my parents. Cooked for me. Told me stories about the Outside. He knows my secrets. My weaknesses. What does that make us?

  What does it make me?

  I jump to my feet. “I must get back.”

  Rachel pulls me into one last hug. “Keep faithful,” she tells me. But she’s too late.

  22

  MIRIAM

  BUT EACH PERSON IS TEMPTED WHEN HE IS LURED AND ENTICED BY HIS OWN DESIRE.

  —James 1:14

  I’m not ready to go back yet, to Aaron and Lydia and the never-ending piles of wool. So I take the wool from Rachel and head the long way around the pasture, which gives me plenty of time to count my multitude of sins. Loving another man—probably the biggest. And what about lying? I’ve lied to nearly everyone I love at some point this week. Rachel. My father and mother. Aaron. Not that I love him. But I have an obligation to honor him, and surely lying to your husband is worst of all. And then there’s lying about your husband, which I do every time I speak of him. Or how about lying in bed too long in the morning, because I can’t bear to face the emptiness of my life? The same word for so many terrible thoughts and actions. It’s unfair I should have to count them all. It’s really only one sin. Thou shalt not covet. Daniel’s teachings echo in my head. “Coveting is the sin that begets more sin; marriage is the only cure.” So why does my marriage, condoned and sanctioned by God, feel like a condemnation?

  I round the bend near the copse of juniper trees, and there he stands, tall and beautiful, backlit by the waning sunlight. For a moment I think I’ve summoned him with my lustful thoughts. God created man perfect, in His image. I’ve never believed this more than when I look at Caleb.

  My heart pounds as I check the path behind me. But it’s deserted. No one comes this way unless they have to. I made it all the way to the Farm and back without passing another person, all of them busy elsewhere, finishing up their day of work.

  We are completely alone.

  “Caleb? What are you doing out here?” My whole body is vibrating, as if singing out in joy at his presence, but I manage to keep my voice calm.

  He puffs out his cheeks and looks back at me, his eyes wide.

  “I’m setting a trap,” he finally says, his voice sounding strained. “For a coyote. Daniel thinks we have a problem.”

  “We do have a problem.”

  He goes pink but pretends not to understand. “I haven’t found any tracks. But he’s insistent. How would they get in?” He squats and runs his fingers through the dirt. Probably so he doesn’t have to look at me.

  I take a deep breath, willing myself not to fall apart, even as my heart splinters. This is how it will be now between us, always. Part of me has known it since the day Daniel and I kneeled together in the baking sand and tried to pray away the sin. My body still aches from those hopeless hours. But this reality is a pain all its own. We are neighbors now, and that is all. Anything else—everything else—has to remain a dream.

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of it.”

  “It’s too late.” The words are out before I think about them, and definitely before I figure out he’s still talking about the coyote.

  “Miriam. Please . . .”

  How can my name sound so much like a prayer on his lips?

  “You left me messages,” I say, my voice cracking. “You held me in your arms. You said . . .” I rub my knuckles with my thumb. My cheeks are fiery red, I’m sure, and not because of the midday heat. Sometime this past week, I began to doubt. Did any of it mean what I thought it did? Maybe I assigned too much import to what were just scratches in the dirt. Perhaps I exaggerated the heat of his voice, the urgency of his breath on my neck. How much was my imagination? It’s so hard to keep my thoughts clear when I’m never allowed to speak them.

  But somehow, I find the courage to ask, “Was it all a lie?”

  “You’re calling me a liar? After what you . . .” He steps toward me, but pivots and kicks the fence when I back away.

  “After I what? What did I do that was so terrible?” I shouldn’t push him. It’s spiteful. I know what I did. I was punished for it, and for all I know, he was punished, too, for refusing to choose. But I need to hear him say that he doesn’t want me anymore.

  “Daniel told me.” He threads his fingers through the wire and grips it so tight his fingers turn white. “About you and Aaron. That you and he . . . were together. Before the Matrimony.”

  Hot tears and words of protest claw their way up my throat, but it’s so tight I can’t even breathe, much less speak or cry. Caleb can’t look me in the eye. He hates me now. I deserve this. It’s like Daniel said—my sin has touched everyone.

  “It’s true, then,” he whispers. He reaches out a shaky hand, and suddenly I know that even though he may hate me for what I’ve done, he still wants to touch me, as much as I want him to. I can read it in the twitching of his fingers, in the way his sad gaze caresses me. “How could you?”

  “He’d been bitten by a rattler. What was I supposed to do, leave him there? He could have died.” I dash away a tear. “You know the treatment as well as I.”

  His expression changes in a matter of seconds, but I don’t know him well enough to read them all. Sadness to disbelief, maybe? Does he think I’m lying?

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The night of the Matrimony. When I . . . touched Aaron. That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it? Why I would risk everything for him? I know it was wrong, but I still think—”

  “Does Daniel know this?”

  “Daniel knows everything.”

  “It was just that one time? And all you d
id was . . . ?”

  When he trails off, I know he’s thinking of the intimacy. Of my lips on Aaron’s body. “It was his heel. And he was barely conscious. What else could we have done?”

  “Daniel made it sound like . . .” His shoulders sag.

  “Made it sound like what?”

  “He called you an adulteress.”

  “Adulteress?” I bark a laugh, but my throat is tight with fury. “That’s ridiculous. Me? I’m barely allowed to speak, much less make a choice to do that. But it always comes back to us, doesn’t it? The girl’s temptation, the girl’s fault. Maybe men should take some responsibility for once. If you all feel tempted, maybe it’s your own weakness and not ours.” I whirl to leave, but Caleb grabs my arm and I drop my basket.

  “Wait. I’m sorry. You’re right. It wasn’t your fault. It was Marcus and Aaron. They . . .” He breaks off and shakes his head.

  “They what?”

  “Never mind. Look, I tried to make this right. I spoke to Daniel.”

  Hope flares in my chest. “And? What did he say? Has he changed his mind? He told me it was a sin, that I would be Banished if I asked for . . .”

  It isn’t until he says, “Asked for what?” that I realize we don’t know each other well enough to leave sentences unfinished. But I also can’t bring myself to say the word divorce.

  After a second, before I can reply, Caleb says, “Daniel says your marriage is God’s will.”

  “God’s will.” I know this; everyone has told me. If anything, hearing Caleb say it out loud should finally make the reality easier for me to swallow, or at least make these feelings go away. Instead, my arm burns where he holds me, and the temptation to touch him, to feel his skin beneath mine, is so great I am light-headed.

  “So that’s it? We just . . . forget about each other?” I don’t think I can. Is it easier for him?

  “What else can we do?” He looks down, at his hand on me, and lets go. As if I’m on fire.

  I understand why. Even being together, alone, feels like sinning. But I’m enjoying it far too much to stop now.