The Virtue of Sin

by Shannon Schuren

  “I could help you,” I say, gesturing toward the box. Though really, I can’t. Not without inflicting punishment on both of us. But I’ll try. “We’re still neighbors, right?”

  He looks away, then back at me, as if weighing the decision in his mind. “Sure,” he finally says. “I could use some help.”

  The lure of even a few moments more with him is too strong to ignore. I pick up the box at his feet and shake it, the contents inside shifting with a metallic jangle. “So this is the coyote trap?” I’m tongue-tied suddenly. Why is it easier to talk of marriage and adultery than of ordinary things? Aaron and I talk about mundane things every day—food, wool, the weather. Is this awkwardness normal? Is this the difference between love and marriage?

  Caleb nods, apparently as lost for words as I am. “Daniel thinks one might have gotten in somehow. Maybe it slipped in under the fence.”

  “I hear them at night. Howling. They sound sad.”

  “They howl to communicate. So maybe they’re trying to find the lost one? But I don’t think they have feelings.”

  “Lost is a feeling.” It’s how I’ve been feeling all week. But as the sun sinks and the long shadows stretch out into the desert, pulling Caleb and me into their comforting arms, somehow I don’t feel quite as lost anymore. How sad that I feel less alone here than in the company of my own husband.

  I hand Caleb the box. “Where are you going to put it?”

  “I was thinking of the bathhouse,” he says, nodding toward the burnt-out shell of the building at the bottom of the hill. “It’d be the perfect place for a den.”

  “But . . . has anyone actually seen this coyote? What did Daniel say, exactly? Are you sure he meant a real animal? Not a dream he had?” Daniel dreams about animals a lot. And monsters. And natural disasters. Honestly, it’s a wonder the man gets any rest at all.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” He shifts his gaze from me to the space above my head. “I mean, he talked about coyotes. And danger. But he also called you . . . well, you know.” His ears go pink.

  Just then, a coyote howls in the distance, as if we’ve provoked it with our talk.

  “That sounded closer than usual,” I whisper, backing up against a tree trunk.

  Caleb edges away from me and makes a show of scanning the area for predators. I can’t see any in the encroaching darkness, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

  “You should go,” he says, placing a hand on the branch above me. “It might not be safe out here.”

  But he leans toward me, even as his words deny me, and I can feel his breath on my face, sweeter than the wildflowers surrounding us. He steps closer, and the distance between us becomes a roaring fire consuming air and reason. His gaze is locked on mine, and my heart pounds with every blink of his lashes. My skin grows hot as I remember that night in the cave, the softness of his skin against mine. I should look away from those smoldering eyes, forget about those strong arms. Instead, I give in and move closer, tripping over the basket at my feet. My cheek brushes his chin, and it burns gloriously.

  Then I tip my face to his.

  His lips feel like the sun on my skin, like coming home, like touching the face of God. I am heady with the pleasure of his arms around me, the smell of verbena heavy in the air. How can anything so amazing be a sin?

  We drink each other in until we’re both spent and breathless, our thirst for each other incited rather than slaked. When we break apart, our breathing is the only sound other than the wind blowing mournfully through the tree branches, a sort of wailing that makes me cry.

  Dear God, what have we done?

  I press my hand against my mouth, but I’m not sure if it’s to keep myself from speaking or from kissing him again.

  “Miriam. I’m sorr—”

  He’s interrupted by a muffled cry. A human this time, not an animal, and it comes from somewhere behind us, down the hill.

  Caleb pulls me down, so that we’re crouching behind a tall creosote bush.

  “Who is it?” My heart is pounding, both from the kiss and from fear. If we’re caught here like this, I’ll be branded an adulteress and Banished. No question.

  The voice grows louder. It’s unmistakably a woman, and she’s upset. Angry. Has she already seen us?

  “It’s Susanna,” Caleb says, shoving my basket into my hands, his whisper hardly more than hot breath in my ear. “Run.”

  23

  CALEB

  Susanna is on the bend beneath the hill, just outside the old bathhouse. And she’s not alone. Her companion is a man, judging by his pants, but his face is hidden in the shadows of the wreck. Though I can’t tell who it is from this distance, his wild gesticulations tell me he’s angry.

  The bathhouse is a remnant from the inhabitants who settled here before New Jerusalem was founded. It’s a burnt-out structure, home now to only a large number of rats and scorpions. Lightning struck it back in the early days of the city. Daniel was inside, along with Mishael, Azariah, and my father. Miraculously, God spared them from the fire, so it’s a holy reminder of His power. It’s also dangerously unstable. What would anyone be doing in there? The same thing Miriam and I were doing?

  I can still taste her, bittersweet, like lemon and honey. The smell of her hair, the feel of her in my arms. I love her, and it’s a physical ache. Not only in my heart, but everywhere else. This is what it’s supposed to be like, a love between a man and a woman. Passionate and real. This is what I’ve given up.

  No.

  This is what’s been taken from me.

  Susanna swipes her arm dismissively toward whomever she is with, then whirls up the path, right toward the spot where I’m standing. I quickly kneel and dump out the contents of my box, sifting through the metal. I snap the trap open and closed, over and over, willing the pain and the longing to subside. But not the anger.

  I stand as Susanna skirts the tree. She’s caught up in her own thoughts, which she mutters under her breath, her mouth twisted. When she sees me, she stifles a scream and jumps backward, her hand on the bare part of her chest, where her buttons are half undone.

  “Caleb. You scared me.” Her eyes are wide with fear. Of me? Or whoever she was with?

  “What are you doing out here, Susanna? I heard you cry out. Did someone . . . hurt you?”

  Her expression cools into something almost predatory. “I could ask you the same thing,” she says. “What are you doing out here? All alone.”

  Am I imagining it, or is she implying that she knows something? There’s no way she saw Miriam. Right? I let my gaze slip casually over the ground, looking for anything Miriam might have left behind. But there’s nothing. I hold up the chains. “Coyote trap.”

  “The only thing you’re going to catch in there is some unsuspecting Brother or Sister.”

  I snap it closed in my hand and she startles. “Maybe they should be careful where they’re wandering. Especially in the dark. Alone. Like you are. You are alone, right? Because it’s strange. Earlier, I thought I saw”—I cock my head—“a man. Coming from the bathhouse.”

  She tosses her hair, and I notice a dark blotch on her cheek. Is it a bruise? It could just as easily be soot. “I’m a married woman, Caleb. It’s inappropriate for you to ask me these kinds of questions.”

  This means far less to me than it would have even an hour ago. Yes, she’s a married woman. But so is Miriam. It seems adultery is easier than we’ve all been led to believe.

  “No matter how well you think you know my husband,” she adds, lightly touching the spot with her fingertips.

  No matter how well I know her husband? What is she saying? That she was with Marcus in the bathhouse? That he raised a hand to her in anger? I think of the angry gestures. Wouldn’t I have recognized them if it was Marcus? I shared a room with him my whole life. I should know my brother’s body language like I know my own. But I can’t
be certain.

  The anger of moments earlier vanishes, leaving me with only an aching sadness. For Marcus and for me. All I want is for Susanna to say something that will absolve us both. Tell me she isn’t saying what I think she’s saying: that her husband would never hurt her; that she doesn’t know what Miriam and I have done.

  Instead, she says, “Aren’t you supposed to be with Delilah?”

  Delilah is being sent Out today. Daniel asked me to escort her to the gate. “Hell.” I leave the trap in the dust and take off in the same direction as Miriam, Susanna’s mocking laughter ringing in my ears.

  When I saw Miriam heading to visit Rachel, I thought I had plenty of time to check the fence line before I was due back. After all, the most logical place for a coyote to break in would be near the goats. But Miriam stayed longer at the Farm than I thought she would, and I wasted far too much time pretending to inspect the fence so I could accidentally bump into her.

  I didn’t plan to sin, I swear. So what did I think would happen between us? I didn’t think it through any further than wanting to see her, maybe hear her voice. Because I’m an idiot. I’m also a coward. And a liar.

  And now, an adulterer.

  That’s what Daniel called Miriam—adulteress. But she wasn’t. Not until today. So why would he say that to me? Was he just mistaken? But Miriam said he knew everything about what happened between her and Aaron. Unless she meant “Daniel knows everything” as in “he’s our Leader and he sees all.” I want to ask him, but I can’t. If I do, I’m afraid he’ll know I spoke to Miriam. And if he knows we spoke, he’ll ask what else we’ve done. I’m not sure I can lie to him.

  But for the first time in my life, I’m not ready to tell him the truth either.

  24

  MIRIAM

  HUSBANDS, LOVE YOUR WIVES.

  —Ephesians 5:25

  Aaron has dinner ready when I return to the apartment. Yet another reminder of all the ways I’m failing. As a wife, this is one of my duties. Work the Mill, cater to my husband, cook his meals. Kissing another man is nowhere on the list.

  Will he be able to tell what I’ve done? What about Daniel? God already knows. I’m surprised I wasn’t struck down on my way home. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. A wanton woman, after all, is the worst kind of sinner.

  The spicy aroma makes my mouth water. I toss my basket on the couch and rip off my head scarf.

  “Why are you cooking?” My voice is sharp, which isn’t fair. It isn’t him I’m irritated with. But at least if he’s angry with me, he won’t ask me what I’ve been doing. Or whom I’ve been doing it with. “Haven’t you figured out by now that men don’t do that here? You’re making us look bad.”

  He’s pulling a pan from the oven, so I can’t tell if the motion in his shoulders is a shrug or a muscle twitch. He puts the chicken on top of the stove, pulls off his oven mitts, and flips a switch on top before he answers. “I don’t really care what the rest of the men do. We’ve both been a little bit . . . overwhelmed. With all the changes. It wouldn’t be fair to leave all the chores to you. And I told you, I like to cook.” He turns, taking in my flushed face and the spilled wool. I wait for him to ask his questions. Where have I been? What was I doing? Who was I with?

  Will I answer honestly? Will I confess? Or will I lie and sin again?

  “So, are you hungry or not?”

  I grip the back of my chair as he sets down a plate of food. A small piece of chicken flecked with herbs, some mixed greens, a fluffy pile of rice. All of his meals are like this—bright and simple. Even when the Council sent prepared meals, he would somehow take them apart and reassemble them into something lighter and tastier than anything I’d eaten before. He must be getting ingredients from the Commodities Exchange, or from Sarah, but I haven’t bothered to ask. I haven’t even looked in the refrigerator since we moved in, though my mother probably did at least ten times a day. I always thought my marriage would resemble my parents’, but this is nothing like it.

  “How is Rachel?” he asks, tucking a napkin beneath my fork.

  How does he know I was with Rachel?

  He points his chin toward the couch and my basket of wool, which I never did take back to Lydia. “I see you got more wool. Lydia will be ha . . . less unhappy?” he finishes uncertainly, and despite myself, I smile.

  “How angry was she after I left?” I ask as I sink into my chair. “Or . . . what’s the word you always use? Pissed?”

  I think it’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh. I’m not sure why it surprises me. He’s made no secret of the fact that he’s as unhappy as I am. Maybe it’s that his laughter is contagious, easing my dark mood a little. But I don’t want to share anything with him, not even this small moment of mirth.

  He waits until I’m settled before he sits. “Pissed is right,” he says. “God . . . I mean, gosh. You should have seen her face.” He’s still smiling as he shakes his head. “I reminded her that she’s the one who asked for wool. Big mistake. She set me to work nailing down loose floorboards. I think I’ve got about a dozen splinters.” He holds up his bandaged fingers. “Luckily, your mom helped me out.”

  “You saw my mother?” I force myself to pick up my silverware, ever so casually, gripping the cold metal tightly so as not to betray my trembling hands. “Without me?”

  “Well, you weren’t there, and some of those suckers were in pretty deep. I needed help. And antibiotic ointment.” He spears a piece of chicken. “She says hello. And keep faithful. How about you?” he continues, before I can ask more questions about my mother. Like, did she wonder where I was? Does she know what I’ve done?

  “How was your visit with Rachel?”

  “It was fine,” I say, spreading my napkin in my lap. “She invited us for dinner. Once Daniel allows it, of course.”

  “Sure. Right. And about how long do you think that’ll be?”

  I watch him scoop up a forkful of rice. He’s the opposite of Caleb in every way: a thicket of dark hair instead of closely shorn blond; skin and bone instead of muscle.

  His eyes meet mine, and I look down at my plate. “I don’t know. This is the first Matrimony we’ve had in my lifetime. And there are so many newly married couples. It’s hard to say how long it will take us all to adjust.”

  He nods as he chews. “How many families are there again?”

  “There were twenty-two.” I flatten stray grains of rice with the back of my fork. “Twenty-three once your family joined. And now there are thirty-tw—” I pause. Thirty-two is automatic, from our Lessons with Phoebe, when we talked about how the community would grow after the Matrimony, when we’d form new families. Only Delilah didn’t get the chance to form her own. And Caleb refused. Does he count as a family on his own? Delilah is being sent away, for Education, or so Daniel says. I know what it really is—punishment. For being Unworthy. But what about Caleb? He is still here, doing Daniel’s work. Is his not being a husband somehow less an affront to God than Delilah not being a wife? Or is it just because he’s a man?

  Aaron watches me, waiting for an answer. “I think there are thirty-one families now,” I finally say.

  “And the others can still socialize,” he says. “The original families.”

  “Yes. It’s just us who need to learn”—I swallow back the lump—“how to be married.”

  “And what if we socialized before Daniel says it’s time? Say we invited Rachel and Jacob over. Just to chat. How does that fit in on the whole sin scale?”

  “The sin scale?”

  “Yeah. Like how bad would it be?”

  I know what he’s asking, but I don’t think I like the question. Aaron may look fragile, but it would be a mistake to call him weak. His voice is steel when he says, “I’m just asking. Give it a number. One to ten. What if we ate with someone before we had Daniel’s permission? What would happen?”

  “I d
on’t know.” I look down at my plate. “I’ve never thought about it. Penance? Added chores? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Rachel would never do anything without Daniel’s permission.”

  “But you would?” He grins, as if he can tell he’s hit a nerve. “Just kidding. I get why following the rules would be important to Rachel, given her history.”

  I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  “It’s important to me. You’re talking about her mother.”

  Aaron pinches his lips together. “Can we just forget I said anything? How do you like the chicken?”

  “I don’t understand. How do you know about Naomi?”

  He flinches when I say her name. “Daniel told me,” he says finally, wiping his mouth and pressing his napkin into his lap.

  “Why? We aren’t allowed to talk about her. And you never even knew her. So why would he mention her to you? He’s always assured us that the sins of the mother don’t—”

  “What was her sin again?”

  My cheeks flush. “I don’t know. Something Contemptible.”

  “Contemptible, huh? What does that mean, exactly? I mean, I hear you guys use those words. Shameful. Contemptible. It’s kind of vague, though, isn’t it?”

  “A sin earns you a public Shaming. That’s when Daniel singles you out during Chapel and makes you recount your sins. After that, if you’re found to be without remorse—Contemptible—you are Banished. Ordered to wander the desert with the wild animals. And your name is removed from the Book of Truth.”

  “And that means . . .”

  “Didn’t you pay attention in Lessons?”

  “No, I know. When the end is upon us, the Book will be unsealed. And only those in the Book of Truth will be saved.” He rolls his hand. “But in here, specifically. Do you know what happened to Naomi and . . . what was her lover’s name? Phoebe’s husband. Azariah?”