The Virtue of Sin

by Shannon Schuren

  Father turns his back on her. “Get them in the car,” he says to me.

  Technically, not my job. But this isn’t the time to argue Church law with him. Instead, I kneel beside Delilah to help her to her feet. “I need you to tell Miriam something,” she says, looking suddenly more alert as she clutches at my shirt.

  Despite the sweat sticking to me—from both the heat and the tension—I go cold. Why would she ask me to get a message to Miriam? What can she possibly know about us? I look to see if anyone else has heard, but Father has his head bent toward Marcus, who is climbing into the front seat on the other side of the van, and Phoebe is already climbing into the back. Only Abraham is within hearing distance, and he sits silently behind the wheel, his eyes hidden by a pair of dark glasses as he stares out the open window.

  I disentangle Delilah’s fingers from the fabric. “Tell her what?”

  “Tell her not to worry. I’ll be all right,” she whispers in my ear, her voice as insistent as the whine of the engine. “In Abraham’s care.” She sways, as if dizzy, and I let her lean against me as we walk to the van. “Who’s more faithful than Abraham?” She smiles and touches my hand. “Will you tell her that? Promise me.”

  I nod. “I will. I promise.” I help her into the back seat, then walk toward the passenger side. I need to ask Marcus about Susanna and the bathhouse. I try to get his attention before he gets in the van, but he ignores me as he slams the door.

  “Marcus,” I call, but the van is pulling out, and I have to step back. He looks past me, back toward the city. Searching for something. Or someone.

  Susanna? Would he really hurt his wife?

  “Why is Marcus going?” I ask, after Thomas goes to close the gates behind them and Father and I are alone.

  “It was Daniel’s suggestion.” Father yanks on the collar of his shirt with both hands, then smooths out his sleeves. “He didn’t want to go at first, but I persuaded him. Your brother needs to get back in the Prophet’s good graces. He hasn’t been as fortunate as you.”

  Fortunate. Father would think it’s all luck. No mention of how hard I’ve worked to earn Daniel’s respect. Or how much I’ve sacrificed. Marcus is married to the woman he loves and I’m alone and yet I’m the fortunate one? I’ll never understand my father.

  “I’m assuming Daniel only agreed to let him go to scare him,” Father continues. “Give him a taste of what real suffering is like.”

  Am I only imagining it, or is this message meant more for me? And if it’s truly as dangerous Outside as we’ve all been taught, why send any of them Out at all?

  26

  MIRIAM

  WIVES, SUBMIT TO YOUR HUSBANDS.

  —Ephesians 5:22

  I lock myself in the bathroom. It’s the only place in this apartment—in my life—in which I’m allowed privacy. I stare into the mirror, at the cut on my face, and sing one of my mother’s songs for comfort.

  “Miriam? Please open the door.”

  Apparently, both time alone and privacy are privileges I don’t deserve.

  I’m tempted to ignore him, but he is my husband. Will this ever be my struggle: Honor him, because I have been told I must? Because it’s God’s will? And yet, what choice do I have? Daniel will not unbind us; he’s already made that clear. Of course, that was back when I thought I was married to a boy, not a heathen. Perhaps now he’ll reconsider.

  “I have a confession to make,” Aaron says, when I open the door.

  “Another one?”

  A ghost of a grin flits across his face. “This one isn’t quite as shocking. I looked at the papers. From your bedroom? The song lyrics?”

  “How did you know . . . ?” I whisper, then shake my head. “It’s not allowed. My mother . . . used to sing to me. She stopped when she realized I might repeat the words where someone else would hear them. Some of her songs I’ve forgotten, so I had to make up my own. I wrote them down so I wouldn’t lose those, too.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. They shouldn’t be lost. You have a beautiful voice.” Aaron holds something out to me. It’s a Joshua tree blossom. “So now I know your secret, and you know mine. Truce?”

  I take the peace offering from him, the wilted petals soft in my palm.

  “It fell out of your hair. That night. In the desert.” He blushes and looks at his feet.

  “And you’ve kept it all this time?”

  “It’s a reminder to me that not everyone here is a terrible person.” He points at my cheek. “We need to clean that up,” he adds.

  I duck out of his reach and he pushes past me to the sink, where he wets a washcloth and then gently wipes the blood from my face.

  He is standing so close I can count the hairs on his upper lip. I turn my head away, idly stroking the soft petals of the flower.

  “Can we talk about this?” he asks.

  “What more is there to say? I assume you’re telling the truth.” I grimace. “I don’t need details.”

  “I shouldn’t have lied.” He rinses the cloth and wrings it out over the sink, then opens the medicine cabinet.

  “Words are precious. Only a man would waste them by stating the obvious.” I try to leave, but he puts out a hand to stop me, turning me toward the toilet. He gestures for me to sit.

  I don’t.

  “Look, you have no idea . . .” He trails off and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “I didn’t mean to screw things up this bad. You have to know that.”

  A terrible idea has begun to nibble at me, like a rat on rotting food. I’ve prayed for a way to end the marriage, and God has provided one. Daniel will be furious, but he won’t make me stay married to an aberration like Aaron. I will be free.

  “We must tell Daniel.”

  Aaron doesn’t respond. I say it again, quieter, determined.

  He finally meets my gaze in the mirror.

  “He already knows.”

  I sit down hard on the toilet lid. “He knows, and he let you choose a wife? Why didn’t he let us negate the marriage? What can he possibly expect from us?”

  Aaron kneels in front of me, dotting ointment onto my cut. “You’re only partly right,” he says. “Daniel knows, but he didn’t let me choose. He made me choose.”

  “But . . . why would he do a stupid thing like that?”

  It’s the first time I’ve ever questioned Daniel’s authority out loud, and the words lie heavy between us, a boulder that has shifted precariously, threatening a landslide of doubts I’m afraid to voice. A tear slides down my cheek and over Aaron’s thumb. “How does he expect us to . . . ?” Embarrassment chokes off the sentence.

  “He expects my wife to change my mind.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  He peels open a Band-Aid and presses it against my cheek. “Brutally honest. That’s my Miriam.” His face darkens. “I can’t believe your mouth hasn’t gotten you into more trouble.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  He cocks his head to the side.

  “There are many things you don’t know about me. Maybe not as many as I don’t know about you . . .” But I can’t finish. It sounds like an invitation for intimacies I’m not ready to hear.

  He stands and throws the wrapper into the trash can. “One secret at a time,” he says.

  After a few moments of silence, I find some courage. “Who is he?” I shouldn’t care, but once again, my mouth is ahead of my mind.

  “His name is Tucker.”

  “And if you are both . . . men, then who chooses whom?” It may be wrong to ask, but I can’t help myself; I’m curious. These are the kinds of sins I’ve wondered about my whole life.

  “It’s not like that in the real . . . out there. You just, I don’t know, you meet someone you like, you start up a conversation, and if you’re both interested in each other, you go out.”

/>   “Out where? Aren’t you already Out?”

  “Out like on a date. To dinner. Or a movie, or something.”

  “When did you find time for all that?”

  “Our days aren’t as regimented. You have free time—days off. And you get to choose how you spend them. Sometimes we’d just pack up and spend the whole day at the beach.”

  Though I am dying to hear more about the beach my mother used to sing of, he looks like he might cry. I feel the same, so I change the subject. “And your parents? What do they think?”

  He sits down across from me, on the edge of the bathtub, and in the confines of the small room our knees touch. I shift mine away.

  “That’s why we’re here. To remove me from the ‘negative influences’ outside.”

  “Well, of course they want you to find love with a woman.”

  “Why ‘of course’?”

  “Because it’s a sin.”

  “Is it? Preachers, prophets”—he wrinkles his nose—“they like to put a lot of emphasis on sex. Like that is the ultimate sin. Personally, I don’t think God is any more interested in what you do with your reproductive organs than he is in your elbow. I think he just wants us to be kind.”

  I am at a complete loss for words. That doesn’t happen often.

  “I’ve had girlfriends,” Aaron says, maybe to fill my silence. “My first crush was a girl. Emma Cameron. She was kind of amazing.” He smiles at some memory.

  “And what happened to her? Why didn’t you marry?”

  His face goes blank. “It didn’t work out,” he says. “We were just kids. And I was thinking about what other people wanted for me, instead of what I wanted for myself.”

  “I’m sorry.” I don’t want to hurt him with painful memories, but something else he said has caught my curiosity. “She had two names?”

  He shifts his feet and glances toward the living room, at the mounted speaker. “Do those things work both ways?”

  “Both ways? They’re for us to hear Daniel’s word. Why would he need to listen to us?”

  An embarrassed silence falls between us as I wait for an answer and he struggles to find one.

  “Right,” he finally says. “Everyone on the Outside has more than one name. Most of them have three, sometimes more. But everyone has at least two. Except maybe rock stars. But they don’t really count. They usually change theirs.”

  “What are rock stars?”

  “Musicians. Famous people.”

  “Musicians?” I lean toward him.

  “Yeah. People sing and play music Outside. As much as they want. Some do it for a living.”

  The thought is an ache so deep, for a moment I can’t breathe.

  He glances at the ceiling once more. “I’ve got three names, in case you’re curious. Aaron Okita Thompson.”

  “Was it always Aaron? Or did you change it?”

  “No, I was always Aaron.” He grimaces. “And to answer your next question, my parents weren’t always Abraham and Sarah. But Daniel really encourages the biblical names. There was no way I was taking Isaac, so I guess I got lucky.”

  “Why not Isaac?” But I can guess the answer, even before he speaks.

  “Are you kidding? Abraham sacrifices Isaac.” He shudders. “I didn’t want to give them any ideas. Fortunately, since there’s an Aaron in the Bible, he didn’t push too hard.”

  “And what about Okita? And Thompson? Why do you need so many names?”

  He stretches out his legs, putting his feet on either side of mine. “It’s mostly to keep track of who’s who, I guess. I mean, there are a million Aarons. Thompson sets me apart. And it identifies my family. We all share the same last name,” he says. “My mom and my dad and his parents and grandparents. And Okita was my mom’s last name. Before she married my dad.”

  “She had to change it to match him? The Outside must be a scary place, if you have to share a name to stay connected. We’re all family in New Jerusalem,” I tell him. “And there is only one of each of us.” The words echo off the white block tile like hollow excuses.

  A strange look passes over his face, but all he says is “You are an individual. I’m not so sure about the others.”

  I think he means it as a compliment. But the bandage is enough. I don’t want his praise, so I change the subject. “And what does Tucker think of you being here?” It’s probably a sin to even think of such things, much less talk about them. But this is the first concrete picture I’ve gotten of the sins that have been preached to me my whole life, and my curiosity outweighs my shame.

  “He thinks this is a terrible idea.” He chokes on the words. “Or he did. I assume he wants me to come home, but I don’t know. We aren’t allowed communication with Outsiders. And even if we were, I’m sure I wouldn’t be allowed communication with him.”

  Even though I know Aaron is a sinner, my heart breaks a little for him. “Is he your coyote?”

  “Maybe. We weren’t together long enough before I came here for me to really know. We’ll see if he’s still . . .” He shakes his head, a lock of hair falling across his forehead. “Anyway. You know what it’s like. To think you love someone you can’t be with.”

  So he knows about Caleb. It’s true Aaron and I do have this heartbreak in common, but something he says bothers me. “What do you mean, I think I love him?”

  “I mean you barely know him. Sure, your life would be easier if you’d married Caleb,” he continues quickly. “But sometimes, love means having to sacrifice your vision of perfection. If you’re lucky, you end up with something better than you ever imagined. And if not”—he shrugs—“well, love’s a gamble. There aren’t any guarantees.”

  “But other people?” I ask. “If you hurt them, is love worth that sacrifice?”

  “You’re the only one who can say.”

  “We were talking about you, not me.”

  “Fine.” His breath shoots out in a rush. “Do I wish I could make people understand? Yes. Do I want the people I care about to accept me for who I am? Absolutely. But if they can’t, because of mistakes I’ve made, in the eyes of God or whatever”—he waves a hand—“will I change myself?” He slumps low. “I can’t. And why should I? That’s like saying who I am isn’t enough. And that’s just fu— messed up.”

  My own eyes well in sympathy, which makes me either a compassionate wife or a traitor to my faith. Possibly both. How can I sympathize with him, given what he is? But what is that, really? Daniel would call him a monster, but he doesn’t look like one. He is only Aaron, who has cooked for me and shown me kindness. Turning my back on someone in a time of need—isn’t that a worse sin? So instead of preaching, I tuck the flower behind my ear and reach for his hand.

  And this is how I become complicit in my husband’s sin. Curiously, it’s the first thing I’ve done that makes me feel like a real wife.

  27

  CALEB

  The raised voices wake me from a dream that slips away when I open my eyes. Daniel and someone else, maybe more than one someone else. And he is displeased.

  Is this about Miriam and me? I’m tempted to hide in my room and pray whoever it is will go away, but Daniel hates cowards, possibly even more than adulterers. And I need to know who saw us. It can’t be Susanna who’s downstairs now. No woman, aside from Phoebe, would be welcome here after dark.

  By the time I pull on my pants and reach the first floor, Daniel, Abraham, and my father have stopped arguing and are staring at each other in gloomy silence. The tension is so thick, my skin itches.

  “If the gas station was in a populated area, she could be anywhere—” Father breaks off as he registers my presence. “What are you doing here?”

  I’m so busy chewing over his words that I barely hear the insult. What is a gas station?

  Daniel’s eyes flick toward me, then away. “Caleb is in charge of Secu
rity,” he says. “I welcome his perspective.”

  Father says, “I don’t think that’s such a—”

  “Such a what?” When he doesn’t answer, Daniel continues, “Fine. We’ll finish this in my office.”

  He hasn’t exactly invited me, but he hasn’t told me to go back to bed either, so I follow. The last time I was here, it was so warm I thought I might pass out. Now, the fireplace is a dark void, and the harsh lighting and the chill between the other men makes me almost miss the heat.

  Once we’re all inside, Daniel standing behind his desk and the three of us in a semicircle in front, he points to Abraham. “Start again.”

  Abraham stares at a spot above Daniel’s head for a second, maybe taking time to compose himself, though he doesn’t look nearly as agitated as the others. More like angry. If possible, this is a man who carries more rage than I do. It makes sense. He is—was—an Outsider. It’s evident just by looking. His dark hair and beard are clipped shorter than those of the Elders. And at least one of the lines around his eyes is a puckered scar. My mother says most of the people who live Outside have scars, but that not all of them are visible.

  He spreads his feet, folds his hands in front of him, and says, “We stopped for gas just over the California-Nevada border. Right on schedule. Delilah asked to use the restroom.”

  “Delilah?”

  Abraham silences me with a cold glare and continues, “She was gone for approximately ten minutes before Phoebe tried the door. When she got no response, she asked the attendant to unlock it. The room was empty. Delilah went out through the open window above the sink.”

  So this has nothing to do with Miriam and our adultery? Maybe Father was right. I don’t have any business down here. I don’t know anything about the Outside.

  Daniel snaps his fingers in my face and I jump a little, which almost makes him smile. He points to a chair, and I sit. It gives me a chance to watch them all. Abraham is the only one fully dressed; he must have come to Daniel right from the gate. Daniel has one of his ceremonial robes thrown haphazardly over his shoulders. The front is still open, and he isn’t wearing a shirt underneath. Father is, but his is buttoned wrong. He must have been in a rush to get here quickly. Did Abraham alert him to the problem?