The Virtue of Sin
Page 23
Up on the stage, Daniel lifts his arms high and cries, “I have had a dream!” He throws his head back, eyes rolling like sun-bleached stones. A low rumble rises from the room, a frisson of excitement that surges through the crowd like an electric current. Only today, the charge misses me. Instead of the usual tingle of anticipation, I feel only a hard brick of doubt settling in my stomach, weighing me down.
What is wrong with me?
I shift in my seat, peeling my cotton skirt away from the backs of my legs as I try to mimic the exultation on my neighbors’ faces.
“And in this dream. Four. Terrible. Beasts!”
But this isn’t revelatory. So why do they all act as if it is? The Dream of the Four Beasts is straight out of the Book of Daniel. We’ve studied the teachings of Daniel since before we could read.
Why did we bother? If we’re here because we need Daniel to interpret for us, both our dreams and his own, then why study the Bible at all? Isn’t God’s word, sent directly to our Prophet’s ears and then passed down to us, enough?
I shake my head, hard. Where are all these questions coming from? Dear God, please make them stop.
“Lion, bear, leopard.” Daniel ticks them off on his fingers as the rest of my Brothers and Sisters wait with bated breath to hear what these all mean. Even though he’s interpreted this particular passage for us dozens of times. “England, Russia, Germany. We’ve watched these once great nations crumble under corrupt leaders. And the great monster, with its iron teeth and its ten horns—America, feeding on itself. The horns, as we know, phallic, a symbol of the sexual degradation that plagues our country.”
“What the . . . ?” Aaron’s harsh whisper draws a few glares from the seats around us. Interesting, that he of all people would question sexual degradation.
Daniel slows in front of us, his robes rustling as they sweep the floor of the darkened room. Sometimes, the windows in the cupola above are opened to let in the sunlight; sometimes, like today, Daniel relies upon flickering light from the dozens of candles that rim the stage and the enormous chandelier above the pulpit. “I know what you are thinking,” he says.
My heart sinks. Because for the first time in my life, I don’t think he does.
“You’re thinking this all sounds a bit too familiar.” A few nervous titters echo in the room. “But here’s the thing. I finally know what God was trying to tell me all those years ago. And this isn’t easy for me to say, but I . . . I made a mistake.”
The collective intake of breath is so sharp I feel the cut. A mistake? How does the Living Prophet make a mistake? Unless . . .
“I thought—we thought—that the birth of New Jerusalem was the starting point. We thought we had seventy years here. But the timing was wrong.”
This makes no sense. Seventy years is straight from the Bible. It’s knowledge we’ve been raised on; it’s why we’re here. My mother keeps a calendar in her kitchen that counts down the days. If not seventy years, then how many? No one breathes as we wait for his revelation.
“In my dreams, God has revealed the truth. This isn’t the beginning. It’s the end. Brothers and Sisters, we are at the End of Days!”
There is a moment of silence, and then the crowd erupts. Women crying, men struggling to their feet. Only Aaron remains seated beside me, perhaps as unable as I am to process this news. Daniel was wrong? Does this mean Aaron is right? Our Prophet is not infallible?
“There will be a war, great and terrible. Many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, the Faithful to everlasting life, the rest to shame and contempt. It has been written in the Book of Truth, and there is no going back. The Tribulation has already begun.”
Keep faithful. That is our greeting and our goodbye, the mantra by which we live. But I have not kept my faith. Is it my doubt that has brought this upon us?
The light in Daniel’s eyes darkens to take on a sharper focus. And as he holds the Book aloft, everyone quiets. The sight of the cracked leather and wax-sealed pages paralyzes me, too. The Book of Truth and the promise of Salvation are the prophecies taught to us from childhood. Everything I’ve done in the pursuit of righteousness has been recorded in this text. So despite all my questions and doubts, part of me still desperately wants to know if my name is written in those pages.
“The Prophecy has long been sealed, but we know what it says. The Lord has promised safety to the Faithful. To the people of New Jerusalem. As long as your name is in here”—he waves the bound leather volume in the air—“you need not worry.”
Then he slams the Book down on the pulpit, and the chandelier above him sways, candles licking wildly at the darkened ceiling. “As for the rest—the liars, the godless, the lustful—” He pauses and we all lean in, even though we know what’s coming. “Once we break the seal, your sins will be revealed. There is no hiding from the eye of the Lord.”
He holds out his cupped hands. “This is your final chance at Salvation. If you’ve sinned, now is the time to confess and beg for mercy. Because now, more than ever, we must distance ourselves from the unrepentant. Cut ourselves off completely from the evil Outside. Cling to me, and I will cling to you. Keep you here, in the palm of my hand. When the end comes—as it will, soon—I alone will offer you up to God.”
Somehow, this seems to calm the others. Daniel lifts his cupped hands, and they rise up, smiling and clapping and mopping at their tearstained faces. I must be the only sinner here, the only one with doubts. Because instead of feeling calm, I am terrified.
Does no one else realize his palm is much too small to hold us all?
34
MIRIAM
DO NOT BE DECEIVED: BAD COMPANY CORRUPTS GOOD MORALS.
—1 Corinthians 15:33
When Daniel finally finishes his dire warnings of destruction and releases us from Chapel, the sun is high overhead, blinding and dizzying. Instead of lingering to talk to my friends and family, as on a normal Sabbath, I run. I make it as far as the courtyard before my knees buckle and I have to sit on the low wall. Aaron follows me and kneels before me as I try to catch my breath. I’ve never felt like this before. The faith that’s filled me my entire life is shrinking, leaving behind a gnawing emptiness that threatens to swallow me whole. I guess doubt takes up less space.
“Are you okay?”
This is his fault. He planted these questions with all his talk of the Matrimony, and Daniel’s involvement. “It can’t be true,” I manage, before my voice breaks. Either Daniel is the One True Prophet or he’s just a man, human like us, who made a mistake. Both can’t be true. Can they? It doesn’t really matter. Either way, I don’t know if I trust him to save us anymore.
Aaron shakes his head. “End of Days, my ass.”
His statement is so absurd, for a moment I forget my fears. “What does your ass have to do with anything?”
He almost smiles. “Sorry. It’s an expression. A stupid one. It means he’s lying.”
The pit in my stomach grows larger. There’s that word again. How casually Aaron dismisses the man I’ve always revered. “What makes you so sure? Tell me,” I add, desperate.
“What did he say, exactly? He twisted that dream from the Book of Daniel for his own means. Most scholars agree those teachings were meant to reflect what was happening in that specific time period. They weren’t meant to be deciphered like some prophetic puzzle and applied to the future.”
“What are scholars?”
“That’s a job. Outside. People, smart people, who study the Bible. And not even they can agree on what it all means. It’s not cut and dried, you know? What you believe, where you place your faith . . . that’s more about what’s inside of you than anything else.”
I don’t know what’s inside me or what I believe anymore. I take a breath and it comes out like a sob. “It’s the same thing. Belief and faith.”
“I disagree. A belief is in your min
d. Something you choose to agree with. Or to disagree with.” He pauses and gives a reluctant smile. “Like Daniel’s whole argument. I don’t believe the world is ending. There are supposed to be signs, right? Fire and brimstone. Floods. Locusts.” He shakes his head. “I don’t remember all of Revelation. But even separate from all the biblical stuff, if things were really going wrong out there, you can bet there would be crowds, hundreds of people at the gate of New Jerusalem, trying to get in.”
“That many? Why?” But I already know the answer. They’d be looking for Salvation. Maybe a better question is why haven’t they all come already.
“Because desperate people will believe anything,” says Aaron. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. A belief is a choice. But faith?” He whistles softly. “That’s trickier. Faith is a feeling in your gut. It’s the belief without the proof. It’s the foundation your belief sits on.” He makes a fist and lays a hand flat on top. Then he shakes his head. “I’m not explaining this very well.”
“No, I understand what you’re saying. But that’s why we all believe. Because we have faith. In Daniel and in his dreams.”
His expression darkens. “Blind faith is different. The faith I’m talking about is more like trust. In yourself, in the people you care about. But only people who have earned it. Not some random guy who gets his kicks out of convincing you his dreams are messages from God.”
“What do you mean, ‘convincing us’?”
His expression is closer to pity than unkindness when he says, “Miriam. You of all people must know this dream stuff is a crock. God may communicate with us in a lot of ways, but it’s not by sending anyone dreams of the future. I mean, come on. Haven’t you ever had one of those dreams where you’re standing in front of the class with no clothes on? Or how about the one where some animal is chasing you, but you can’t run? What is God trying to tell you in those dreams? To always wear clean underwear, and never piss off a bear?”
His words are a cold wind that reaches deep inside me to steal my breath. How dare he ask what I dream about? That is between me and God. It has to be. What am I, if I’m not a Dreamer?
The courtyard is starting to fill as the other couples head home to the apartments. “Come on.” Aaron grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. I’m still reeling from his assertion; can everything I’ve ever known really be no more than a lie? I let him pull me across the cracked cobblestones and past the welcome shade of the palms, toward the housing circle. To everyone else, we must look like a married couple out for a stroll. How shocked they would be if they could guess my doubts, if they had heard the things Aaron said. He must be wrong. But he sounded so matter-of-fact about it. So confident. Just like Daniel. What would Daniel say to all of this?
“‘Hear my words! If there is a prophet among you, I the Lord make myself known to him in a vision; I speak to him in a dream.’”
“Jesus Christ!” Aaron tosses my hand aside, then checks behind us and lowers his voice. “Quit parroting all the shit he’s told you and start thinking for yourself, would you? I know you’re smart enough.”
We’re close to his parents’ house now, and as we step up the walkway, Sarah flings open the door and throws out her arms in greeting. It’s obvious she’s missed him, and I have a strange pang of longing. For what, I’m not sure.
“Aaron. Miriam. What a surprise! Welcome!” She grabs my hands and pulls me inside, away from Aaron and into the kitchen. Before I can say anything, he has walked off, and I’m left with a woman I hardly know.
From the outside, this house is identical to the one I grew up in. Inside, Sarah has given it her own personal touch, and though I love the pots of herbs growing on the kitchen windowsill and the tiny figures decorating her mantel, I can’t help but wonder what Daniel must think of the graphic display of personal belongings.
“They’re called netsuke. I collect them.”
The detailed carvings—most no bigger than my pinky—are as delicate and beautiful as their owner. I reach out a hand, then quickly pull it back.
Sarah laughs. “You can touch them. They’re not that fragile.” She picks one up and drops it into my palm, and I see that what first looked like a ball decorated with abstract hatchings and designs is actually a pile of turtles. “This one is my favorite. He has a secret.” She leans forward and presses the carving with her fingernail. To my amazement, one of the shells springs open, revealing a tiny compartment inside.
“Has Daniel seen these?” I ask.
Her face goes blank, and I immediately regret my words. It sounds as if I’m shaming her. “I mean, you probably shouldn’t have them on display,” I say. “If he hasn’t seen them. He doesn’t like”—I fumble for the right words—“this kind of stuff,” I finish lamely.
She is quiet for a moment. “That’s good advice, Miriam. Thank you.” She gives me a brittle smile as she takes the carving and puts it back, and I know I’ve offended her. I’m not even sure why I said it. I’m the last person she should trust to give her advice on Daniel’s laws.
We make our way to the living room, where Abraham and Aaron are seated together on the couch, underneath the framed portrait of Daniel. Abraham is big and bulky, and though he and Sarah have the rhythms of a married couple, I can’t imagine them embracing. He’d crush her as if she were one of those tiny figurines. I wonder how long they’ve been married. My parents have grown to resemble each other, or perhaps they have just become washed-out paintings of the people they used to be. Were they ever as different as Aaron and I, or as Sarah and Abraham?
“I’m glad Aaron has finally brought you to us.” She takes my hands.
“I told you, Mom. We would have come sooner, but I wasn’t sure about the rules for Gathering. I didn’t want to get in trouble.” Aaron stares pointedly at her until she nods.
This isn’t entirely true. I explained the rules of Gathering to him, that they only apply to visiting other members of the Second Generation, not the first. So why have we waited so long to visit them?
“Of course,” Sarah says. “We have just been so anxious to spend time with the woman you . . . selected as your wife.”
Why is it none of our parents can speak of our marriage without choking? Do all marriages begin as a chalky, dry word that won’t go down naturally? Perhaps only the passage of time makes the idea palatable enough to swallow.
Sarah links her arm with mine. “Come. I made dinner earlier. There’s plenty to share.”
The table is decorated with a bouquet of fresh herbs, and Sarah motions for us to sit while she gets two additional place settings from the kitchen, the napkins folded into swans. Aaron grabs the tail and gives it a gentle shake, and I do the same.
“I see where Aaron gets his cooking skills,” I say, when she serves a bowl of cold rice studded with bright red, green, and yellow vegetables. It smells of lime and something else I can’t identify. The lemonade she pours contains whole slices of lemon and tiny purple buds.
“Lavender,” she explains, when she sees me frowning at the glass. “It’s calming.”
“Aaron tells us you’re talented,” Abraham says as he shakes out his own napkin.
“Talented?” I tilt my head. He can’t possibly be talking about my weaving ability, or lack thereof. A couple of days of Lydia’s tutelage have done nothing to improve my skills in that area.
“He says you have quite the singing voice.”
My fork clatters to my plate.
“Did I say something wrong?” Abraham lays his palms on the table, waiting for my answer.
I clear my throat. “I don’t sing.”
They look in question, first at each other, then at Aaron.
“Women don’t sing,” I try again, and am relieved to see they understand. But there’s a flicker of something else, too. Do Aaron’s parents share his doubts about this place? Do they question their choice to leave the Outside?
But there is one secret we don’t need to keep, not from them. The realization feels like waking from a dream. These are the only other people in the world who know the truth about our marriage. If I wanted, I could talk about it. Because they know. They know about Aaron, and presumably, they know what that means about our relationship.
“Not ever?” Sarah asks, her voice a whisper.
“Not—?” I stop myself. She’s still talking about the singing. “No. I mean, yes.” I take a gulp.
“But it’s scripture.” She pauses and looks to her husband for confirmation. “We should lift our voices in song.”
She’s right. It is scripture. This is the same argument I used to make to my mother when I was younger. And because I don’t have a better answer, I give Sarah my mother’s reply. “We can sing together. Not alone. We are all children of God. None of us is better than another. The singing of praise we may do together. Singing alone is reserved for Daniel.”
“But Aaron has heard you.” It’s not a question, and though the statement scares me—clearly they’ve discussed my sins—she is calm and nonjudgmental.
My cheeks heat. I don’t know how to answer. I don’t want to lie to my husband’s mother. He shouldn’t have put me in this position. I finally manage, “This is our way.” But it’s starting to sound less like a mantra and more like an excuse.
“Mom, drop it.”
“Forgive me, Miriam. I’m afraid there is so much I’ve yet to learn about the rules of the community. Perhaps you can help me?” Without waiting for a response, she continues, “For instance, I’m told I talk too much. Daniel says he’ll indulge me for a short period of time so I can get it out of my system. Apparently, he thinks I’ll run out of steam and have nothing left to say.”