Then she jerks, as if remembering where we are. Who I am. “But that doesn’t mean . . .” She pauses. “You can’t talk about a woman like this. In public.” Her gaze darts to the doorway and back to my face. “Even a hint of gossip will damn her. She isn’t allowed the chance—”
“Her shame is her own,” I say, interrupting. “She tried to seduce me. After the communal Gathering. In this very building.”
Phoebe’s face goes white. “Susanna was here? At night?” She drops the fork with a clang and stumbles off her stool, tripping over her own skirt. “That’s impossible. Daniel would never allow such a breach . . . No.” She’s talking more to herself than to me. “No. Not Susanna.” She pushes past me and out of the room, whispering something under her breath that sounds like “. . . too young.”
But we’re never too young to commit sin. Daniel’s been teaching us that since we were kids. And I’m proof of it. Even after learning how close we are to the End of Days, I’m still going to meet Miriam at the Mill.
Phoebe didn’t finish her sandwich, so I grab it. But rather than eat it, I wrap it in a napkin and stuff it in my pocket. My hunger for Miriam is even stronger than my appetite. Or my guilt.
36
MIRIAM
I HAD A DREAM AND IT MADE ME FEARFUL.
—Daniel 4:5
The tunnel is familiar, yet not. Similar to the one I walked on my wedding night, though this one has no light to guide me. And I’m alone. A frigid wind blows through the corridor, icy hands pushing at my back. The only way out seems to be forward, so I clutch my wool wrap for warmth and step carefully, avoiding the rodent-like shadows skittering just beyond my sight. I trail my fingers along the rock wall, which is somehow gritty and slimy at the same time. There are symbols here as well, just like in the other tunnel. Most are foreign, but some I recognize, like the pair of spectacles, our notation for seek. And the tower, which stands for refuge. And beside that, dozens of question marks, which we sometimes scribble in the margins of our notes when we find a passage confusing.
Then I see Delilah, standing at the end of the tunnel, awash in moonlight. She looks just as she did the last time I saw her, that night in the desert. Her white linen dress glows like a beacon. Unlike me, she seems unbothered by the biting wind that flattens the fabric to her body.
“Delilah! What are you doing here?”
She frowns and tilts her head. “Where else would I be?”
“Home,” I say. “When are you coming home? Are you lost?”
She tilts her head, her eyes filled with such sadness, I begin to weep. “Oh, Miriam. You’re the one who’s lost. Not me.”
“No—” I start to say. But she’s already gone, disappearing into the shadows like smoke. On the wall behind where she was standing, Daniel’s name is scrawled in big letters. But when I look closer, I see it isn’t D-A-N-I-E-L. It’s D-E-N-I-A-L.
I jerk to wakefulness. The darkness pulses as I blink away the residual effects of a headache. I’m in Aaron’s old bedroom and the door is shut, but though the outside walls of these houses are concrete, the interiors are paper thin.
“Intentional community, my ass. Call it what it is—it’s a cult.” That’s Aaron, and based on the way his voice carries, he’s down the hall in the dining alcove. “These people are sheep. He tells them how dangerous it is out there, so they shut themselves off completely. And now he’s got them convinced the world is ending? It’s fucking crazy!”
“Aaron! Lower your voice!” Sarah says. Her next words to him are muted, and I have to get out of the bed and move to the door to hear better. Even then, it’s difficult to make out what she says. “. . . not their fault. You . . . better than anyone.” Sarah sounds genuinely upset. Unlike me, who doesn’t know the meaning of the word Aaron’s just used. Based on context, cult must be some kind of expletive. He knows a lot of those.
I slowly turn the doorknob, holding my breath as I crack the door. “And we have more pressing concerns right now.” Sarah is still talking. A pause, then she says, “We need to think about an exit strategy.”
“What? No way. I may have screwed up, but I’m committed.” That’s Aaron. He hasn’t lowered his voice, despite his mother’s admonition, and it carries clearly.
“He’s right. We still have work to do.” The deeper voice must be Abraham. “Our goal hasn’t changed.”
Goal? I mouth the word.
“There’s nothing else Aaron can do here.” Sarah. “Without being married to Rachel.”
Nothing else he can “do” here? What is she talking about? And what does Rachel have to do with it? Maybe I’m still dreaming.
“We’re a team. We stick together.” Of the three of them, Abraham is the only one who doesn’t sound agitated. “It’s unfortunate that Miriam’s involved, yeah, but we play the hand we’re dealt. His leaving is only going to draw suspicion. And we won’t get another shot at this.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving.”
Sarah says, “You heard Daniel. ‘If anyone has sins to confess, come forward now.’ He’s trying to force someone’s hand. We have to face the possibility that he might be starting to suspect something.”
“Or maybe he’s just looking for a scapegoat for the Armageddon he’s trying to manufacture,” Aaron says. “We can’t just leave Miriam here. Or any of them, for that matter. He’d sell them all into prostitution if it served him somehow.”
Prostitution? Like in the Bible? I know the rest is about Daniel’s miscalculation, but it doesn’t make sense to me, and I can’t tell if the muffled sensation is because I’m still woozy or because they’re talking nonsense. Leave us here? This is our home. Where else does he think we’d go?
“You’re overreacting,” says Abraham. “Delilah was an isolated case. And partly our fault.”
Partly their fault. So Abraham was involved. As Aaron would say, shit. I liked them.
“Trust me, I’m not overreacting. He spent the morning teaching us how to use assault rifles,” Aaron says.
“This community has no history of violence. The research is solid.”
“No history, huh? That’s exactly what they said about Jonestown. And Waco. You know why? Because anyone who could say different was dead.”
“Have you said any of this to Miriam?” For the first time, Abraham sounds concerned. Not about Aaron’s words, but about the idea he might have shared them with me. Strange. “You’re influencing her in ways that probably aren’t—”
“I’m just trying to get her to think for herself,” Aaron says. “But don’t worry. I doubt it’ll take. She’s had a whole lifetime of indoctrination. And Daniel’s never given them any lessons on the dangers of cult membership.”
I repeat the strange words to myself and make a mental note to ask about them. Who, I’m not sure. My mother, maybe. Or Rachel.
“You know that could easily backfire on us. Knock it off. She’s not our concern,” Abraham says.
“They should all be our concern! Or have you been drinking the Kool-Aid, too? After all the lectures you’ve given me? Jesus Christ.”
I press my back against the wall as Aaron stomps down the hall toward me. But he keeps going, and I see his back through the crack as he goes into the bathroom and slams the door.
I wait for my heart to start beating again before getting back in bed. But Abraham and Sarah aren’t finished.
“We shouldn’t have let him come. He’s not ready. After—”
She doesn’t say after what, but I can fill in the blank. After the awful place Aaron spent his childhood.
“If he doesn’t want to leave, we can’t force him. It would only arouse suspicion.”
They’re quiet for so long, I think they must have moved, though I didn’t hear their footsteps. I have my hand on the doorknob when Sarah speaks again.
“Did you know? About the guns.”
&
nbsp; “No.”
A pause. Then she says, “So what does it mean?”
“It means Daniel’s becoming paranoid. And he doesn’t trust me, not completely. If he did, he’d have given me a weapon. To shoot Delilah in the back, if nothing else.”
“A.J.!”
“Sorry. Don’t worry, love. She’s safe. He won’t find her.”
She’s safe. He won’t find her. Abraham is talking about Delilah. Delilah is safe. From . . . Daniel?
“And Miriam?”
“I’m not sure what to do about Miriam,” Abraham—or A.J.?—says. “Clearly, Aaron is becoming attached. She’s going to be a problem.”
My stomach clenches and my breaths come faster, in the same rhythm as my pounding head. My father-in-law—the same man who has “removed” Delilah, supposedly for her own safety—thinks I am a problem.
I sink to my knees and fumble for the trash can, emptying the contents of my stomach into the bin. If only it were that easy to get rid of all these doubts.
37
CALEB
I wait outside the Mill all night, until the sun rises to beat the moon from the sky, bruising the edges a soft purple. Miriam doesn’t come. I’ve conditioned my body to withstand a great deal, but losing her is a pain I don’t know how to bear.
38
MIRIAM
IF WE SAY WE HAVE FELLOWSHIP WITH HIM WHILE WE LIVE IN DARKNESS, WE LIE AND DO NOT PRACTICE THE TRUTH.
—1 John 1:6
When I open my eyes again, Aaron’s head is on the pillow next to mine. For a moment, I don’t remember where I am. Why are we in bed together?
Aaron presses his finger to my lips as I try to speak, and I resist the urge to bite it. Barely.
He must see something in my expression, because he snatches his hand back and tucks it under his cheek. “Daniel’s on his way over,” he says. “He wants to talk to us.”
From the way he wrinkles his forehead, I know he’s debating if he should say more. Does he know I heard him talking to his parents? I don’t remember anything after throwing up. Did I get back in bed? Or did he put me there? Or maybe he’s wondering if I’ll keep my mouth shut about everything he’s told me. I don’t give him a chance to ask. Instead, I sit up and scoot away from him, but the bed is small. He rolls to grab my arm just before I fall.
“Calm down. We have to act normal.”
Normal! Who is he to talk about normal? He’s the one who’s planted all these doubts in my mind. He and his family, who are clearly up to something . . . something not good. Did they really take Delilah? Does Daniel know? Is that why he’s coming here? Or is it because he knows about me and Caleb, and our sins? Or my ebbing faith?
“I can’t act normal! I don’t know what that is!” I yank my arm away and tumble off the side of the bed. Luckily, the sheet I’m tangled in pads my fall, but the floor is just a thin layer of carpet over concrete, and the pain in my hip is going to translate to a big bruise later today.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I untwist the sheet from around my ankles and throw it across the room.
“For the record, being so afraid to touch your husband you’d rather injure yourself falls into the ‘not normal’ category,” he says, swinging himself into a sitting position. His tone is light, but I can tell I’ve hurt his feelings.
“I’m not afraid to touch you.” To prove it, I take the hand he offers and pull myself up. “I’m still getting used to your—you know. Your inclination.”
“The word you’re looking for is gay.” He grabs his shirt from the hook on the back of the door and shrugs into it, doing up the buttons while still watching me. “But don’t ever use it. Daniel will wonder where you learned it. And I told you. It isn’t an inclination. It’s just part of who I am.” He sniffs, then wrinkles his nose. “Did you get sick last night?”
I shrug and use my foot to slide the garbage bin behind me. “And Daniel knows you’re gay?” He’s already confirmed it, but this is the part I can’t reconcile. Daniel has taught us there is no virtue to be found in a sinner. I find it unfathomable he hasn’t cast Aaron out, that instead he has bound him to me. Doesn’t he worry Aaron’s sin will damn us both? Doesn’t he care about the fate of my soul?
“He does.” Aaron’s face is a cold mask of anger, and I recognize this as the expression he dons when our Leader’s name is mentioned. “Look, he may ask questions. But you don’t have to tell him everything you know.”
“You want me to lie?” In my mind, I still hear their whispered words. Cult. Armageddon. Prostitution. A.J. Miriam’s going to be a problem. But he doesn’t know I heard those things. What then does Aaron want me to keep quiet about?
“Not lie, no. Just answer only what he asks. Don’t give him any more—”
“I had a dream,” I say, partly to make him stop talking, and partly because I need to talk about it. “It was about Delilah. She was here, in the tunnels. I thought she’d come back because she was scared, but she wasn’t. She was worried about me. She said I was the one who was lost. What do you think it means?”
Aaron’s expression flickers between interest, surprise, and then anger. Clearly, he doesn’t believe me. I don’t know why I told him. Cult. Armageddon. Problem.
“Never mind. Daniel’s the one I need to ask.”
Aaron groans and rubs a hand over his face. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I told you, your dreams are not a prediction of the future. It’s your subconscious. You’re worried about Delilah, so you dreamt of her. It’s totally normal, but it doesn’t mean anything. And for the love of God, do not bring up Delilah to Daniel.”
I’m pissed—to use a favorite word of his—that he dismisses my dream so quickly. “Why can’t I ask Daniel?”
“He’s already suspicious. We weren’t exactly sociable after Chapel yesterday. And somehow he knows we spent the night here.” He chews on the corner of his lip. “I’m just . . . worried about what he’s going to think.”
“Well, I’m worried about Delilah.” I twist my skirt around and smooth the front of my shirt. “And Daniel interprets our dreams, so—”
“Don’t you get it? The ‘dream interpretation’? It’s just another way to manipulate you. He makes you keep those stupid dream journals so he can read them and use the information. Either to make you think he’s some kind of oracle or to keep you in line.”
“Stop that! Why must you question everything he says? Everything we do?”
He throws up his hands. “Why don’t you?”
I can’t answer. I’ve just remembered—Daniel has my dream journal. It seems a lifetime ago that he took it from me, though it was only a few days. That must be why he’s coming here. He knows I lied in it, and worse, he knows how I feel about Caleb.
The door opens.
“He’s here,” Abraham says.
I let Aaron take my hand and lead me into the living room behind his father. This is how I’m expected to act—docile and compliant—and while the warmth of his hand in mine is a small comfort, it occurs to me that many of my duties as a wife are designed to make me feel small.
Abraham moves toward Sarah, who stands near the window with her arms crossed over her chest. While tiny in stature, she has a presence even her husband can’t overshadow. Maybe that’s because he doesn’t try.
Daniel leans on the fireplace mantel, which has been cleared of all the netsuke. Did Sarah take my advice? Behind him, I see part of a book and a shoe, which are odd decorations, even for Sarah.
Our Leader turns as we enter the room. He is unreadable, his face so devoid of emotion it may as well be chiseled out of rock.
“Good morning.” He holds out his hands to us.
I take a hesitant step forward, but he drops his arms before I reach him.
Aaron laces his fingers through mine and squeezes. A show of support? Or a
reminder to hold my tongue?
“I’m told you slept here last night,” Daniel says, his gaze flicking back and forth between us. “A slumber party of sorts.”
Aaron’s hand crushes mine before I can speak. His reflexes are even quicker than my mouth. It’s probably for the best. I have no idea what a slumber party is. How can you have a party while you’re sleeping?
“And I noticed you left quickly after Chapel yesterday,” he continues, linking his hands behind his back, “without staying for Fellowship. I’m not sure that children who flee from God’s embrace deserve Salvation.”
I’m not a child anymore. I’m a woman. But like everything else, that title holds meaning only when it’s convenient.
From the corner of my eye, I see Sarah take a step forward. “It isn’t Miriam’s fault—she began feeling ill while at Chapel. We invited them for dinner, and when her headache didn’t improve, we let her lie down—”
Daniel doesn’t turn toward her. In fact, his posture does not change at all as he says, “For if we could control our tongues, Sarah, we would be perfect and could control ourselves in every other way.”
I threw that same quote at her last night. Tears of shame blur my vision, so I can’t be sure if Abraham means to hold her back or embrace her as he wraps his arms around her shoulders.
The protective mother. What was it she said once? Mothers worry? But she isn’t my mother. I want to trust her, and she did just lie for me, but I don’t know if I can. Does she also think I’m a problem, like her husband does?
“Well?” Daniel stares us down. He’s waiting for some kind of reply, but I have no idea what he wants to hear. He didn’t ask us a question, which means there is probably no right answer. Clearly, he found Sarah’s explanation lacking. Part of me still itches to confess my sins. To tell him of my doubts. To ask him what all of this means—Armageddon, Delilah, cult. And not just because I want to see his reaction. Because he’s always been my spiritual guide, and I could really use some guidance now. If I can’t put my faith in him, then where?
The Virtue of Sin Page 25