The keyhole is just that—a hole. If I can find something small enough to jam in there, I can turn the lock. I seize Susanna’s letter opener and work it into the opening. I’m both surprised and vindicated when it works. Who says I’m not the smart one? How’s that for a riddle, Marcus? Who killed a quarter of humanity? How about: Who saved his brother’s soul?
The letter is still in the drawer and I grab it, stuffing it into the waistband of my pants. I’m about to close the drawer, still savoring my victory, when I see something lying in the bottom. Another set of keys, this one with a tag that bears the same logo as the van.
Maybe I won’t need Abraham’s help after all.
42
MIRIAM
ALL HER PEOPLE GROAN AS THEY SEARCH FOR BREAD; THEY BARTER THEIR TREASURES FOR FOOD TO KEEP THEMSELVES ALIVE.
—Lamentations 1:11
We cross through the city and head toward the Commodities Exchange, greeting our neighbors as we pass. The day is heavy with the smoky scent of creosote, and everyone is out, taking advantage of the clear weather while we still have it. In the distance, the sky has darkened to match the asphalt, the occasional zigzag of lightning the only way to separate the cloud line from the road. As I nod and smile at the younger girls who used to be my classmates, or their parents and siblings, the word cult loops through my head like wool on a spindle, so loudly I fear I may scream it out to anyone who tries to engage me in conversation. My expression must be unnatural, but at least it keeps everyone at a polite distance.
These are my friends, my family. If I voice my doubts, I will be Banished and I’ll never see any of them again. Is that really what I want? Why can’t I just shut my mouth and accept things the way they are? The rest of my neighbors have, and they’re happy. Aren’t they? We pass Leah, and in the morning light, she looks pale and tired. She’s probably a bad example. I think about Rachel, who got to marry her love and work the Farm. Certainly she and Jacob are happy. I think of my mother, who loves it here so much she panics at even the thought of leaving. Who knows what would have become of her if she’d stayed Outside? What would have become of me? All I know for sure is I wouldn’t be here, married to Aaron, marking my time with knotted bits of yarn.
Aaron turns back as my steps slow. “Are you all right?”
I nod, then shake my head as the tears slip down my cheeks.
He puts an arm around me. “Everything is going to be okay. I promise. Let’s talk to my mom.”
Sarah works in the Commodities Exchange, a rectangular building of metal and cinder block. Since Aaron has taken on the cooking and the shopping, I haven’t been inside since I ran errands for my mother before the Matrimony. It’s as depressing as I remember—one long room, separated only by the metal shelves that hold the basics of our survival, available for barter or begging. Dim lights hug the ceiling high above, trapped in wire cages along with the dust that coats the bulbs.
Sarah is behind the counter near the door, sweeping the cement floor. A line of ants gives her a wide berth as they march toward a mound of sand in the corner of the room. She straightens and gives us a smile when we enter, along with a warning glance down one of the aisles.
I’m not interested in whatever concerns her, not until I turn a corner and run smack into Caleb.
Even with all that’s happened between us, my body jolts and fizzes when I see him, like a kind of electrical shock. He must not have a similar reaction, because his eyes are ice as they glide over Aaron and me, taking in my tears and his hand on my shoulder. He turns and goes back to studying the shelves with a tiny frown, as if he hasn’t noticed us.
I know the importance of appearances, but I also know how hurt he must be.
“Please. Can we talk?” I ask.
Caleb turns and I take a quick step back, suddenly aware of how cool it is in this room because of the heat in my face.
He pastes a casual smile across his face as he glances from me to Aaron and back. “Maybe you can help me. I need some food I can carry. For a long distance. I’m not very good at this kind of thing. I don’t have a wife to shop for me.”
Aaron clears his throat and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go talk to my mom.”
Once he has walked away, I can speak to Caleb freely. “I know you asked me to meet you last night,” I whisper.
“You don’t have to explain.” He won’t look at me; instead he studies the shelf intently. But I can read the pain on his face like the words to a song. He thinks I didn’t come last night because of some choice I made. Doesn’t he know I don’t have that right?
“I was at Abraham and Sarah’s house,” I say. “For dinner. I couldn’t just leave. Not without drawing suspicion.”
“Sure. Right. What about tuna? But I’d need a can opener.”
I don’t owe him an explanation. He knows as well as I what my obligations are. But his indifference makes me angry. He needs to know the things I do. He doesn’t understand, not yet, but he will. “I planned to leave early. But then, we talked of Delilah.” I falter. “And I grew ill. They put me to bed, and when I woke it was morning and Daniel came to speak to us.”
Now I have his attention. “Why did Daniel think to find you there?”
“I’m not sure.” I didn’t question it at the time, but now that Caleb has, I wonder, too. I doubt Sarah and Abraham called him, not when they seem eager to protect others from Daniel. So who told him we were there?
From the front of the store, Aaron clears his throat. Loudly. When I look up, he tilts his head, past Caleb.
“Miriam. And Caleb.” Susanna sidles up next to Caleb, grabs his arm, and presses herself against him. “That’s a strange combination, isn’t it?”
Caleb yanks himself free of her grasp. “Are you following me?”
“Don’t be stupid.” She turns to me. “And how about you, Miriam? I’m not used to seeing you in here. Your husband, yes, but you . . .”
“Miriam’s been busy. Weaving.” Aaron joins us, holding up the skein of yarn like it’s a source of pride rather than embarrassment.
Susanna runs her thumb over it. “I suppose God will grant you peace, if nothing else.”
Aaron balls the yarn in his fist and shoves it in his pocket. “He’ll also grant us fish.”
“Fish? This time of year?” Caleb asks. “Doubtful.”
Aaron nods at the long white package tied with string in Susanna’s basket. “Not for Susanna, apparently.”
Fish is a prized commodity, reserved for women who have a talent they can trade for it or who are married to husbands with high-ranking positions. As far as I know, Susanna has neither.
Her smile cools. “Everything is available, for a price. Even fish.”
“You must’ve had something pretty special to trade,” Aaron says. “Don’t you work for Daniel now? Opening mail and scheduling his appointments? What commodities come of that?”
“There are other commodities besides yarn.” Her sniff reminds me of her mother.
“Sure, sure. Love, for instance,” Aaron says.
I don’t understand the glare Susanna gives him, but Aaron seems vaguely pleased with her response, while Caleb looks like he’s going to punch one of them. Or both.
“Love isn’t a commodity,” I say, horrified. “It should be given freely, not bartered away.”
“Tell that to Susanna,” Caleb mutters.
“Everything’s a commodity,” says Aaron. “Isn’t that right, Susanna?”
“You’re wrong.” I answer for her, but it comes out so weak even I don’t believe myself. Because isn’t my marriage—all our marriages—proof he’s right? Each of us traded to the first man to say our name. Aaron spoke and I was handed over, just like a piece of fish. Susanna is beautiful, but she also has a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. Still, to most of the men here, she’s nothing more than an object. Even Marcus,
who loves her, probably doesn’t see past that perfect face. The sad truth is we are all commodities. Aaron was right, that night he told his parents that Daniel would sell us all into prostitution. In a way, he already has.
“You know what’s a commodity?” Susanna asks us, though she’s only looking at Caleb. “A coyote. That’s a real commodity.”
Caleb’s face goes white and then red, in such quick succession that it could be the weak lighting.
“Did you catch the coyote? In our . . . your trap?” The words are out before I can think about what they might reveal to Susanna about my relationship with Caleb. Based on the wicked smile that slowly crawls across her face, she doesn’t miss their significance.
“Just because you’re willing to barter with my brother’s life, that doesn’t mean I am,” Caleb says to Susanna.
“We’ll see.” She blows Caleb a kiss as she rounds the end of the aisle.
Aaron and I watch her go, but when I turn back to Caleb he is staring at me with a strange intensity. “I know I’ve said some things to make you unhappy,” he says.
My cheeks go hot. Aaron is still looking after Susanna, a puzzled frown on his face.
“I’m going to make it up to you,” Caleb continues. “I have to do something, and when I get back—”
“Back?” Aaron interrupts.
Caleb glares at him, then turns so he is between us, his back to Aaron. “When I get back, everything will be better. I promised you I would fix things, and I finally figured out how.” He lifts a hand, as if to touch me, then perhaps remembers where we are. “I’ll see you soon,” he whispers. As he walks past Aaron, he bumps him with his shoulder, throwing my husband off balance. It looks like he may have done it on purpose, but I can’t know for sure.
Aaron and I both watch as Caleb hefts several jugs of water onto the counter and signs his name to the register.
“Go back to the Mill and wait for me there,” Aaron says, not taking his eyes off Caleb. “It’s important that you act normal, stick to our routine. Don’t make anyone suspicious.”
“Suspicious? What are you—”
“I’m going to stop your boyfriend from doing something completely fucking stupid.”
43
CALEB
I drag the last of the jugs of water into the garage and pull the door shut behind me. It’s dark, no windows, and I give myself a minute for my eyes to adjust and for my pulse to stop racing. A minute to see if anyone has followed me. I cut around the back of the Kitchen and the Pavilion, avoiding the main road. But I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, lugging all this water. If anyone asked, I was going to tell them that Daniel wanted it stockpiled in the tunnel.
The air is thick with the smell of gasoline, and under it, a faint but unmistakable hint of rain. Thunder rumbles in the distance, an unnecessary confirmation. When you live in the desert, you learn to smell rain before you learn to walk. I’ve got to hurry. I’ve only ever driven a tractor, and though I’m guessing the van operates on the same general principles—engine, steering wheel, pedals, gearshift—I’m sure there’s going to be a learning curve. And I’d rather not do it in a washout.
I’ve committed to—and then discarded—a dozen different plans. Right now, I think the best course of action is to load the van, then figure out if I can drive it myself. But turning on the lights is going to attract attention. I’m going to need a flashlight. In the corner, I can make out the shadowy outline of a cabinet. I squeeze past the van and yank open the metal door, wincing at the rusty shriek. The shelves are crammed with a jumble of tools and junk—screws, rope, cans of paint, a chipped mug, a ball of rubber bands, a pile of dirty rags, a box of rat poison. I pick through it, tossing aside the rags to reveal a flashlight. Praise the Lord.
I pull it out, sending a pile of screws raining down onto the concrete floor in a chorus of metal. “Damn it.” I curse quietly and flip the switch on the flashlight.
Aaron’s face appears out of the dark like a devil.
“Jesus Christ Almighty!” I leap backward, banging into the cabinet door.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks. He keeps his voice low, but it carries a warning that makes the hair go up on the back of my neck.
“How is that any of your business?” I whisper. I try to look behind him, to see if he’s alone, but all I can see is what’s in the small circle of light between us. I switch it off.
“It’s my business because you’re about to make a huge mistake that’s going to fuck everything up.” He holds out his hand. “Give me the van keys.”
I clench my fist around them.
He tilts his head. “Come on. I know you have them. Probably stole them, right? From Daniel? No? The guard shack, maybe? Do you even know how to drive?”
I’m not going to take orders from this guy. He isn’t my Leader. He isn’t even faithful. “Of course I know how to drive. Now leave, before you get us both caught.”
His lip twitches, like I’ve said something funny. “That’s noble of you. But Miriam would never forgive me if I let you do something this stupid. You’re going after Delilah, I’m guessing?”
I blink. “How did you . . . ”
“That was my more charitable guess. The other was that you decided to cut and run, leaving Miriam to deal with the fallout of your little—”
My temper revs into overdrive. “I would never—!”
There’s a sudden pounding on the roof above us, and we both instinctively crouch and look up. “The rain’s started,” I say. “I need to get out of here.”
Aaron shoves me. The blow isn’t hard, but it catches me off guard and I go down, my elbow scraping the concrete. The keys clatter to the floor, and he snatches them up.
“This is a bad idea,” he says. “Delilah isn’t someone you need to worry about right now. You’ve got way more important problems to deal with, right here.” He unlocks the driver’s side and pulls open the door, reaching around to pull the lock on the back.
I stand and brush myself off. There’s an oil stain on my pants, and my fingertips are black. “You don’t know anything about my problems. Marcus is in trouble,” I add, though I’m not sure why I’m telling him, other than he’s part of the reason. “Daniel’s had it out for him ever since you two arranged your stupid switch.”
Aaron wrenches open the back door, then stops as if to consider my words. “Why Marcus?” he asks.
“I don’t know! You tell me. Maybe because Delilah—”
“Marcus didn’t have anything to do with Delilah. Okay? She’s safe where she is. Safer than here,” he mutters, hoisting himself into the back seat.
What does that mean? How does he know Delilah is safe? And what the hell is he doing in the back seat? “You’re not coming with me,” I say.
“Neither of you is going anywhere.”
A crash of thunder shakes the garage, while a blinding streak of lighting illuminates the open doorway—and Daniel.
44
MIRIAM
THE END OF ALL THINGS IS AT HAND; THEREFORE BE SELF-CONTROLLED AND SOBER-MINDED FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR PRAYERS.
—1 Peter 4:7
I slam through the Mill door and am brought up short by Lydia’s presence.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, pressing a hand against the twinge in my side and trying to catch my breath.
“Today you dye,” she says, lips pinched with disapproval.
“What?” I stumble backward, raking my fingers against the rough wood wall behind me.
“The wool.” She cocks her head, and her glee at my discomfort is so palpable it nearly chokes me. Belatedly, I see she’s lined the counter and stove with stainless steel pans and piled the table with more wool.
The last thing I want to do is spend the afternoon with Lydia. Not when I’m still trying to figure out what Aaron meant when he said he had to stop Caleb from doin
g something “completely fucking stupid.” And not when I still have all these doubts piling up in my head, much like these unending piles of wool. But Aaron told me I had to act normal.
“Fine,” I say, pressing my hands across my apron and forcing myself to sound calm. “But I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Put these on.” She throws a pair of rubber gloves at me. “You’ll need to protect your skin.”
“From what?” I peer down into the vat of water. It’s not boiling.
Her tone is impatient. “The mordant—it helps the dye take. It can damage your skin.” She unrolls a fleece of wet wool from a towel and slowly sinks it into a vat the color of mustard, so slowly I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming.
“The wool has to be wet when it goes into the dye,” she tells me, yet another of the dozens of rules she’s thrown at me in recent days. She can’t possibly think I’ll remember them all. The only explanation is that she’s hoping I’ll fail. On a normal day, I’d rise to her challenge; I’m stubborn enough to want to prove her wrong. But right now, all I want is for her to shut up and leave.
“Otherwise we’ll get uneven color,” Lydia continues to lecture, mistakenly believing I care. “Now we wait for it to soak up the dye.”
Such a terrible word, dye. Dyeing. Dying. How fitting today, when I don’t know what my future holds. What if I have lost my faith? What if it is the End, and my name isn’t in the Book? Worse, what if everything Daniel’s ever told us has been a lie? What if none of us are in the Book? I fight the urge to burst into tears and instead force myself to take a breath. Act normal. Make her leave. And pray she doesn’t ask where Aaron is.
Before she can say anything else, I ask, “Does it hurt the wool? The dyeing?”
She rolls her eyes heavenward. “Wool can’t feel anything.”
“I meant damage,” I say, though I didn’t. Not completely.
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