“But Joseph…” I said and he raised his hand stopped me in my tracks.
“Good bye sister,” he said solemnly, “I am going inside to wash up for dinner.” And then he walked away, leaving me numb and hopeless in the yard.
* * * * *
The next few months were proof that God was punishing me for the multitude of sins to which I had succumbed since my brother’s 18th birthday. I awoke each day in fog and went about my chores. I did not really taste my food and I did not really enjoy my tasks. Every day was the same as every other day and I wondered how I could live for another 50 or 60 years without joy in my life. My Mother noticed I was upset and tried to cheer me up. But it was no use; I could not begin to talk to her about what I was feeling. Time seemed to crawl, my life stretched on forever. Day after day seemed like it was years of quiet agony.
In part, I knew that I deserved misery. Everything that my parents had taught me had essentially been true. I had allowed sin into my heart and my soul. I had used my body for pleasure, taught myself to sin. And now I reaped what I had sewn. Sin led to soul death.
Sin had caused me to lose my best friend, my companion, my confidant, and my…lover. Every day I thought about my actions, starting from the time that my brother first went out to the Market with my Father. I thought about all of my mistakes. So obvious in retrospect, but so obscure then. Each step I had taken had afforded me with options to stop, to turn back. But I’d allowed my curiosity to get the best of me. I’d allowed my body to overcome my soul. And I knew that everything my brother had said was right. This was all a mess of my own making.
Further, God tortured me by keeping the object of my unholy lust just feet from me every day. And I welcomed that torture, because it would teach me not to sin. So I would see Joseph at the breakfast table and I would work with him in the yard. And I would try desperately to convince myself that I no longer wanted his body, that I was prepared to be righteous. And Joseph ignored me. He rarely spoke to me and when he did, it was always about a task that needed to be done. His heart had grown cold to me, God had granted him that relief. In a very short time, my torture was so routine that it felt like it had always been that way.
When the first market day arrived after our interaction in the barn, I’d actually thought that maybe Joseph would talk to me, explain the world again. But he did not. We cleaned Father’s truck quietly and efficiently, never speaking about a thing. My tiny window to the world had closed again. I would never hear about buildings and dogs and other people ever again. Each market day after that was the same dreary chore. My only connection to the outside world was the magazine my brother had gotten me.
One night, about three months after my encounter with my brother in the barn, I was sitting in my bedroom, quietly reading the magazine. I knew every page by heart now, every word. It was evidence of my sin, so I kept it to remind myself of my evil. But it also reminded me of happier times. I was flipping through the pages when I heard a shuffling at the door. I felt a cold rush of panic and quickly stuffed the magazine under my pillow on the bed. My door opened and my Father entered. I was quite taken aback. My Father rarely entered my room and never at night when I was in my gown.
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