Robert Liparulo - The 13 th tribe

“I believe focusing on positive rewards works better than negative reinforcement.”

“We’re wired to respond to both.” He made a grab at Tyler’s nose. “What works for your son?”

She gave him a lopsided smile and conceded, “Both. But I don’t want to be scared into heaven.”

Leo’s smile grew wider. “When it comes to eternal salvation, don’t you think the best strategy is whatever works?”

“Still, I don’t need to see it or read it or watch it to know sin is bad for us.”

“I think we all need reminders: Michelangelo’s depiction of souls being dragged to hell on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel; Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings of demons eating sinners, skinning them alive. Scandalous during their times, but now most of us can appreciate that the artists weren’t trying to titillate us, but tell us the truth about sin.” He scratched at the sparse hair on his cheek. “Can you see yourself as one of the women in this painting?”

“No,” Beth said definitively.

“Thank God for that,” Leo said. “Thank him with all of your heart because you know how bad it can be-how bad you can be-without him.”

“I don’t-” Beth stopped herself. She was going to say she didn’t have to hear the details of child abuse to understand how awful it is. But a thought occurred to her: Didn’t she hate drunkenness and irresponsibility a thousand times more than she had before the accident that had taken Jagger’s arm and the lives of an entire family? Hadn’t she come to hate those things maybe as much as God did? Didn’t it make sense that intimate exposure to sin and the grief it causes-even through art-would nudge her closer to the level of abhorrence for sin that God felt?

She nodded, giving Leo this debate.

“So can I see it?” Tyler said.

“No,” she said. “Not yet.” There was still such a thing as age appropriateness.

“Mom,” Tyler whined.

“Tyler, I said-”

“I have to go to the bathroom. Now.”

Gheronda raised his hand to point out the restroom, but Beth said, “I’ll take him back to the apartment. We’ve already kept you from your work too long.”

“Thank you,” Tyler said, rushing along their good-byes. He was squirming now.

“And you too, Father Leo,” Beth said, “for the food for thought.”

He bowed his head. “Bon appetit.”

She took Tyler’s hand and headed for the door at the other end of the hall. He broke away and ran, kicking up the treasures in his utility case: kich-kich-kich-kich-kich…

“Don’t run!” she hoarse-whispered. She glanced back. The two men were appraising the diptych, as though they hadn’t done so countless times. It didn’t matter if she ever saw it again-she would never forget the depravity it depicted, the twisted delight of its faces, or the nausea it had stirred in her.

Nevaeh pushed her palm against her forehead, willing her headache to go away. “Creed, listen,” she said, without looking at him, “it’s never bothered you before.”

“It does now.”

The sadness she detected in his voice surprised her. Until moments ago, his words had been sharp with defiance and anger. She realized his face had softened; his eyes were pleading. She glanced at Ben, sitting behind his big desk, a book open in front of him. His finger was still pressed against a passage he had quoted a minute before. And he went after the man of Israel into the chamber, and thrust both of them through, the man of Israel, and the woman through her belly. So the plague was stayed from the children of Israel.

Creed hadn’t wanted to hear it-or any argument against his opinion-and now Nevaeh didn’t want to hear him.

He spoke anyway: “It’s one thing to mete out justice to a criminal, but this… this plan… There will be too many innocents.”

“‘Now kill all the boys,’” Ben said, “ ‘And kill every woman-’ ”

Creed slapped his hand on the desk. “Stop quoting Scripture to me,” he said. “I know it as well as you do.” He sighed and said quietly, “That was then… this is now.”

Ben leaned back in his chair and rubbed his goatee. “What’s changed?” he said. “Did God?”

“Yes!” Creed said and paused. “No.”

Nevaeh said, “‘All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’ ”

“That doesn’t give you the right to kill them, not like this,” Creed said. “Everyone deserves a chance.”

Nevaeh tilted her head. “At what?”

“Salvation,” Creed said. “Redemption.”

“Do we?”

Creed blinked. “Yes.”

“Then where is it?” Nevaeh snapped. “Where is it, Creed? How long do we have to wait?”

“That’s another issue,” Ben said. His deep voice and crisp diction imbued the words with authority. “Right now we’re addressing Creed’s concerns regarding our plan.”

“We’re not addressing anything,” Nevaeh said, waving a dismissive hand at Creed. “It’s like talking to a brick wall.”

“Creed,” Ben said patiently, “when God’s people crossed the Jordan into Canaan, they cleansed the land of the pagans living there. Everyone: men, women, and children.”

Nevaeh said, “They were directed by God to do so.”

“Where’s our directive?” Creed demanded. It’d been a point of contention among them for centuries: just how did God communicate with his children once burning bushes and pillars of fire fell out of vogue?

“It’s come through prayers,” Nevaeh said, “dreams.”

“Inspired by you and your desires,” Creed asked, “or his?”

“He paves our way,” Nevaeh said. “We listen when he foils our efforts… and when he aids them.”

“You can’t say that because God allows it, he wants it.”

Ben said, “Our actions have always been consistent with his revealed word.”

“As you interpret it,” Creed said. “The people of Canaan would have corrupted the Israelites, seduced God’s people into worshipping false gods, acting like pagans.”

Ben spread his hands. “And you’re saying the ways of the modern world don’t?”

“You can’t rid the world of blasphemous influences,” Creed said. “Trying to is just pointless… and cruel.”

Ben tapped the Bible in front of him. “More than cleansing Canaan of bad influences, the destruction of those towns was symbolic, a sign for everyone who came after-everyone who reads the Bible now or who ever did-that God demands loyalty, and death will come to everyone who betrays his will.”

“So you’re planning the destruction of an entire city to prove a point? To try to teach religion to a world that won’t listen?”

Ben sighed. He lowered his face into his hands. Finally he said, “Yes.”

“That’s just wrong,” Creed said. “It turns us into the very criminals we’ve been trying to rid the world of.”

“Round and round,” Nevaeh said, heading for the door. “Chat about it all you want. We resolved this a long time ago.” She strode into the dark corridor, feeling the eyeless sockets of the skulls watching her. “We have a precedent for this,” she called back. “A divine precedent.”

Nevaeh stormed past her own room and stopped before reaching the next one. The heavy wooden door was open, allowing light, music, and the children’s voices to spill out. Their laughter and playful banter calmed her, reminded her not to take everything so seriously.

She took a deep breath, stepped into the entrance, and leaned against the doorframe. It was a big space, lighted by two bare bulbs whose wires had been tacked to the stone ceiling. Two beds-plump with blankets and pillows-and two dressers were situated on opposite ends. Heavy wooden chests of varying shapes and sizes ran the length of the back wall. Stuffed with toys, they nevertheless failed to hold the children’s collection, which was piled against the chests and walls, scattered around the room: dolls and pull toys; board games and puzzles; containers of Play-Doh, Silly Putty, Legos, Erector Sets. It looked like a missile had struck a toy store.