Lucifer's Pride

by G. P. Ching

  “He collapsed. Isaac Bender found him in the field. Rode all the way to the English neighbor on his fastest horse to call a doctor. They took him back to the house—”

  I do not wait for the details. Without concern for social formalities, I dash for home, only yelling my thank you to the bishop’s wife as an afterthought. As much as I complain about my father, he’s all I have. I love him deeply and he’s my only kin. Unlike most Amish, I have no brothers or sisters. When my mother was killed, she took with her any hope of more siblings. My father never remarried, and my grandparents, aunts, and uncles are dead. I have cousins, the Benders and the Kauffmans, but our house is rarely full.

  I scale the wooden steps of our porch in one leap and grapple with the uncooperative doorknob. It turns much too slowly. Inside, a circle of Amish friends pray around my father. He’s propped up with pillows on our sofa, eyes closed. The Benders, the Samuels, the Kauffmans—familiar faces pale against the dark wool of their clothing—whisper solemn appeals for health and healing. Thankful for the prayers and for the company, I place my hand over my heart.

  Amish prayers are strong. God is listening.

  The door slams behind me, and my father’s eyes open at the sound. One of his hands twitches when he sees me; his mouth tugs unevenly to the left. I run to his side, pressing the twitching hand between mine.

  “What happened?”

  He mumbles an unintelligible response. Something is very wrong. Only half of his body moves and my usually quick-witted father barely acknowledges me. His eyes drift away from my face every few seconds.

  The thunder of a car engine turns my head toward the front of the house; the English doctor has arrived. His name is Doc Nelson—he’s treated members of Hemlock Hollow before in extreme circumstances. Isaac Bender opens the door before the doctor has a chance to knock and I move out of the elderly man’s way without being asked.

  After a thorough examination, Doc Nelson addresses the bishop. “I believe Frank has had a stroke. I need to take him with me to the hospital to confirm and to give him proper treatment.”

  My eyes meet Bishop Kauffman’s, leader of our Ordnung and my oldest male relative, my father’s cousin. For anyone to leave our community is against English law. In fact, most Englishers don’t know we can leave. But with permission from a bishop, we still do. English law isn’t our law. Amish understand that breaking the English law is a necessary part of living in a sinful world.

  Even without speaking, the exchange between the Bishop and myself is clear to me. My father wouldn’t want to be treated with English medicine, but he might die without it. The bishop must decide. He knows my father as well as I do, but the way he searches my face tells me he’s waiting to see if I will voice my father’s wishes. More importantly, I think he wonders if it’s God’s will that I become an orphan.

  I’ve always had faith. Moments ago, I’d told Jeremiah that I would live and die in Hemlock Hollow. But now that it’s my father who needs the English medicine, I’m not so willing to dismiss the value of the English world. The difference between Dad and me is this: he trusts that prayers will heal him, while I understand that God sent the doctor.

  I remain silent and lower my eyes. It’s what Amish women do when they submit to male authority. But by not speaking, I’m sending the bishop a message, my desire for my father to be treated by the English.

  “Take him, Doctor Nelson,” Bishop Kauffman says. “Please.”

  I raise my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief.

  With surprising speed, the men load my father into the doctor’s black automobile. How is the world still turning? I can’t lose him. I can’t. Practiced prayers rattle through my brain as the only family I’ve ever known races away from me. All I can think is my father would find the car he’s riding in as sinful as the hospital that, God willing, will save his life.

  2

  “You shouldn’t be alone,” Mary says to me. My dearest friend pulls me into a hug and rubs my back.

  Martha, Mary’s mother, nods. “You’re welcome to stay.”

  After my father was taken to the English hospital, Mary insisted I come home with her. Her mother took me under her wing, fed me until I thought I might burst, and kept me busy the rest of the day at her shop, where I am an apprentice seamstress. I finished six dresses and two pairs of pants she’d started earlier. She worked me harder than usual to be kind, so I didn’t have time to think about what happened. I am grateful for their charity but loathe to overstay my welcome.

  “I want to sleep in my own bed and pray from my own Bible,” I say.

  “Well, you know best what you’ve gotta do. Door’s always open,” Mary’s father says. “Benjamin and Samuel will help with your farm while your father is away.”

  Mary’s two brothers nod in my direction.

  “Thank you. I could never manage on my own.”

  With warm hugs all around, I leave, knowing a strong dose of reality is in store for me without their distraction. Freed by the quiet of the walk home, my mind swims in a sea of insecurities, trying to make sense of my father’s infirmity. He’s always been my rock, my anchor. What will happen if they can’t save him? Can I survive tossed about on the waves of my own independence?

  I have a place, a secret place I go to think. My sacred space.

  To get there, I cross through a field of summer wheat, caressing the soft bristles with my fingertips as the grassy stalks tug against my skirt. My hickory tree is at the edge of the wood. Struck by lightning, half the tree is dead and rotting, but the other half defies the odds, covered in lush green leaves. I run to its trunk and throw my arms around its bark as if the green branches could hug me, pat my back, and say everything will be okay.

  The rotting side has a hollow heart that keeps my secrets. I plunge my hand into the hole, retrieving the treebox Jeremiah carved for me. It’s made from hickory wood and the lid is carved in the likeness of my tree. Inside, there is a hodgepodge of mysteries. A flexible transparent rectangle Eli says is a phone. A piece of rubbery fabric Anna told me adjusts to size when made into a garment. There’s a disintegrating paper cup with a picture of a kidney bean on it and the words Ready Bell Express. I add the photo Jeremiah gave me this morning, taking one more look at the woman in orange with her tall shoes. I sift through the box until my brain buzzes with thoughts of the outside world.

  “Why do you keep that thing if you don’t ever plan to go on rumspringa?”

  I flip the box closed and turn to face Jeremiah, whose teasing tone does not match the grim tilt of his lips. He’s as worried about my father as I am. I shrug. “I’m curious, I guess.” It’s a simple answer, although my feelings are far from simple.

  “Come on, Lydia. Tell me the truth.”

  I stare at the box in my hands for a moment before answering. “Remember a few years ago, Benders had that dog with something wrong in its head?”

  “Yeah, the biter.”

  I nod. “The Benders had to keep it chained so it wouldn’t kill their sheep. That old dog would tug against that chain until his neck was bloody.” I rub my neck. “Fur worn away by rubbing leather.”

  He nods.

  “One day, the rain made the yard soft, and when the dog tugged against the chain, he pulled the spike from the ground, yanked it free from the mud.”

  “I hadn’t heard. Did it kill a sheep?”

  “You would have thought after all the tugging. But no. Instead he lay down at the edge of the yard with his head between his paws. The Benders found him like that, crying and shaking.”

  “What has that to do with rumspringa?” he asks through a smile.

  I sigh. “Maybe I’m a bit like that dog. I want to know about the outside world, but I can’t bring myself to leave home to do it. The English world is a novelty and a temptation. It calls to me, promising excitement and adventure.” I shake my head. “But I’m thankful for the life I have. My father always says the dream of a thing is often better than the reality. The English world could
never live up to my expectations.”

  He hangs his head. “Or maybe you’re afraid it will.”

  I purse my lips. “Anyway, Dad will be back soon, I’m sure, and everything will return to normal.”

  “I’m sure it will, Lydia,” Jeremiah says.

  I hide the box again inside the hollow of my tree and then pull myself up into the lowest green branch. Jeremiah follows my lead and positions himself next to me. We sit in the shared silence of old friends. No words are necessary.

  The red-molasses sun drips behind the twelve-foot wall that surrounds Hemlock Hollow. From here, the nuclear reactor in the Outlands is clearly visible. The towering concrete hunkers in the distance, both our blessing and our curse. There are guard towers on the wall, where my father says there used to be soldiers years ago, but the radiation made them sick and eventually the Green Republic couldn’t get anyone to work there. By that time, the government thought all my ancestors were dead or dying. Some did, but the ones who lived learned to adapt. And because the Green Republic is afraid to come here, they haven’t a clue about us. The reactor preserves our way of life.

  “He’s made of tough stuff, Lydia,” Jeremiah says. “This is why we have the lessons. This is why we prepare. Your dad will blend in, get healed, and come home. Don’t you worry.” His hand comes to rest on the branch next to mine. Our little fingers touch. My cheeks warm and I have to look away.

  “It’s you who should be worried about what your mother will do if she catches you here after dark,” I say to him.

  He grins and jumps down from the branch. Tipping his hat, he says, “Good night, Lydia.”

  He disappears into the wheat. A few minutes later, I follow, arriving home by the light of the moon. I let myself into my house, hyperaware of the whine of the door hinges and the creak of the floorboards underfoot.

  I fall into bed exhausted, but there’s no rest for me. Nightmares fill my head. Nightmares of dark wolves chasing me.

  It’s two days more before I hear anything. Two days I spend in prayer and fasting, even though Martha Samuels and others try their best to feed and comfort me. I don’t want to be a burden. I do my chores and help with my father’s. I stay in my own house.

  When the knock comes, I approach the door, the weakest I’ve been since the time I fell into the river at nine years old. My limbs are just as shaky, and my heart pounds as it did when I had to tread water for hours to stay alive. I’ve never been sick, not even a cold, but maybe this is my first flu. I’m overdue.

  On the other side of the door waits a slight man with minimal gray hair and a kind smile. He holds his hat at his waist.

  “Bradford. Do you bring news of my father?”

  “I do.” His mouth pulls into a tight line. For a moment, I’m afraid to hear what he has to say.

  Bradford Adams and his wife, Hillary, have been friends of Hemlock Hollow for some thirty years. The Adamses live a mile west of the wall, and it was their phone Isaac used to call the doctor. Bradford and Hillary are the only Englishers besides Doc Nelson I know and trust.

  I remember my manners. A bicycle leans against the porch and there is no car in front of the house. “You rode your bike all this way.” I motion for him to come in and sit down.

  Bradford nods. “Out of respect for your traditions.” The man limps into the house and takes a seat on the sofa.

  By way of the kitchen, I return with some lemonade, pouring him a tall glass before plopping down ungracefully in the chair across from the sofa. “Please, tell me what you’ve learned.”

  “Doc Nelson called today. First, let me relieve your fears. Your father is alive. The doctor says he’s progressing normally.”

  “Praise the Lord.” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “When can he come home?”

  “That’s the trouble. See, your father had what they call a stroke. He can’t speak or walk. The doctors on the outside can fix it. They have ways.”

  “I can take care of him while he recovers.”

  “Once they fix him you won’t have to, honey. The only thing is, the treatment will take several weeks.”

  I shake my head. “No. Dad can’t stay for that long. He wouldn’t want to.”

  “It’s too late to bring him back. As far as the Englishers are concerned, he’s a plumber from Willow’s Province. You have to understand, in the outside world, no one leaves the hospital before they’re treated. If he leaves early, they might trace him back here. You and I both know that would be disastrous.” He takes a sip of his lemonade. “They’re moving him to a rehabilitation center in Crater City.”

  “Crater City? But that’s so far away!”

  “He’s in good hands, but he will not be back for quite some time.”

  I press the heels of my palms over my eyes. I can’t do this. I can’t pretend anymore. As strong as I want to be, tears seep down my cheeks. I come apart tear by tear.

  An arthritic hand pats my shoulder. “Don’t cry, darling. If you want me to, I can take you in my car to visit.”

  It’s a sweet offer, but it’s unrealistic to expect Bradford to support multiple weekly visits to my father, especially considering I’d have to masquerade as an Englisher. The risk is too great. Even if I accepted, the time commitment would be burdensome on both of us. Crater City is more than three hundred miles away.

  “I’m sorry. I need some time to think.” I attempt to stand to show him out, but the walls start to wobble. My bottom hits the chair hard enough to slide the legs backward on the wood floor. I close my eyes. When I open them again, there is a glass of lemonade in front of my lips.

  “For your father’s sake, please take care of yourself,” Bradford says.

  “I’m so sorry. Don’t trouble yourself with me. I’m just tired.” I sip the lemonade and force a smile. “Thank you for coming. I’m going to rest now.”

  He watches me take a gulp of lemonade and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The corners of his mouth sag.

  “Really, I’m fine. I need rest, that’s all.” I give my most convincing smile.

  “Okay. I’m going to go. Come see me if you need my help.”

  As soon as he leaves, I set the lemonade down and bury my face in my hands, giving in to the wave of grief that plows into me. The door opens again. I rub my eyes in a weak attempt to cover my tears. “Did you forget something?”

  “It’s me.”

  I lower my fingers.

  Jeremiah frowns at me, a large basket hanging from his arm.

  “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

  He remains silent but sets the basket down. The next thing I know, he’s swept me up into his arms. Carrying me to my bedroom, he props me up on every pillow he can find. Then leaves the room and returns with the basket. “Dinner, compliments of Maam Yoder.”

  “Jeremiah, you didn’t—”

  “She insisted.” Out of the basket, he pulls a soup urn and a spoon and sits down beside me on the bed. He ladles the hot soup and brings it to my lips. The savory liquid courses down my throat, so delicious I moan.

  “You’re hungry,” Jeremiah says.

  “Chicken dumpling. Your mother’s was always the best in Hemlock Hollow.”

  Jeremiah feeds me again. While I chew, his attention sweeps away from me toward the wall. “I’ve always loved that quilt.”

  How embarrassing. The blue and gray log cabin style on my wall was my first. “Don’t tease me.”

  “I’m not. I love it.”

  “The corner is messed up.”

  He spoon-feeds me another bite of soup, locking eyes with me. “I love it.”

  “Thank you,” I say around the bite.

  He rests the bowl on his leg. “Bradford told me about your father’s condition.”

  I nod.

  “This is our chance. Rumspringa.”

  I swallow the bite of chicken in my mouth. “Not this again. Don’t you understand? My father wouldn’t want me to go.”

  “That was before, b
ut now your father isn’t here.”

  “Just because he’s sick doesn’t give me the right to disobey.”

  “You don’t understand what I’m saying. He isn’t here, Lydia. He’s out there. If we go on rumspringa, you can live where he is, in Crater City. You can see him every day. Maybe this is God’s way of telling you it’s the right time.”

  I try to derail his logic but come up short. Clutching the base of my neck, I attempt to calm my racing heart but the untrustworthy organ pounds against my palm, speeding at the thought of leaving home. Even after a few deep breaths my shoulders are still hunched in tight knots.

  “I’ve known you since you could walk,” Jeremiah says. “I think, maybe, it’s not just about your father’s wishes or about the dream being better than reality. I think, maybe, you might be afraid. A little bit?”

  For a moment, I’m speechless as I ponder the accusation. Me? Afraid? “I trust my father and if he says the world outside is dangerous, I believe him. I want to visit him but I am afraid. I think we both should be.”

  “It’s normal to be afraid. Everyone is. But we aren’t the first Amish to do this. There’s an English house that helps people like us with the transition. They provide papers, names. They’ll help us find jobs at places that will be discreet about us. We’ll get to see all of those things we’ve talked about. Remember how Eli told us about the television? Don’t you wonder what that will be like? Or how it would be to flip a switch to light up any room, instead of hanging the gas lamp from the hook above the table? I know it’s scary, but it might also be wonderful.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore the pounding in my ribcage. I picture what it would be like to live in a house with Jeremiah. Without the expectations of Hemlock Hollow hanging over our heads, we might finish what we started in the barn. His lips look soft, wanting. We’ve been inseparable for as long as I can remember, but we’ve never even kissed. In the English world there would be no limits, no chaperones.

  My cheeks burn. Emotions swirl within me that I can’t even name. I press my hand into my chest as if I can hold my heart at bay. Pressure on a wound stops the bleeding, after all. But a flood of memories comes back to me. Ever since I was a baby, my father has lectured me on the evils of the English lifestyle. This is one edge I’m not sure I can throw myself over, even if Jeremiah is holding my hand.