by Anna Schmidt
His life had been spared when he was able to crawl onto a fallen ceiling beam and cling to it until the storm finally abated sometime just before dawn. The angle of the beam had protected him as the second floor of the house collapsed and had kept him from drowning in the waters that filled the first floor as he lapsed in and out of consciousness. He tightened his grip on the Bible he’d managed to rescue from the rubble and thanked God for saving his life. He turned to the old citrus groves and to where he had planted his kitchen garden and additional fruit trees.
Muck and sand covered the entire property where just the morning before he had walked through the rows of evenly spaced trees. Over there was where he’d planned to add green beans, and over there, pea pods. This larger bed was to house large heads of cabbage and lettuce in alternate rows alongside tomato plants. But now what little he could see of the remains of the carefully plotted garden was buried under several inches of muck and water. He set his Bible on a window ledge, and then walked farther into the orchard, where he bent to scoop wet silt and sand from the ground. He could find nothing that was salvageable of the work he had poured his heart and soul into for the last two years. Here and there the recycled cypress boards he had used to build the planters stuck up from the sand like grave markers. The branches on the fruit trees that had managed to survive the storm’s rage were gray with sea salt. Other trees had been snapped off at the base.
Slowly he took stock of his losses, trying without success to comprehend the fury of a storm that had robbed him of everything he’d worked so hard to build. When he’d settled on the Tucker property in spite of the naysayers who had thought him mad, he had seen not an abandoned homestead and business but a place where at last he could pursue his Walden experiment unencumbered by the disapproval of others. Here he could prove to those who had banned him that he was a man of faith and tradition—perhaps far more so than the neighbors he’d left behind had been. Here he could honor the memory of his mother and the way that she had encouraged him even with her dying breath.
Still stunned by the extent of the storm’s damage, he finally registered the steady throttle of a fishing boat puttering close to what had once been his pier. It was now no more than a twisted aluminum sculpture sticking up from the muddy water. “What now?” John muttered as he watched a trio of Mennonites—conservative judging by their dress—beach the boat on a nearby sandbar and wade through the uncommonly high waters of the bay to shore. John bit his lip hard and silently prayed for strength and patience. Like he didn’t have enough to deal with.
“Plain people” as the various sects of Anabaptists were often called. Amish, Mennonite, Hutterites—all linked under the yoke of plain dress and a simple separatist lifestyle despite their differences. In particular, the Mennonites seemed to have this thing about needing to help people—whether anyone asked for their help or not.
So here they came—two men and that woman—the one who’d demanded he leave the night before. The men could have been father and son. The elder sported a full white beard, while the younger was clean-shaven, indicating that he was single. Both wore the somber uniform of their faith. Dark loose trousers with suspenders, solid blue cotton shirts with no collar, and the telltale stiff-brimmed straw hat. John had abandoned the dress code when he came to Florida because he believed it would be easier to maintain his anonymity if he did not call attention to himself.
He turned his attention to the woman. She was wearing sneakers that were stained with the brown muck of the creek. Her dress was a pale blue floral print covered with a black apron. She carried a cloth satchel. Her skirt was wet and muddy for a good foot above her ankle where she’d waded in to shore. Her hair was parted in the middle, then pinned up and back and crowned by the traditional starched white mesh prayer kapp. And while the men were both fair, the woman was not. Her hair was as black as the night that had engulfed his property just before the storm struck.
In no mood for company and especially not for the woman’s right to gloat, John glanced around, seeking escape. But other than the boat they’d arrived in, he had no other options. Where once there had been a winding lane out to the main road in the days when Tucker had owned the property, there was now a jungle of downed palm trees and uprooted shrubs to add to the maze that had been the overgrown path he’d so carefully avoided clearing. On top of that he sported a long bloody gash on one arm along with a variety of throbbing bruises and possibly a broken wrist given the pulsating pain he was feeling there. His shorts and shirt were both ripped, and his signature planter’s straw hat was probably halfway to New York by now—along with most of his other possessions that had not been nailed down against winds that must have topped well over a hundred miles an hour. Three uprooted Norfolk pines that the nursery owner had advised him not to plant now formed a kind of bizarre natural obstacle course for the trio of do-gooders to navigate.
Seeing that there was no way to avoid them, he waited with arms folded across his chest and his feet planted firmly in the soft sandy soil. “Can I help you?” he called out when they were less than ten feet away. Where had they come from? It was as if the storm had dropped them off on its way inland.
“Ah, mein bruder, it is we who should be asking that of you,” the older man replied with a sympathetic nod toward the chaos that lay all around John. He pulled a brochure from the pocket of his trousers and tapped it lightly against his thigh as he made the introductions. “I am Arlen Detlef. This is my friend Samuel Brubaker and my daughter, Hester.”
“Hester.” John was unaware he had spoken aloud until he saw the widening of her eyes at the sound of her name. “Like the storm,” he added. He had failed to fully appreciate the significance of the connection the night before, but now it made sense, for certainly she had roared in and out like the hurricane itself.
The older man chuckled. “In many ways, yes, my friend.”
“Dad,” the woman said. Her tone held the rebuke that her smile disarmed. John studied that smile, but she had offered it to only her father—not to him. She had barely glanced at him. The woman clearly did not like him. So much for Christian charity.
She doesn’t even know me, he thought. Not that it mattered whether the woman liked him or not. It just irritated him that she had apparently decided to disapprove of him on sight.
“May we know your name, sir?” Arlen asked, and John saw Hester nod at her father.
“John Steiner.” The innate good manners of his upbringing clicked in, and he thrust out his hand for a handshake. The male Mennonites seemed inordinately relieved to accept it. The old man gave him the traditional single pump as if priming a well, while the younger man wrapped both his hands around John’s and murmured, “We are so thankful that you are safe.”
“But apparently not without a cost. We have come to offer help,” the ever-cheerful Arlen assured John, handing him the pamphlet. “I have the honor of serving as the local director of this relief agency. My daughter here holds a similar position with the Mennonite Central Committee, and the two agencies work together in times like these to bring assistance to people like you who have suffered loss.”
Mennonite Disaster Service was imprinted in blue on a circular emblem that featured two people shaking hands and—of course—a cross. Staying Safe after a Natural Disaster: Hints was the title of the piece.
“Thanks, but I’ve been through stuff like this before. Not a hurricane of this magnitude, but smaller ones down here and tornadoes back …” He’d almost said back home. “A few years back,” he amended and handed the pamphlet back to Arlen.
“Understood,” Arlen replied. Undaunted, he folded the pamphlet in thirds and placed it in the ripped breast pocket of John’s shirt. “You’ll find this useful later, then. For now let’s concentrate on your physical well-being. My daughter is a nurse. Why don’t you sit a moment while she tends your wounds and Samuel and I have a look around?”
John wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand and almost cried out at the shot
of pain he felt with that simple motion. “Look, folks,” he gasped. “It’s really decent of you to want to help, but …” He looked up at the sky, gathering his thoughts, then felt the extraordinary heat and overwhelming humidity more oppressive than ever press in on him until it was difficult to breathe. He realized that he was on the verge of passing out. His wrist and bloodied arm were both throbbing. It was as if having finally accepted that he’d survived, he had no strength left with which to go on.
“You should sit,” the woman said as she wrapped her fingers around his good arm and guided him to a spot shaded by a cypress that had survived the storm unscathed. She spoke to him as a nurse instructing a patient, and so he followed her direction. The younger man—Samuel, was it?—fanned John with his hat.
“Drink this.” Hester-like-the-hurricane handed him a pint of bottled water after removing the bottle cap and tucking it in the pocket of her dress. “Slowly,” she coached when he would have chugged it. While he drank, her father picked up John’s Bible and handed it to Hester. She tucked it into her satchel. “I’ll make sure you have it once we get you to safety,” she assured him.
The older man had removed a two-way radio from his pocket. John could only hope that he was calling for backup in the form of a medical helicopter to get him to a doctor. He truly did not think he could make it to the boat they’d brought. Meanwhile, the younger man kept fanning, all the while looking around as if sizing up the ways he might be able to contribute to their mission. “Do you have battery-powered communication equipment, John?”
“I did,” John replied as he drained the last of the water. He tossed the empty bottle onto a pile of rubble. After removing a first-aid kit from the cloth bag she wore bandoleer style across her chest, Hester retrieved the bottle, recapped it, and slid it into the bag. “It’s all pretty much garbage,” he said, glancing around at the devastation surrounding them.
“And yet there is no point in adding to it,” she replied as she splashed alcohol over her hands before pulling on a pair of latex gloves and preparing to treat the open cut on his forearm.
John couldn’t help it. He laughed. The Mennonites no doubt took his laughter for hysteria, but he really didn’t care. “Have you folks taken a good hard look at this place? There is nothing left.”
The two Mennonite men made a visual inspection of their surroundings. John had pretty much seen all he needed to in order to know he was done for, at least financially. “Look, folks, I appreciate your concern, but the Red Cross and FEMA will be getting here before too long. As you can see, there’s not much you can do for me now.” He waited for Hester to finish bandaging his arm and then stood up, forcing a steadiness he didn’t feel into his legs as he stepped forward to extend a handshake of dismissal. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Sit,” Hester ordered. John was beginning to think that barking out orders was one of the woman’s finer skills. “MDS works with FEMA as well as all the other agencies involved in cleaning up the mess that comes after a storm. Furthermore, my father has called for evacuation,” she continued. “You need to see a doctor and get that wrist set. In the meantime …” She took out a length of cloth and tied it into a makeshift sling. “Let’s keep this arm elevated.”
John looked past her to what was left of his house and released a long, shuddering sigh.
“It looks dire, but sometimes it may not be as bad as it seems,” Hester said, following his gaze. “Of course you’ll need to wait for the assessment of the engineers, but overall, I would say you were blessed, John Steiner.”
She had to be kidding, right? As of an hour ago, every element of his life boiled down to two eras—before the storm and after the storm. Before the storm there had been a house, a packinghouse, and half a dozen other outbuildings. The remains of most of the outbuildings now lay scattered across the property in no particular order. The interior of the main house that he had worked so hard to renovate before the storm had now collapsed in on itself like a house of cards. The packinghouse was missing an entire wall, not to mention its roof. And that didn’t begin to address the devastation his garden and the citrus grove had suffered. Before the storm, those plantings had been the very foundation of his dream of living a self-sustaining life without the need to rely on the outside world. Before the storm, the citrus from his restored groves had been the root of his plan to raise extra funds when needed by reestablishing Tucker’s original business. Before the storm, his life had been on track, and now it was a train wreck of disastrous proportions.
“I’m blessed? Do you …” he began, then closed his mouth. I don’t know where to begin to tell you the magnitude of stupidity contained in that statement, he thought, gritting his teeth. These people were just trying to help, he reminded himself.
“Johnny Steiner!”
He was rarely happy to see Margery Barker. But at the moment anything that might interrupt the missionary zeal of these do-gooders was more than welcome. Besides, her chocolate chip cookies had given him unexpected comfort when the tin had floated by his position on the beam and he’d snagged it.
“We tried to warn you, but no,” she bellowed, “stubborn as the day is long. That’s you, mister.” She expertly guided her boat through the murky but mostly calm waters of the bay.
She anchored the boat, then splashed her way ashore through knee-deep water before turning her attention to the Mennonite trio. “I see you found him, Arlen.” She grinned at the older man.
“We did and God has blessed us all to have found him little the worse for wear,” Arlen replied.
John rolled his eyes heavenward. He was lost. Of course, Margery had been with Hester the evening before. She was in cahoots with them. In fact, she’d probably sent them.
“Well, I see little Hester here has managed to tend your wounds, John,” she commented as she wrapped one arm around Hester’s waist.
John did not see the need to comment that little Hester was actually a good six inches taller than Margery was. Still, he could not help taking note of the change in the Mennonite woman when the older woman embraced her. She actually smiled. A smile that stretched all the way to her eyes. It was the most positive expression she’d managed since arriving on his property.
“Sarah would be so proud of you, sweetie.” Margery turned to include John and both of the Mennonite men in her monologue. “Oh, many’s the time that dear woman was the first person to come calling when help was needed.” Then in a voice so soft that John thought someone new had joined the group, Margery murmured, “We grieved with you over her loss. No finer woman than your Sarah, Arlen.”
“Thank you for that,” Arlen replied.
“You know that I would have been at the funeral,” Margery continued, “but I had charters, and it was the height of the season, and after last year’s hard times …”
Arlen covered her weathered hand with his. “You were with us in spirit. We felt that.”
Absolved of her guilt, Margery turned her attention back to John. “Hopefully you have learned your lesson and will pay attention to these people. They know what they’re doing, and trust me, they’re a sight more qualified to help you get back to renovating this place if that’s still your mind-set than those dandies from DC are. By the time they tie you up in all that red tape they’re so fond of, you won’t know if you’re coming or going.”
John cast about for any possible way to turn her focus away from him. “How did you come out?”
She shrugged. “Four or five seriously damaged boats, but they’re insured. Blew the roof off the bait shop.” She shrugged. “Nothing that time and the right materials can’t fix. Who are you again?” she asked, turning her attention to Samuel.
“Samuel Brubaker. I’ve just moved here from Pennsylvania.”
“And what do you do, Samuel?”
“I make furniture with Pastor Detlef.”
Margery glanced from Hester to Samuel and then back to Arlen. “Is he son-in-law material?” She winked, and Arlen laughed.
; “Now, Margery, don’t make trouble where there’s none.”
But John found himself considering the couple in this new light. Samuel was tall with large strong hands, and his short-sleeved shirt revealed the roped forearm muscles of a man used to hard work. He also sported the pasty skin of someone who had not been in Florida that long. Hester was not tanned exactly, but her cheeks were sprinkled with freckles, and she had the look of a woman who enjoyed the out-of-doors. She was also well past the age when most conservative Mennonite girls married and started families of their own. He found himself intrigued. She certainly had yet to demur to her father—or to young Samuel Brubaker, as most women of her faith would.
