by Anna Schmidt
Samuel pushed back his wide-brimmed straw hat so that he could look at her more directly. “Look, Hester,” Samuel said. “I can’t explain why I want to help this guy, and I do understand that this may be a fool’s errand, but I feel like it’s the right thing to do. Spending a night or two in the shelter isn’t going to be a hardship for me, but spending another night or two out in the elements with mosquitoes and no-see-ums feasting on his unprotected skin could be a real hardship for John, not to mention a health hazard.”
Hester couldn’t argue the point. “Stop by the center and tell Rosalyn what you need.” She got off her bicycle and leaned it against the back of the RV. “And take this with you so you don’t have to walk back to town,” she said. “Don’t even think of going back to the shelter. Jeannie would never forgive me if I let you do that. There’s plenty of room at her house.”
Samuel lifted the bike into the camper, then climbed into the driver’s seat and smiled down at her. “I won’t be gone long, and when I get back I’ll get to work helping Arlen and the others get those houses fit for living in again.”
John had run out of food. The canned goods he’d put into his emergency kit and unearthed the first day he and Zeke had returned to his property had lasted only a couple of days. The food Margery had dropped off had taken him through the rest of the week. He still had water because he’d rationed that by using water from the creek and boiling it to clean himself up and wash out his clothes and dishes. The first-aid kit had come in handy, especially the sunscreen and bug spray, but both were almost gone. He was well aware that sleeping outside without any protection other than the makeshift lean-to that Zeke had helped him build was just asking for trouble.
On top of everything else, he’d overdone it trying to use his left hand and probably cracked his wrist again. Then he had stepped in a sinkhole while trying to net fish in the bay and sunk in up to his knee, wrenching it badly as he struggled to get out. In short, he was a mess. He knew he should give up, but then what?
He ran his fingers through his hair and swallowed back a lump of sheer panic and frustration. He had put everything he had into this place, and now it was in shambles. He was close to running out of money, and it went against everything he believed to accept any of the help Grady had suggested was available from the government. Back on the farm he would have turned to his neighbors for help. Check that. He wouldn’t have had to turn for help because they would have just been there.
Here, by his own stubborn choice, he had deliberately estranged himself from any semblance of community. And although he had out of sheer necessity allowed himself to be helped by Samuel and Zeke, his suspicions had been on high alert whenever anyone representing any official agency—including those run by the Mennonites—offered help. What was in it for them? How much of their concern came from the fact that his aunt held a position of power in the outside world? Hadn’t Hester made it clear that there were others who were more in need and more grateful than he was?
He heard the muffled sound of an engine coming down his lane. He waited, knowing he was out of sight on the banks of the bay, well hidden by a cluster of mangroves. Zeke had talked about how he often used the shelter of the mangroves that surrounded his hiding place on the bay as a way of observing without being observed. Stealthily John crawled to a position that would allow him to identify his visitor without being seen.
Samuel Brubaker pulled his camper to a stop under the shade of the split banyan tree closest to what was left of the house. He cut the engine and got out.
“John?”
He glanced around and called out twice more. He walked around the property, picked up a couple of odds and ends, and added them to the pile that Zeke and John had started days earlier. Then on his way back to his vehicle, he paused and studied the ground. After a moment, he bent down, dug into the mud with a stick, and unearthed something that John couldn’t quite make out. Instead of adding it to the pile of retrieved objects, he cleaned it off with his handkerchief before carrying it back to the camper. Opening the back hatch, he laid the object inside, removed a bike, and then closed the hatch before taking one last look around.
He balanced the bike against the wall of the toolshed and leaned in through the driver side window of the camper to get pencil and paper. After some thought, he scrawled a note and placed it under the windshield wiper. Then he mounted the bicycle and rode off back toward town, leaving the camper parked there in the shade.
John stayed put for several minutes, making sure that the cabinetmaker was truly gone; then he limped back across the yard and retrieved the note.
John,
Please make use of my camper while you work on your property. I have stocked it as best I could, but if I’ve forgotten anything, let me know, and I’ll see that you get it. Arlen wants you to know that our offer to send a crew from MDS to help you stands. He’s staying at Jeannie Messner’s house with Hester and her grandmother if you need to reach him. By tomorrow we should be able to get started shoveling mud from the houses that got flooded there in Pinecraft so hopefully everybody can be back home soon. Power and water are still off by the creek, but in the meantime generators are working. Know that you are welcome anytime to come into town for a meal or a place to rest and refresh yourself. You are in our prayers.
Samuel
John folded the note and placed it back under the windshield wiper. He opened the driver-side door and looked around the cab. Up close he saw that Samuel had basically taken an old pickup truck and mounted the camper top over the bed. The thing looked as if it had seen better days. But John couldn’t help but be impressed with how organized and clean everything was inside the cab. Samuel had left the keys in the ignition, and John was unexpectedly touched by that. Samuel had to know that John, being Amish, didn’t drive—wouldn’t drive. He also had to know that even if he were willing to drive, it was unlikely that he had ever driven a motorized vehicle, at least not in real traffic. The keys were a message of trust. This small camper was probably all that Samuel Brubaker owned other than the clothes he wore. And yet he had entrusted it to John. He considered for a moment whether or not he would have been as charitable had the shoe been on the other foot.
Unlikely, he thought as he walked around to the back of the camper and opened the entrance to the sleeping and storage space. Again, everything was organized and pristine. The area was loaded with supplies. In addition to the cleaning supplies that John would need to get started with reclaiming what he could of the buildings, there were canned goods, bottled drinking water, sunscreen, insect repellant, a battery-powered lantern, and mosquito netting. And lying there in plain sight was his copy of Walden, still in the plastic bag he had packed it in the night of the hurricane.
John had been looking for this precious book without even being conscious that finding it had driven his search. And here Samuel Brubaker had plucked it from the muck as if it had been right there in plain sight the whole time. John removed the book from the bag. The pages were waterlogged and flattened together, but it was intact. He cautiously turned to the first page. For perhaps the hundredth time he read the words that had started him on this path. Words that had helped him through numerous times when he had grieved for his mother and for all that he had left behind in Indiana, words that led him to this moment.
“When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them,” Thoreau had written, “I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living by the labor of my hands only.”
Always he had stopped there, skimming over Thoreau’s next words, but now that last sentence of the opening paragraph that he had ignored for so long seemed to be the one that resonated. “I lived there two years and two months. At present I am a sojourner in civilized life again.”
“As am I,” John whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.
Chapter 11
In spite of the cooler ni
ghts that came with the turning of the calendar from August to September, the days could still heat up to a high in the low nineties. So the volunteers from MDS and MCC took full advantage of the cooler early-morning hours to work inside the small houses along the creek.
The men worked tirelessly from dawn until well after dark to clear out any standing water from the Pinecraft dwellings, using portable generators to power the equipment necessary to get the job done. The neighborhood that had been silent and deserted for days vibrated with the sound of power washers, pumps, dehumidifiers, and fans. Every window and door that could be opened was. Some members of the work crews spent their time outside, making sure that drains and gutters were properly attached so that any additional rain would be directed away from houses.
Once the MDS crews had done their work on a cottage, it was time for Hester’s volunteers to do their part. Arlen’s crews had taken care of removing larger items such as soaked drywall, as well as mattresses, large furniture, and carpeting that were sure to be fertile ground for mold. Hester’s volunteers would take the next step, scrubbing down undamaged walls and floors and washing smaller items that could be salvaged.
Olive Crowder was the first person to show up for work on the morning Hester finally got the green light to begin cleaning the cottages along the creek. She acknowledged Hester with her usual scowl of suspicion as if she were already anticipating a problem. Vivid memories of times when Hester had faced Olive’s censure were never far from the surface whenever she had to deal with the woman.
In her youth, if Hester ran up the aisle of her father’s church to deliver a message from home, Olive would abandon her work stuffing envelopes in the church office or cleaning the sanctuary to glare at Hester. If Hester failed to take note of this condemnation, then Olive would clear her throat loudly, sounding for all the world like a foghorn warning an errant ship.
Later when Hester was in her teens, she had developed a habit of constantly questioning the ways of her faith. “Why?” she would ask, and her parents would patiently explain the tradition and the history. But Olive Crowder saw her curiosity as doubt, and she would warn Hester’s parents that the child was becoming far too interested in the English lifestyle or ways of outsiders. When Olive heard the news that Hester was headed off to nursing school, she had been—for once—speechless. Not that it was so unusual for Mennonites to seek higher education. The problem for Olive, and others, was that Hester had insisted on pursuing her nursing degree at an institution that had no ties to the church.
The day Hester boarded the bus for college, there in the midst of her family, friends, and neighbors stood Olive. Her arms had been folded around her chest like a straitjacket, and she had stared at Hester through the wide window of the bus as Hester leaned out to touch her family’s hands and shout her good-byes. No, Olive Crowder did not approve of the way her pastor’s only daughter had turned out one little bit. But Hester knew that out of respect for her parents, the woman would do her part even if that meant taking direction from Hester.
“Thank you for coming,” Hester said as other women arrived. They all donned galoshes and brought rubber gloves, goggles, and masks in preparation for the work. “Due to the power outage and limited availability of generators, it has taken the men longer than we expected to get the standing water cleaned up in these houses, but finally it’s our turn to get to work. And look how the Lord has blessed us with the perfect September day to begin.”
She had turned to lead them inside when she heard the unmistakable clearing of Olive’s throat. “Yes, Olive,” she said, turning to smile at her nemesis.
“You know best, of course, but it seems important to me to review the procedure…in case there are those among us who have not done this work before.”
“Of course,” Hester agreed, deciding in an instant that acquiescence was going to get them to work a lot faster than pointing out that every woman there was experienced in cleanup. “First we need to go room by room, removing any wet materials and personal belongings …”
“Wet or damp,” Olive corrected.
“This includes any throw rugs, bedding, clothing, stuffed toys, books, and the like,” she continued. “If you uncover significant mold or mildew on a wall or other surface that you cannot easily remove, please mark it and call it to my attention. A crew will come back and address those larger projects that may have escaped their notice earlier.”
“Ja, leave that to the men and the professionals,” Olive chimed in.
Hester bit her lower lip hard and continued, “Once we have everything cleared out, then we can start the process of scrubbing down walls and other surfaces such as countertops, cabinets, and floors. Questions?” She looked directly at Olive, who said nothing. “Excellent. Let’s get to work.”
She had reached the doorway of the Millers’ house when she heard Olive mutter. “A prayer would be nice.”
Hester stopped in her tracks. “Ja,” she said, “it would.” She bowed her head and the others followed her lead. She didn’t know what the others were praying for, but in her case it was, as always, patience. “Amen,” she murmured after a moment of silence.
Once inside the first of a dozen homes that would need their services, the women paired off and went their separate ways—one pair to tackle the kitchen while another headed down the hall toward the bedrooms. Hester smiled when she saw Olive’s sister, Agnes, scurry off to join another woman in the kitchen, leaving Hester and Olive standing in the living room.
“Well,” Hester said, “those books and boxes of papers are soaked through.” She quickly loaded a box, determined it was too heavy to lift, and started to slide it toward the open front door.
“You’ll scar the floor,” Olive huffed as she lifted one side of the box and waited for Hester to take hold of the other.
Hester stared at the water-stained floor—a floor that would have to be replaced—and then back at Olive. “I’ve got this.”
“Suit yourself,” Olive said and dropped her end of the box. “You always do,” she added as she turned her attention to removing books from the shelves and stacking them in piles on the floor.
Hester had had enough. She was past thirty years old and a trained nurse, not to mention an experienced community organizer. She pushed the box out onto the front porch and then returned to face Olive.
“Olive, I am doing the best I can in a situation that is beyond what anyone might have imagined. And yet I sense that you don’t agree with my approach to this project.” Or any project I am involved with.
Olive continued removing books one by one, flipping through the pages of each before setting it in one of the piles. “If you must know, Hester, there are several people who don’t think that you are doing your best.”
Hester took a moment to listen to the sounds coming from other areas of the house. The rest of her crew was occupied. She and Olive were alone and unlikely to be overheard or disturbed. The time had come. “Please explain that statement,” she said quietly.
Olive turned and looked at her. Hester met her gaze directly and lifted one eyebrow to emphasize her determination to get their differences out in the open once and for all.
“Very well. You have an unfortunate tendency to give your attention to outsiders when many in your own community are suffering.”
Hester opened her mouth to respond, but Olive held up a restraining finger. “For example, it has been noticed and commented upon that you put the welfare of that man, John Steiner, before the welfare of your own grandmother, never mind others in this neighborhood who should have been evacuated hours before it flooded—”
“The county command center gave specific instructions about—”
“And since when do we take our direction from some outside government agency?” Olive demanded. “That is your problem, Hester Detlef. You have always put far too much stock in what outsiders want.”
Hester waited a beat, fighting to quell the tide of her own anger and resentment toward this woman’s con
stant judging of her. “That’s really what this is about, isn’t it?”
Olive sucked in her cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean. You asked—”
“Oh, Olive, I truly believe that you have my best interests at heart. Your respect for my father and the years of friendship you shared with my mother make that clear. But just because I have friends in the outside world and I sometimes—”
“Sometimes? Do you not see the sin that is your ego and pride, Hester? I know you think you are merely following in your dear mother’s path, but you are not. And I must warn you …” Olive raised one gloved hand, stained now with the ink from the wet newsprint she’d begun collecting once she’d gone through the books. She shook her finger in Hester’s face. “I feel compelled to warn you that neither your father’s position in the community nor the memory of your dear mother can protect you should you continue down this path of pride and conceit.”
In the silence that followed this announcement, Hester was aware of a light tapping on the open door, and then Rosalyn stepped inside. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, glancing from Hester to Olive and back again. “I—is everything all right?”
