The Alliance

by Jolina Petersheim

  “Find Jabil and ask if someone let Melinda through the gate,” I intone. “If they haven’t, she might still be around.” My brother nods at my instructions and leaves, his purposeful stride such a mirroring of my vadder’s that I have to turn from the sight.

  Sal meets my eyes, and I can tell she understands the severity of what has happened all on her own. If Melinda—as weak and dehydrated as she was—has already gotten past our gates, she is as close to death as if she had accidentally overdosed—her death the tragic end I had been preparing myself for whenever I entered that same dank room where I found my mudder.

  I beckon Sal toward me, and she rises with Colton on her hip. I pull the living room door closed behind us and ask quietly, “Does Melinda stand a chance?”

  Though I am at least three inches taller than Sal, I feel young and naive standing next to her. I find myself pondering—looking down into her black, bottomless gaze—what those eyes must’ve seen to possess such knowledge. “No single woman stands much of a chance these days,” she says. “That’s why I had to leave town.” Sal turns from me and switches her son to her other hip. “You mind if me and Colton move in here?”

  I am so taken aback, I don’t know what to say. Her request seems not only premature, but coldhearted, since we don’t know if Melinda is truly gone. On the other hand, I got so distracted by the arrival of the refugees and the shooting that followed, I never got around to speaking to Jabil about Seth staying at their house. So for the past two nights, my brother has grumbled each time he’s had to make his bed on the laundry room floor. If he were my son, I would teach him a lesson by making him sleep there even when his room opens back up.

  But I am not his mother; I am his sister. I don’t want to squander these uncertain days teaching him lessons I am barely old enough to learn. I want the kind of fun relationship with him I’ve never made the effort to have with anyone.

  “I . . . suppose,” I tell Sal. “You can sleep in the living room. But—”

  “Great,” she interrupts, smiling. “You think your grandma can watch Colton while I run to get some things from the apartment?”

  Again her request surprises me. No one has ventured past the perimeter since the young men’s deaths have set the community on edge. And yet here an eighteen-year-old single mother wants to get some things from her apartment like traversing the ten hazardous miles to Liberty is as easy as walking down to Field to Table for bread.

  I say, “Let me ask. I’m sure she wouldn’t care.”

  Indeed, the question has hardly left my mouth when Grossmammi Eunice reaches for the child. Her cataract-filmed eyes gleam with happiness as he’s placed in her arms, and those eyes are about the only feature that reveal she’s not tapped into some long-buried fountain of youth. You would never guess an eighty-nine-year-old Mennonite grandmother—who is legally blind, no less—would be vain about her appearance, but she is. Two days ago, I informed Grossmammi Eunice that our coconut oil can no longer be used as a daily tonic for her skin and hair. But judging from her glistening face, so far she hasn’t listened. I guess she figures it is more important to remain wrinkle-free than to cook our food.

  When I come back from the outhouse, Sal has left to return to her apartment, and Anna is sitting at the table with baby Colton on her lap. Grossmammi Eunice is sitting beside her in case Anna makes any sudden movements, which could put the child at risk. But my sister does nothing untoward, just continues nuzzling that eight-month-old like he is from her own flesh. My heart seizes as I close the door behind me and remain clinging to the cool, round knob.

  Shortly after our vadder left, Anna led me into the bathroom and showed me proof that her cycle had begun. I hugged her tight and cried into her braided hair, mourning her physical transition into womanhood far more than I had my own—possibly because I knew my sister’s mental transition might never match it. But here she is, loving on a child with a maternal instinct that does not always come naturally to me due to my impatience.

  “Come, Anna,” I call. More firmly, I repeat her name. She looks up from the child, her cheeks flushed pink. “Let’s go to our room.” She shakes her head, holding the baby closer to her chest. “You can bring Colton.” Only after this suggestion does my sister comply and rise to her feet. She smiles as she walks by me, her spine straight as a dancer’s as she supports the baby’s head with her hand. I follow her into our bedroom. She sits on our bed with Colton on her lap, and I stretch out beside her. With one hand, she strokes the hair not pinned beneath my kapp.

  The band across my chest begins to loosen only once I force myself to submit to the fact that Melinda might be gone, or she might not want to come back if we’re able to find her. I am aware the level of my grief overtakes my level of affection for this woman. Is it the sad familiarity of her dependence on the prescription bottle, or the fact that when she was under the influence of its contents, she never liked for me to see her eyes? But somehow, someway, Melinda’s disappearance has enlarged the pain generated by the disappearance of my vadder.

  Anna continues stroking my hair and murmuring her nonsensical lullaby. Tears drip onto the spinning star quilt on our bed—tears that I have pent up inside me since the night we knew he wasn’t coming home, after which so much changed so fast that I didn’t have time to process it. I turn toward her and curl up like the babe in her arms. This is the first time in two years I can remember receiving comfort from a member of my family, rather than doling out what I don’t have to give. I wonder if my sister possessed this nurturing ability all along, and I have been too focused on trying to be her guardian to see it.

  Moses

  The volunteers gather beside the gates at dusk. Most carry lamps or flashlights—the necessary use of oil and batteries making me wish we could’ve searched earlier, by the renewable source of the sun. I spot Leora on the fringes of a larger group, which—looking closer—I see is only composed of the twelve-member Risser family: a massive search party by themselves.

  When Leora moves past me, I reach out, and she steps back—the lamp swinging, throwing blades of light across the lane. I steady her on impulse, my hand still extended. She flinches at my touch and meets my eyes. I can tell, despite the dim light, that she’s been crying. “You okay?” She doesn’t answer but focuses on the space over my shoulder.

  I pivot and look to see, of course, Jabil—the man who seems determined to keep his fingers in every administrative pie—climbing the scaffolding. Like a town crier he bellows out the information I’ve already learned: Every nook and cranny, field and dell of the community has been searched, so we know Melinda is not on the premises.

  But no one remembers opening the gates for her, either, so she must’ve been desperate enough to climb over the national forest fence while we were at church. I have to wonder if the sound of yesterday’s gunshots was what made her understand the perilousness of our situation so she decided to take her chances and run.

  “For safety purposes,” Jabil continues, “I think a man should accompany each group. We need people to go to the Mendenhalls, the McCords, and the Slocums and ask if they’ve seen a female who fits Melinda’s description.”

  “I’d like to see how the McCords are doing anyway,” says Myron Beiler, the man who loaned me the crutches. “Our family will go there.”

  “Thanks.” Jabil scratches something down on his list. “How about the Mendenhalls?”

  Eugene Risser says, “We can go there.”

  “You mind swinging by the Brooks’ place on your way out? Brian McCord said they were out of town when the EMP hit, but we should check their grounds too, just in case.”

  Eugene nods, and I watch Jabil’s thick brows furrow as he holds a flashlight above his paper and makes another note on his list.

  “Now,” Jabil says, “Leora?” I watch Leora nod in response. “I was wondering if you’d like to check on the Slocums. Since they’re the farthest away, I’ll take you in my wagon.”

  Concealed by the darkness, I roll m
y eyes. A man needs to go with each family for safety purposes; yeah right, Jabil just wants an excuse to cozy up to Leora.

  “And you, Moses—”

  I give Jabil a look that I hope conveys how enthralled I am by his convenient administrative tactics.

  “You can stay here with Charlie and guard the gates.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I drawl. “I’m sure you sweated hard over where to put me on your list.”

  Jabil’s busy scratching away on that stupid list, but I can see the grin fighting to overtake his mouth. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Straightening his back, Jabil tucks the flashlight under his arm. “All right, everybody, if you come across Melinda or hear any news of her whereabouts, come to the front gate and ring the triangle. I’m not sure we’ll be able to hear you at the Slocums’ place, but everyone else should. . . . And be safe!”

  The three families begin to disperse, their flashlight beams and lamps signaling like Morse code into the darkness. Someone claps me on the back. I glance over my shoulder and see Jabil, no longer attempting to hide his smarmy grin. “Keep a watch out for us. Will ya?”

  “I’ll keep a watch, all right,” I retort, trying not to pay attention as he gives Leora a hand into his wagon and then climbs up beside her. Snapping the reins on the horse’s back, he drives out through the gates. I pull the gates closed and slide the massive dead bolts—which Henri soldered after the shooting—into place. Sighing, I clamber up the scaffolding that Jabil just climbed down and sit on my usual perch next to Charlie, who’s wearing a headlamp and sipping some of our dwindling coffee rations from a teacup, the image incongruous with the .22 balanced across his knees. The outline of Jabil and Leora vanishes down the road: his suspendered back and wide-brimmed hat, her rigid posture and kapped hair making them look like they are decked out for a historical reenactment.

  Leora

  Halfway to the Slocums’ residence, our wagon overtakes a small, solitary figure. My blood pounds in my ears. I turn in the seat and struggle to peer at the person’s features concealed beneath a hood. I know the odds that it’s Melinda aren’t in my favor, since she wouldn’t be caught dead in a gray sweatshirt, but I still reach across Jabil’s lap and pull back on the reins.

  He looks over at me, startled, and I jump down out of the wagon before he has the chance to stop me. I feel more helpless walking down that highway than I have ever felt in my life. Bonfires glimmer in the meadows where the refugees are camping. The pungent scent of wood smoke used to fill me with anticipation of fall: hunting season when the men would return from the mountains in their bright-orange garb, their mules packed down with the field-dressed game; applesauce day at our neighbor’s stove with a bubbling apple crumble waiting to be eaten as our reward; hymn sings around a bonfire, sitting on scratchy straw bales with our hands warmed by mugs of hot chocolate or coffee. Now, though, the wood smoke fills me only with dread, since we have no idea if the refugees in those meadows are families just trying to survive, or if they are mendicants plotting to overtake people like us, traveling the road.

  The staccato pop of gunfire causes my nails to dig into my palms. I glance over my shoulder to see Jabil turned around on the bench seat, watching me as well. But the road is eerily deserted, considering the deluge of people who were standing in line for our soup kitchen when those two high school boys were killed. I wonder if their violent deaths caused the refugees to fear us: a community which preaches nonresistance at any cost and yet, at the first test, does not live up to its claims. Or perhaps there is something patrolling this road that we should also fear, and it’s keeping everyone but this small, solitary figure away. Perhaps I should fear her too. More gunfire makes me cry out and duck.

  The person walking toward me laughs. “You ain’t been on the road for long, I take it?”

  The voice is too harsh to be Melinda’s.

  “No, I haven’t. Have you?”

  She shrugs. “Lost track o’ time.”

  We meet in the center of the highway: her well-worn sneakers on the right yellow line, my muddy black shoes on the left. Her stench is unbearable, but not wanting to appear rude, I remain where I am. The woman folds her arms. Moonlight dapples her features, overtaking the shadow cast by the hood. She is older than I thought. The skin of her face is pitted and raw from having been exposed to the elements. Her eyes, pinched between crinkled folds, are pale.

  I have such difficulty distinguishing the irises from the whites that I assume the woman is blind until she reaches out and grapples my wrist in one birdlike claw. I leap back—another scream scaling my throat—but she just says, “Have you seen my dog? Griffin?” She releases me and squats on the road with the agility of a child, demonstrating that her pet is less than half a foot tall. “He’s straight-up Heinz 57. Skinny and black with a white chest and tail. He disappeared two days ago, when I was in town.”

  “I’m so sorry. Haven’t seen him.”

  The woman stands and glowers over my shoulder. “Didn’t expect you would. . . . That is, unless you seen him on a spit.” I am compelled to look at the meadow of bonfires too. “I think them people ate him.” Her smile—showing off more gums than teeth—is a bit deranged, and I wonder if she was homeless long before the EMP.

  “You haven’t seen my friend, have you?” I ask, though it seems odd to swap inquiries with a woman searching for her dog. “Name’s Melinda? About thirty-five with short blonde hair? Rather pretty.” Or at least she was.

  The woman shakes her head; then clarity comes to her pale eyes, like she can see right through me. “I’ve passed so many people all trying to find somebody they lost, makes me wonder if they cared that much about losing them before they was gone.”

  I thank the woman and head back to the wagon, knowing that what she said is true. Before Melinda left, I would’ve never guessed how hard I would try to find her.

  “Should I take you home?” Jabil asks as the wagon pulls back into Mt. Hebron.

  “It’s past midnight.” I glance over. “Where else is there to go but home?”

  He doesn’t respond. Moses latches the gate behind us. I turn on the bench seat and see him standing between the gate and the wagon, staring to the left, though nothing is there but the outline of Field to Table in the dark. For the second time tonight, I leap from the wagon. Jabil says to the horse, “Whoa, whoa.” The wooden wheels roll to a stop. He calls after me, “Thought you were going home.” When I don’t respond, he continues, “You shouldn’t be out this late.”

  I keep walking away from him but call behind me, “Wasn’t I just out this late with you?”

  Moses has climbed on top of the scaffolding again. I feel the draw of his eyes as I approach, but he says nothing. I mentally berate myself for jumping from Jabil’s wagon when I’m obviously wanted more there than here. I turn back to trail its tracks, which have gouged parallel grooves in the crusher-run gravel. The wagon is still close enough that I hope Jabil doesn’t turn around and see me, slighted and trying to catch up. I take two steps in his direction when Moses says, “Need something, Leora?”

  Rattled, I about-face. I look up at him and shade my eyes, as if that gesture will help me see better in the night. I lower my hand. “Have you heard anything about Melinda?”

  Moses gets up and walks to the scaffolding’s edge. He smiles down at me. “Sorry, no. No one’s seen anything.” He pauses. “You and Jabil were the last ones back.”

  “We were also the farthest from the community.”

  “No doubt that was planned.”

  “Well. Not by me.”

  Coughing a laugh, Moses shakes his head. “No, not by you.” He thumbs the air over his shoulder. “Charlie’s making rounds. Wanna come up? It’ll be a little while before he gets back.”

  I bite my lip to keep from smiling; I’m never brazen enough to ask for what I want. I grip the rungs, and scales of paint slough off like dead matter. Moses doesn’t offer me a hand, but directs a flashlight at my hands so I can make the climb on my own. />
  “How ’bout you?” he asks, once I’ve reached the top. “See anything?”

  I shake my head and sit on the scaffolding edge beside him—our feet dangling, the heels of our boots tapping lightly on the rungs. “A window was broken and a lamp turned over. But nobody was there. Looked like the Slocums just packed up their stuff and left.”

  “They have people nearby?”

  “Doubt it. They moved here from Chicago to homestead.” I experience a bout of sadness, recalling the Slocums’ framed paintings, depicting peaceful scenes juxtaposed by the dwelling’s abandoned state. “Why didn’t they come here?” I ask. “We could’ve helped them.”

  “Would we have, Leora? Sounds good in theory, but if it came down to our families or theirs, would we still have shared our rations equally, or kept some for ourselves?”

  “I think, if it came down to that, we’d have to pray and ask God to provide.”

  “Then you’d better start praying.”

  I peer across at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  Moses doesn’t say, just shuts off the flashlight and lies back on the scaffolding’s boards. He props his hands behind his head. “Today I counted the sacks of rice at Field to Table. I thought at first they’d been distributed to the community, but Jabil said that wasn’t the case.”

  “So . . . we don’t have as much food as you thought?” Moses confirms this with a nod. My voice breaks. “How am I going to take care of my family?”

  “Maybe it’s not your responsibility to take care of them.”