The Alliance

by Jolina Petersheim

  “If it’s not mine, whose is it? My vadder’s?” Moses appears stunned by the anger in my voice. I try to explain. “My mamm . . . she never got her footing back after our vadder disappeared. So overnight the yoke of that responsibility fell across my shoulders. I could tell she felt bad that I had to work so hard; life was hard on all of us, but it was especially challenging for her and for me. I guess that’s why she was eager to get me married—believing life would be easier if I just gave in and shared Jabil’s last name, along with his social and financial standing in our community. But I never gave in. I always wondered if she wanted me to be with Jabil because she had my best interest at heart, or because she saw in him the man she should’ve ended up with—if she’d only used her head.”

  Moses sits up and leans back on his arms. He looks over at me and then looks ahead. “I won’t tell you what I think you should or shouldn’t feel, or what you should or shouldn’t do, ’cause I don’t know you well enough and it’s not my place. But I will say that I think you’ve been really brave, Leora. Nobody should have to go through what you’ve gone through.” Our fingertips brush. It might be an accident of proximity or on purpose. But neither of us pulls away.

  I lift my shoulders. “I wouldn’t say your own life’s been a walk in the park.”

  “No, it hasn’t.” Each word is measured and poured out when he continues. “But it’s been nice, lately . . . having somebody like you to walk beside me.”

  Our hands remain close. I stare up at the sky in silence—my heart pulsing like the stars.

  Leora

  I CHANGE INTO my nightgown without lighting a lamp, so Anna won’t awaken, and climb beneath the covers while still fastening the last few buttons. The sheets are cool and undisturbed, the mattress bowed beneath my weight only. I sit up and touch the space where my sister should be, her body like a warm parenthesis curved against the wall. She’s not here.

  Throwing back the covers, I swing my bare feet to the floor. The hooked rug can barely quell the cold and damp that’s beginning to seep up through the floor joists—a prelude to the seasonal change. I pull the curtain back from the window and see the ground is soft with fog that swirls beneath the sickle moon’s light.

  I thought I had eradicated my sister’s periodic insomnia with the natural remedies of calcium, magnesia, lavender oil, and chamomile tea. But because I didn’t see Anna in the kitchen or bathroom when I came in from talking with Moses—and the living room is occupied by Sal and her baby—I suspect that she’s somewhere outside, sleepwalking. It would not be the first time she’s escaped my watch, especially as I’ve been distracted since the EMP.

  I pad down the hall, carrying my shoes, and slip them on by the door. Anna’s are here, distinct from the rest of ours because they have Velcro straps instead of laces, making it easier for her to put them on. I touch a match to a lamp wick, lower the globe over the flame, and open the door quietly so the noise won’t disturb Sal and Colton. My rapid thoughts ease as I stand on the back porch and see my sister’s nightgown shining, like a beacon in the dark.

  Setting the lamp on top of the porch post, I walk down the steps. The hem of my own nightgown dampens as I cross the grass. Anna continues walking away as I follow her, causing the distance between us to remain constant.

  I don’t let myself imagine how far she would go if I were not here to draw her back. Anna is not only impervious to pain, she is also impervious to fear—an innate characteristic the two of us certainly do not share and which was no doubt intensified by her accident.

  After some time, I am finally able to close the distance between us. Afraid to startle my sister awake, I move toward her slowly. I search her face, her pale skin turned opalescent by the moonlight. “Anna,” I whisper. “Anna . . . I’m going to take you up to the house.” I touch her elbow and turn her body toward mine. As I do, I see an ink-like splatter on the front of her gown. I reach out and touch it. Wet. I look down the length of cotton and see more stains. I smell the dark substance now staining my fingertips, and my heartbeat recaptures its panicked rhythm from ten years ago, as one can never forget the scent of blood.

  My sister allows me to lead her to the porch, and I am no longer sure if she is sleepwalking or suffering from shock. Did she get caught in the barbed wire twining the fence? Was she attacked by an animal—or, I shudder to even contemplate it, a man?

  Retrieving the lamp with one hand, I take Anna’s in the other, and together we walk up the porch into our house. Someone is standing in front of the kitchen sink.

  “Leora . . . Leora,” Sal soothes, seeing my reaction. “It’s me.”

  My throat tightens. I cross the kitchen and set down the lamp. I pour water into a quart jar from the bucket we reserve for drinking water and lead Anna to the sink. Using a cloth, I wipe the dirt from her face, hands, and feet. Sal hands me a fresh cloth to wipe down Anna’s legs, which are scratched and smeared with blood.

  “What happened?” Sal asks.

  I swallow hard, trying to stave off tears so my display of emotion won’t further disturb Anna. Sal pours a glass of water for me and holds it out. I take a small sip and manage, “I think she was attacked.”

  “Attacked by what? An animal?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure. Hundreds of strangers have been in and out of here since yesterday. I hate to even think like that, but—”

  Sal interrupts. “My grandmother used to say, before she gave up talking, ‘Never trouble trouble until trouble troubles you.’ You can’t let yourself get so worked up like that, Leora. We know nothing for sure yet. Maybe she stumbled on a dead animal. Maybe she cut her foot.”

  “I can’t help troubling trouble. Not when the worst usually turns out to be true.”

  “What’s been the worst?” Sal reaches into the drawer for another dishcloth and begins dabbing at the bloodstains on my sister’s nightgown like she’s dabbing off mud.

  Her nonchalance makes me want to prove her wrong. “Like how Anna fell, and it was my fault. Like how my vadder disappeared, and my mamm died. How my sister’s been attacked, and I have no idea how to find out who it was.” Sal continues dabbing. The grandfather clock ticks. I hate how she trapped me into displaying and defending the saga of my life, when it’s pretty clear it doesn’t match up to hers. Jerking the rag from her hand, I snap, “It’s not going to come out.”

  The abrupt gesture and tone appear to awaken Anna. She begins to cry, dispassionately, like tears trailing down a wax mannequin face. I glare at Sal’s back and then catch myself. I cannot treat Sal the way I treated Melinda, not if I’m going to learn from my mistakes.

  Closing my eyes, I breathe deep. “I’m going to get her changed. Mind giving me a hand?”

  I have been dressing and undressing my sister since I learned to dress myself. That is not the part I need help with. The part I need help with is what removing those clothes might reveal. Sal doesn’t say anything. She just follows us, carrying the lamp. My hand trembles as I reach into a drawer for one of my nightgowns. I turn and see that Anna’s stopped crying, which unsettles me more than if she continued. Sal sets the lamp on the bureau, and together we lift the stained gown over my sister’s head. I trace a hand over Anna’s vertebrae, seeing no bruises or cuts. Why is there so much blood on her legs if the rest of her body looks fine?

  “Should we check if she’s bleeding?” I ask, glancing up at Sal, hoping she knows what I’m asking without having to spell it out.

  Sal places a hand on my arm. “I’ll do it. Stay here so Anna’s not scared.”

  As I guide my sister into bed, she seems blessedly clueless to anything but the fact that I’m tucking her in the same as I do every night. Pulling back the hem of her nightgown, I hold the lamp aloft but avert my gaze. Sal tugs the hem down seconds later. “I can’t tell.”

  I lower the lamp, weak. “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing. But that doesn’t mean nothing’s happened and that doesn’t mean it did.”

  “How do I find
out if—”

  “An exam,” Sal interrupts, mercifully. “But nobody’s doing those right now.”

  “I wouldn’t want to put her through that anyway.”

  “Then I suppose you got to wait and see what happens.”

  It takes me a moment to understand. “My handicapped sister could have been raped tonight, and you still act like this isn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened!”

  “I never said anything like that. But the worst didn’t happen. Your sister’s not dead.”

  “Stop acting so superior! Like you’ve got the monopoly on suffering or something!”

  Sal looks at me. I turn away, desperate for relief from her gaze. “If you’ll just stop and listen,” she says, “I don’t think you’ll hear me complaining about how life’s done me wrong.”

  She backs soundlessly from the room. Trembling with emotion, yet oddly numb, I straighten my sister’s legs and pull the quilt up around her shoulders. I climb in beside her and pull her close, stroking her hair the same as she stroked mine a few hours ago. Only after her breathing has evened do I press my face into the pillow and let myself cry. But I soon will myself to stop. Like coffee, tea, sugar, and coconut oil, tears are a luxury that must be conserved.

  Moses

  People are already singing when I cross the lane over to the pavilion. The church services are being held here since there are too many of us to cram inside the schoolhouse, where the community would normally meet.

  This is my third Sunday in Mt. Hebron, so it should be starting to feel familiar, but I’m not sure it ever will. Like a bunch of troublemakers, Charlie, Henri, and Sean have taken their usual seats in the back row on chairs with hand-painted—rather gaudy, in my opinion—flowers and decorative scrollwork: the mishmash hauled in from kitchens around the community. I take the seat next to Henri. His leg keeps jigging. When I look at him from the corner of my eye, I see he’s gnawing on a piece of straw—for all intents and purposes, making him resemble one buck-wild Nebuchadnezzar. So I take it Henri’s out of cigarettes. I’m surprised they lasted this long. He must have had quite the stash.

  Somehow, I never picked up smoking, but I have to admit I’m as addicted to caffeine as Henri is to nicotine. The fact that I haven’t had my coffee this morning (I’m saving my rations for when I need to stay awake on guard) combined with all this noise makes my head feel like it’s trapped in a vise. The singing stops, and the jarring silence seems to echo across the cement floor. Henri and Sean sigh in relief. I smile to myself.

  Closer to the front, the deacons read from the Bible. I can pick up bits and pieces of the German language because my family was stationed in Karlsruhe for the first four years of my life. One of the deacons makes a motion, and all the Mennonites turn and kneel to face the back, but it feels like they’re really facing us—the line of insubordinate Englischer guards who are protecting their synchronized hides.

  The deacon starts praying up a storm, and it’s not in German or in English, but maybe somewhere in between. Next, Bishop Lowell gets up from the bench and strides, on his misshapen legs, to the front of the pavilion’s floor. I squint to take a closer look at the fearsome gnome of a bishop. It might be my imagination, but his hair appears whiter than it did nineteen days ago. His suspenders appear to have more than an ornamental purpose, since his waist has been whittled down to nothing. It hits me that he probably hasn’t been eating much since the EMP. Is it because of nerves, or because he’s trying to make sure everyone else remains fed, even if he’s not consuming his daily rations? Bishop Lowell and I haven’t gotten off on the right foot, but you have to admire a man who puts his people’s needs before his own.

  “My community,” he begins, straightening his back with some effort, “I am sure you can tell we are at a crossroads. Yesterday, Jabil and Malachi calculated our assets again, and either we misjudged them the first time, some of us are consuming far more than our daily share, or we have fed many more refugees than we had originally planned. It seems—” Bishop Lowell’s voice catches. He looks down, and I understand that his eyes are not watering from fatigue alone, but he is trying not to cry. “It seems we will only be able to feed the refugees and ourselves for another month or two before we run out of supplies. Our rations are reduced to the point we will not have enough to survive the winter.”

  There is not one intake of breath, but I can feel the gray weight of this revelation settling over everything like a pall. Even the air, as the wind shifts, wafts the odor of something dead, and I wonder what undiscovered thing is putrefying in the woods or field.

  Charlie calls out, “Then stop feeding every moocher that comes by hungry.”

  I wince, though my reaction is hypocritical. I had that exact thought the second I stepped under the pavilion and saw the neighbors were here. When the community dispersed to search for Melinda last week, they extended an invitation to the substantial McCord and Mendenhall families to attend Mt. Hebron’s weekly Lord’s Day celebration—or whatever they call it. To my annoyance, they accepted, giving us another fifteen mouths to feed, in addition to the family of Liberty civilians whose father received a head wound during the shoot-out. But I reckon, this being the Lord’s Day and all, I shouldn’t be so stingy.

  Someone bolts to their feet, and when I glance up from my hands, I see that it’s Leora. She’s standing in front of a bench located across the aisle with the rest of the women from the community. Her profile, bleached of color, is emphasized by her dark cape dress that resembles funeral attire. She is shivering, her arms folded across her chest, though it’s hot enough under the pavilion to stick my shirt to my sweaty lower back.

  “In this,” she says, her voice shaking, “in this alone, I would have to agree with Charlie. Not only are we depleting our storehouse by feeding the refugees; we are putting our own families at risk by opening our gates.”

  This does not sound like Leora at all. Thinking she’s setting aside her own charitable efforts to keep her family fed, I say, “We have the Suburban. We could use it to go out and find or barter for supplies around town, so we can—”

  “You mean steal supplies. You’re the one who said that whatever food grocery stores used to carry is long gone by now.” I know Jabil’s the one speaking. I turn and our eyes lock over the heads of the people, and I can feel that fierce tug in this: our battle of wills. And I have to wonder—looking over at Leora, whose eyes shift between the two of us—if we are not only battling wills, but battling over her.

  “Look—” I spread my hands—“we’ve got a family of refugees right here from Liberty. Why don’t we ask them what it’s like in town?”

  The man rises to his feet, then reaches down for his seated wife’s hand. Their toddler-age little girl is on her lap with a cotton dress and messy pigtails, sucking her thumb as hard as Henri, beside me, is chewing on his piece of straw. The couple’s around my age, but their regular features—brown hair, brown eyes, slim, runner builds gravitating toward gaunt—are lined with exhaustion that makes them appear older than their years.

  Since the riot a week ago, this family has been recuperating in the dawdi haus, where some cots have been set up and curtained off for privacy. Other than Charlie, I don’t think any of us are going to have the nerve to send them out into the streets even though the father is mostly recovered. Our first discussion sounded good to our ears: giving the refugees food and water and then booting them out the door. But it’s so easy to forget that discussion when you come face to face with those who are hungry—whose lives might be sustained, if not saved, with a bowl of soup and a piece of bread.

  I call out to the father, because it’s clear he’s at a loss for where to start, “How bad was it? Did you have to leave things behind?”

  The man drags his free hand across his face. “Had to.” He sighs. “Didn’t have time to do anything else. About two weeks after everything crashed, it seemed that law and order fell apart. Violence was growing so that people were getting robbed over a simple can o
f beans or—or a pair of shoes. That’s when Tammy, my wife, and I decided to leave, figuring we’d be better off on the move rather than waiting around to see what was going to happen. We packed everything we could in two bags and tied them on our backs. We tried going around the edge of town, thinking that’d be the less populated route. But by the time we got to Burt’s, the shelves were empty . . . carts gone, and we saw a bunch of people exiting town just like we were doing.”

  He looks at his wife and daughter. “The gangs were flushing us out of our homes. It was down to join them or run. There’s no doubt there’s a lot of food and valuable items still left in town. But it’s all being controlled by the gangs.”

  I thank the man, and he takes his seat. I let his words sink in, and then I stand and look at the group. “Is it really stealing to reclaim what’s been taken by criminals and use it to help the needy—most likely some of the very ones who it was stolen from in the first place? If we are careful, I’m sure a few of us could go into town and make it back with supplies of some sort. And from what he’s just said, I think we need ammunition as much as food. If we’re well armed, we won’t be as vulnerable when these gangs finish cleaning everything out in town and come knocking on our gates, trying to steal whatever we have left.”

  “I take it you’d like to lead this operation?” Jabil asks, a bite to his voice.

  I jam my fists in my pockets. “I sure wouldn’t have to, but I think I could.”

  “Where do you suppose you’re going to find this food and ammunition?”

  Charlie replies to Jabil, “I don’t know about food, but there’s an armory in town . . . over near the old T-shirt factory.”

  Jabil continues, speaking to both Charlie and me. “And how are we supposed to know you all will keep your end of the agreement and won’t use unnecessary force or violence?”

  I make no effort to hide my irritation. “If you’re so concerned, Jabil, why don’t you go with us and see? You could keep a gun trained on me at all times and shoot me dead if I start using force you deem ‘unnecessary.’”