The Alliance

by Jolina Petersheim

  Turning from Moses, I look out over the community: Field to Table, the schoolhouse, the pavilion, the homes that used to be immaculately kept because potential buyers of the log cabin kits, which Jabil and his crew built by hand, liked to drive down the lane and pick out which style they wanted. The gardens in everyone’s yards are picked clean of bounty, and I can see—even from here—how the bleak cornstalks shiver and rasp together against the dark backdrop of the forest, how the round bales are lined up against the Lehmans’ barn, sustenance necessary for the livestock that will have to be either slaughtered or left behind.

  This is not the place where I was born, but it is the place where I imagined, one day, I would die. The place where I’ve lived through equal parts sorrow and joy. And currently I am forced—we are all forced—to give it up and try to seek safety elsewhere because of marauders who may or may not be coming for us. But I agree that we cannot stay here and take the risk that the marauders are real.

  “How are we supposed to survive in the mountains?” I ask. “Especially through the winter? How are we supposed to leave everything behind?”

  “God will provide. He has to.”

  I look over at Moses, trying to gauge if he’s mimicking one of our community’s rote phrases, but his expression is sincere, which irks me. I don’t need another Jabil; I need someone who can help me take revenge. “Yeah, well. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  He frowns. “How is that for a woman of faith?”

  “I have a hard time placing faith in a God who’d let my sister suffer.”

  “Is she the one whose pain you blame yourself for?”

  I stare at the Lehmans’ red tin roof, which—from this angle—appears white in the sun. “I told you her accident was my fault.”

  Moses doesn’t look at me. I wonder if he’s remembering, as I am, that he said almost the same words to me about his brother’s death only a few hours ago.

  “It’s been ten years this summer. I was playing in the hay with a new litter of kittens. It wasn’t until I heard Anna scream that I shook the kittens from my lap and ran to the edge of the hayloft. I looked down and saw her tiny body sprawled there, next to our vadder’s hoe. She must have hit her head on it. I remember noticing how the blood matched my old dress that she was wearing.”

  Now Moses looks at me. I am unable to meet his eyes. Having begun this dreadful story—like a broken arm in the midst of being set—I have no choice but to finish the job.

  “I was paralyzed by terror. I forced myself to breathe, even though my sister was not breathing. I forced myself to think, even though my sister was incapable of thought. Finally I ran and threw back the door to my vadder’s wood shop, choking on my tears. I was so incoherent, my vadder didn’t wait for me to try to explain but set down his nail gun and ran outside. I started running again and he followed me, and then outran me when he saw Anna. He was able to get her breathing again with CPR, and while he did that I somehow had the presence of mind to run back to the wood shop and use the phone to call 911.” At Moses’s puzzled look, I explain, “The wood shop was the only place on our farm that had electricity and a telephone.”

  He nods.

  “When I got back, I overheard my vadder crying and my grossmammi trying to comfort him. She told him it wasn’t his fault; that I was supposed to be watching her. She didn’t realize I was listening.”

  Time and distance from the event have let me see that Grossmammi was only trying to shift the blame so her son wouldn’t feel its full weight if Anna died. She was not attempting to place that weight on me. But after my sister’s emergency craniotomy, followed by months of rehab, I felt that my vadder withdrew from me. That he started blaming me for Anna’s accident, which I understood because I started blaming myself minutes after it happened; half of my life has been crucified by guilt.

  How different would our lives be if I had been watching Anna that day and therefore prevented her fall? Would my vadder still be here? Would my mamm still be alive? Would my parents still be in love?

  I close my eyes again until the peril of tears has passed and open them afresh to the sun.

  “So you see, I feel responsible for Anna in a special way. I let her down once, and I promised myself I would never let her down again.”

  “Okay,” Moses says, clearly having a hard time following my reasoning.

  “It seems she was attacked the night we went searching for Melinda.”

  Moses is quiet; then he reaches out and takes my hand. “You mean . . . raped?”

  The barn roof blurs. I turn from him. He holds my hand tighter, rooting me. “I don’t know. There was blood on her legs. Scratches on her face. I found her outside. Alone.”

  “Were there any . . . obvious wounds?”

  I shake my head.

  “Then could the blood have come from something else?”

  “I can’t think of what.”

  “It just seems odd there could be blood like that.” I can tell he thinks I’m overreacting.

  “It wasn’t odd. It was terrifying.”

  Hearing my frustration, he says, “Sorry for the third degree. I just don’t understand how it could’ve happened when Charlie and I were at the gate.”

  “Unless Charlie’s the one who did it.”

  “No, Leora. He wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “Maybe not before the EMP. But we’re all doing things we wouldn’t otherwise.”

  Moses waits a moment, and then lets go of my hand. “Are you trying to push me away?” he asks.

  “I’m not trying to do anything but keep my head above water.”

  “And you think I might be pulling you down.”

  “I never said that. I’m just tired of being needed.”

  “That’s because you don’t let anybody help you.”

  “I can’t let anybody help me. They wouldn’t do things the way I would.”

  “I like you a lot, Leora. But you got some serious control issues.” Seeing me flinch, his face softens. He steps closer, tips my chin up until I have no choice but to lift my gaze. “I only say that ’cause over the years I’ve watched my mom get so eaten up with worry, there’s not much of her left.” He swallows and looks at me. My soul weakens at the depth of feeling in his eyes. “And, Leora, I sure don’t want to see that happen to you. Not if I can help it.”

  The tables near the schoolhouse are spread with embroidered cloths, redolent of the cedar chips and mothballs in which they were stored. Bishop Lowell’s announcement yesterday—to eat any food that could not be transported—made everyone realize there was no point in saving their special table linens for another occasion. Our impromptu feast will be the last celebration we have here for a long time. Maybe the last one ever. Tiny curls of steam rise from the heirloom platters and bowls: corn, green beans, succotash, mashed potatoes puddled with browned butter, sweet potatoes, rolls, even a suckling pig beaded with cloves that Elizabeth Lapp decided to butcher and cook here because that was easier than carting a pig into the mountains.

  As I move around the tables, preparing for what could be our last meal on Mt. Hebron soil—folding linen napkins and weighing them down with the cutlery provided—I understand why the pilgrims had their first Thanksgiving before they were certain their spearheading community would survive. Sometimes it is necessary to celebrate life, despite being faced with defeat and death. We have no idea what our future holds, or where we will all be next week, next month, or next year. But today, we are together; therefore we should fellowship in peace.

  Ten-year-old Ezekiel Lapp asks if we are ready. At his mother’s affirming nod, he hustles inside the schoolhouse to ring the bell. Members of the community, halted in their packing by this sound, soon stream out of their cabins and barns. They converge into a throng of downcast expressions, generated by the quandary: How can we leave almost everything to climb into the national forest surrounding the community? And yet, how can we fight back if we stay?

  For the first time in my life,
I not only yearn to stare straight into my assailant’s face, instead of turning my other cheek to his abuse, but also to defend what I perceive is rightfully mine . . . rightfully my family’s. Part of this is because I crave a steam vent for my anger, which is boiling within me, making my insides feel like they are ready to burst. Part of this is because I am also angry at the community for turning themselves over to an unseen enemy rather than attempting to stay and, if necessary, put up a fight. If we each took up a weapon, would Mt. Hebron stand a chance against this supposed violent gang? The truth is, no one in our community would defend himself, and so we will flee without knowing if we could’ve remained.

  Taking this into account, folding napkins and placing knives, spoons, and forks in the correct order seems trivial compared to what challenges lie ahead, and yet the predictable movements keep me from analyzing to the point of insanity. Anna, sensing that I am not acting myself, remains by my side as the rest of the Mennonites and the few Englischers gather around the tables. Two of the women, Esther Glick and Marta Good, grip the chairs with one hand while jiggling their newborns with the other. As I watch them fighting back emotion, I am reminded of the biblical warning that the last days will be hardest for those with babes pressed to their breasts. But I believe it is also hard for those who find themselves falling in love for the first time, when one’s heart cannot be given the priority it deserves. I always imagined that, when confronted with the end of life, other desires would fade beyond those needed for survival. This is not the case. In fact, I’ve found the opposite is true. I yearn to be with Moses, as if he is my North Star in this black hole of madness, but my duty to my family forces me to remain lost.

  Bishop Lowell must sense the community’s growing discomfort, for he assumes his place at the head of the far-right table. A summer wind blows across the acreage, offering relief as I swelter in my dark cape dress. Behind me, I can hear the swings’ ropes creaking in this same wind, and I recall that first day Moses and I sat swing by swing and talked as though I had thoughts worthy of sharing. I set the basket on the table. It has grown too heavy, though its weight has not changed. Anna and Seth stand behind the seats next to me. Jabil and Moses stand behind the seats across from me. I meet Moses’s eyes and then force myself to look down the table.

  One of the women has placed tea light candles down the center of the tables, reminding me of the runway lights I once saw at the airport in Kalispell. Though it is late afternoon, and therefore a waste to burn candles, it soothes my soul to view such beauty. The minuscule flames waver in the wind, about to be snuffed out. Bishop Lowell motions for us to be seated. I drop my hands from around a tea light to pull out my chair and watch the wind extinguish the flame.

  “I called for this celebration today,” he begins, “because regardless of what the future holds, I want us to remember that we are a community of people who trust Gott to provide, just as he provided for the Israelites in the desert. We are not guaranteed to have it easy, nor that we will even survive. But we are guaranteed that, regardless of how bad it gets, he can take it and use it for good. We must trust him with our provisions and our lives. Therefore, we will not hoard our manna for ourselves but will continue to share with those in need and expect Gott to bring manna tomorrow and in the days ahead.” The bishop runs his maimed fingers over the tablecloth’s pattern. “It has been my honor to serve you these years, and if the Lord wills it, I hope that when we reestablish ourselves as a community—whether it is here or up in the mountains—I will have the honor of serving you again.”

  Esther’s baby begins to brutz. Bishop Lowell raises his head and looks at the child. He smiles, the worry momentarily leaving his face. “I would like to sing a prayer over our meal,” he says, “to show Gott our appreciation for the bounty he has given, even in this season of want.”

  The bishop extends his hands and hums a note that is surprisingly steady for someone of his age. The Mt. Hebron Community—composed of the neighbors I have known for years—then begins to sing hymn 131: “‘We thank thee, Lord, for this our food, but more because of Jesus’ blood; let manna to our souls be given, the Bread of Life sent down from heaven.’”

  As we continue through the simple verses, I can hear our disparate voices uniting into one resonant chorus that rises on the same wind that extinguished the flame. Tears fill my eyes as I listen to Jabil’s bass voice harmonizing with my alto. I look over, and our gazes communicate every bittersweet emotion without a word being said. He is my friend, and I care for him, but unless the Lord intervenes and changes my heart, I can never care for him in that way.

  The singing stops, and we begin passing bowls to each other. I savor a mouthful of creamed corn and lima beans, a slice of ham with gravy made from canned pineapple, and a sourdough roll slathered with butter, wondering how long it’s going to be until I can taste these flavors again. I scoop cranberry sauce onto my china plate and pass the bowl to my sister, whose table manners are superb for someone who cannot communicate well.

  I haven’t finished my meal when black smoke starts to rise at the beginning of the lane, first as the leavings of a smokestack and then as a cloud. Moses alone is impervious to the inertia that is affecting the rest of us. He leaps up so abruptly, his chair tips back. He runs down the lane with such adrenaline fueling his steps that, for the first time, I see no trace of a limp. Within seconds, our stunned silence dissipates, and everyone bolts into action. Water spills as cups fall over. Napkins twirl to the ground like severed wings. Children begin crying as they sense their parents’ panic, and I know this vortex of terror could be the exact thing we were hoping to escape.

  I watch, helpless, as Anna rocks in her chair and claps hands over her ears, keening at the riot of sound. I sit beside her and pull her onto my lap, wrapping my arms around her as I would a child. Jabil’s wagon wheels fling gravel as he careers past us over the schoolhouse lane. Jerking back on the reins, he jumps out and ties the mare to the hitching post. He touches my shoulder as he walks past. “You and Anna should go,” he says. “We have no idea who’s—”

  “I’ll send her with you,” I interrupt. “But I’m staying here until everyone’s safe.”

  He nods and turns from me toward Grossmammi Eunice. In her black cape dress and outdated pince-nez glasses, she appears unruffled by this sudden unrest, just as she’s appeared unruffled from the commencement of the EMP. For the past ten minutes, during which the community has been darting to and fro, trying to salvage what they were packing before the ringing of the schoolhouse bell, she has continued to sit and eat. Part of this is probably due to her visual impairment, which barred her from seeing the smoke at the gate and now bars her from seeing the pandemonium erupting around her table. But some of this languor could possibly be because of how long she’s lived her life—and how much she’s lost during its duration—so she doesn’t feel the need to preserve it with the same intensity the rest of us do.

  It requires mental and physical effort to lift Anna into Jabil’s wagon. Trying to abate her shivering, I wrap a feed sack around her legs and realize it is one of the same feed sacks Old Man Henri used to cover up the shotgun that night we went to the museum. Decades seem to have passed between then and now, and I cannot even remember the person I was in comparison to the person I’ve become. I am less of a butterfly freed from her cocoon, and more of a predatory bird free-falling from the safety of her nest. Breathing deeply, I help Jabil load everyone left around the table into the wagon, and then we go back for Grossmammi Eunice.

  She at first refuses to budge because she hasn’t finished her pie, but Jabil leans down and smiles, convincing her with a masculine charm that would be impossible for me. She strides across the schoolhouse yard with her thin shoulders back and a china plate balanced in her hands. Batting away Jabil’s assistance, she climbs into the rear of the wagon and sits ramrod straight beside the children, who have been separated from their parents in an attempt to let the parents use their wagons to load the last of their goods. M
y grossmammi sighs and blindly reaches for the most heartbroken toddler, Suzie Stoltzfus, who throws herself across her lap. Stroking Suzie’s sweaty hair, she takes the spoon and begrudgingly feeds her the last bites of pie.

  Climbing up into the wagon, Jabil turns to make sure everyone’s safely seated, then glances over at me. I shake my head to let him know I haven’t changed my mind. He nods and begins directing the horse toward the old logging trail that wends up into the forest. Bracing my arms across my chest, I watch him go before I survey the abundance of food discarded on gold-rimmed plates, at the heirloom platter with the filigreed edge now broken in half, at the ornate tablecloth I admired earlier tainted with cranberry sauce the color of blood. None of the tea light candles have withstood the unpredictable gusts.

  Behind me, but still far too close, I hear the sky being frayed by gunfire. My heart thuds so hard it hurts. I glance at the abandoned feast once more before I sprint across the lane toward the woods, praying that at the perimeter, Moses Hughes—the pilot with a death wish—is alive.

  Moses

  THE GUNSHOTS ECHO around me, and it’s as though these past three weeks didn’t happen—as though none of this happened—and I am back in the desert, straining to see black-and-white as I listen for the whiz of the bullet that heralds the moment I die. My fingers shake as I take up a position on the perimeter and level the crosshairs on the man closest to us, shooting from a ditch on the lane.

  I remind myself of what my veteran grandpa said when I was debating about reenlisting or staying with him on his Bonners Ferry farm: “Us dreamy types—” he’d bumped my shoulder with his—“we don’t do so well on the front lines ’cause we can’t see the world in black-and-white enough to do what needs done.” But the problem is, even such guileless understanding is no longer simple. I have to see the world as black-and-white again, because I have to be on the front lines again, trying to protect a homestead filled with people I’m beginning to love.