The Divide

by Jolina Petersheim

  Papina, standing at the top of the steps, shakes her head and descends when she sees Moses can no longer walk on his own. I turn his body, and she tries to support him by wrapping her arm around his hip. Together, we work our way up the crumbling flight. Once we reach the landing, my grandmother goes inside. I stay close behind Moses in case he collapses. He hauls his feet over the threshold and leans against the wall.

  Needless to say, the old T-shirt factory’s locks can’t keep people out. Even before the EMP, the factory was a playground for teenagers wanting to cut their teeth on petty crime. Refugees—scrawny and interchangeable in their androgynous wardrobes of grime—are now sprawled on mats scattered here and there across the concrete floor. Papina brings over one of these mats, plops it on the tile, and motions for Moses to sit. He can’t see her because his face is lifted to the ceiling, the cords of his neck shimmering and taut. I step over the mat and take his elbow. He jolts and glances at me, fever in his eyes. I grab another mat. Placing them side by side, I take off my parka, drape it over the pallet, and help him sit down.

  He stays still for an instant, and then draws up his legs. My grandmother comes out of the room to the right and sits beside Moses, her layers of skirts sweeping up the dust. She peels his arms from around his shins and puts a hand on his chest, forcing his torso down until he is lying on his back. She lifts his T-shirt and examines the skin around the stitches I made, using the needle and thread from a cheap sewing kit I found under a shelf at Field to Table.

  Less than a day has passed since I sewed him up, and yet I can already see how the stitches are cinched and oozing, that thin tributaries of red are spreading from the unruly, spider-black stripe. I wonder if I killed him with infection in my botched attempt to heal. Cursing, I move from behind my grandmother and walk to the other side. She passes me a flask from one of the bottomless pockets of her skirts. I take it and look at her, awaiting my orders. Papina points to Moses’s stomach and mimes pouring liquor over the wound. I don’t know why she doesn’t do it herself, but I unscrew the cap and obey her instruction. Moses slurps his breath in through his teeth, and then peeks at what I am pouring over the stitches. He reaches for the flask. I attempt to pass it, but Papina frowns and intercepts me. Screwing on the cap, she slips it into her pocket. Apparently her generosity has limits.

  Moses gives my grandmother a sidelong glance. She pulls his shirt up higher and palpates the area around his wound. Pulling the shirt down, she shrugs.

  I explain, “Looks like the wound’s infected. I shouldn’t have sewed you up.”

  Moses tries propping himself on his elbows. He grimaces and lies back down. Somewhere in the warehouse, a refugee hollers, and then abruptly goes silent, like a radio switching off. We all three turn toward the sound. Papina rises to check it out.

  I turn back to Moses. It feels awkward, being just the two of us again, which is strange, considering that—for hours—I put pressure on his bullet wound to keep him alive.

  I ask, “You remember anything?”

  He swallows before speaking. “I remember the perimeter falling and the gang coming in.” A pause as he gathers his thoughts. “And I remember getting shot, but I don’t remember much after that. I have no idea if the community made it up the mountain in time.”

  “I’m sure they’re okay.” I touch his arm. “I’m sure Leora’s okay too. You did a brave thing, Moses.” He doesn’t respond, just keeps his eyes closed, so it’s easy for me to say, “I know how you’re feeling right now, being separated from someone you love. I gave my son, Colton, to Leora because I knew he’d have a better life with her than he would here, with me.”

  Moses finally opens his eyes and looks over, the blue of his irises swimming with either fever or fatigue. “I never said I loved her.”

  I think to myself, You don’t have to.

  The refugees are nightly drawn from foraging in the streets back to the warehouse, like chickens returning to their coop. Papina holds out her hands as each files through and accepts whatever pilfered item she deems valuable enough to cover room and board: canned food, jewelry, bullets, toiletry items. I scoot across the floor, closer to Moses, which is laughable. He can offer me no protection as he thrashes in his sleep, his cheeks stained with fever. I would feed him ice, but ice is now such an impossible concept, it seems more like a dream.

  Most of these refugees tramp upstairs, where the worst of the lot stay. A few others remain on the main floor, with Moses and me. I can tell they are new to the warehouse and its occupants by the worry flaring in their eyes as they squint toward the candlelit corners of the room, perhaps searching for a recognizable face. I, in fact, recognize two of the five refugees. The first is a twentysomething woman with straw-blonde hair who used to work at Burt’s Grocery. The second was a lifeguard at Liberty’s public pool.

  Neither of them seem to recognize me, even though the guy—Travis, I think—dropped out of high school the same year I did. Despite my long dark hair and distinct Kutenai features, for years I’ve perfected the ability to blend in with any crowd, since becoming a hodgepodge of everyone around me is far less painful than getting picked on for standing out.

  My cousin Alex files through next. My grandmother grins and embraces him, making no attempt to hide the fact he’s her favorite grandchild, just as Uncle Mike is Papina’s favorite son. I get to my feet. Alex glances up as I stride toward him.

  “Hey, hey, Sal,” he croons. “Where’ve you been hiding?”

  “None of your business.” My tone is flat. I’ve never cared for Alex’s overblown display of charm and affection, especially when I know he likes me as much—or as little—as I like him.

  “Ah.” He raises his eyebrows. “But it soon will be my business.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  Alex and I move to the side as more refugees come streaming in.

  “Dad got me a job,” he says.

  “Really?” I can’t fake any excitement.

  “Yeah, the government’s hiring some people to take a census of the ones who’re left.”

  I roll my eyes. “There is no government.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  My cousin has this driving need to one-up me, so I take every word that comes out of his mouth with a grain of salt. “Then give me some kinda proof.”

  Alex reaches into the back pocket of his jeans for a battered leather wallet. In the credit card section, he thumbs out an identification card and passes it to me. Laminated with contact paper, the card appears very similar to a license, except the numbers and words have all been written out by hand. Even the picture of him—an uncanny likeness—is just a sketch. I look up at him and am annoyed by the smug look on his face.

  “So what?” I say. “You could’ve paid to have this made.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” he snaps. “I’m getting a uniform, gun, and everything. I even get paid a percentage for every person I turn in.”

  “What are they going to pay you in?” I sneer. “Dollars?”

  Alex’s dark eyes flare. “You’d better show me some respect.”

  “Or what, you’re going to count me in your ‘census’?”

  “You have no idea what this is all about, do you?”

  I cross my arms. “Obviously not.”

  Alex leans close. I can smell his black-market cigarette breath. “They’re doing the census so they can figure out where to place the camps.”

  “What camps?”

  My cousin smiles, satisfied by my interest. “Work camps.” He pauses for effect. “Refugees are going to be used to clear land, plow, and plant in exchange for some of the food they grow. And they’ll do it, too, since everybody who’s left is starving.”

  “I still don’t believe you. There’s no way any government’s organized enough to set something like that up. If they were, they would’ve already done it.”

  Shrugging, Alex slips his identification card back into his wallet. “You’ll find out.”

&nbs
p; The tall, middle-aged man ducks under the doorway. He doesn’t look around the candlelit warehouse like the others, just shambles across the room with his back still stooped, as if the ceiling is the same height as the door. As he approaches my grandmother, she nods and accepts the pieces of silver he’s holding out. I despise her in that moment—healer, poisoner, thief—almost as much as I despise the man: Leora’s dad, Luke, who has the same shameless scruples as she. Luke has no business being here, where nothing good takes place. Especially not when his orphaned family—and my son—are trying to survive in the mountains.

  For the second time in one night, I rise from my pallet beside Moses, where my parka, bearing his bloodstains, serves as my pillow. Luke turns toward me as I draw close. He appears startled, his gaze widening as I search his face, trying to see if there’s still life in his eyes or if addiction has snuffed it out, like it snuffed out my dad’s.

  “I’m Sal,” I say. “I saw you a few times when you were working for my uncle.”

  He nods cautiously, as if trying to anticipate what I want.

  “I know your family,” I continue. “They took me in.”

  Luke glances over at my grandmother, who’s returned to her room to deposit his coins. He rams his fist into his pocket to hide his trembling hand. “How are they?” he says.

  I raise my eyebrow. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “Look.” He spreads his hands. “Leora told me I can’t come home until I get better.”

  “Don’t think you got much chance at getting better by being here.”

  “I’m here because I have something for your uncle.”

  “What?”

  “Me.” He sighs. “Figure if I turn myself in, they’ll leave my family alone.”

  “So you’re going back to drug running?”

  “Just until I can pay off my debt.”

  “What if you get addicted again? You know you won’t be able to handle it.”

  He shrugs. “I got no other options. Gotta take the risk.”

  I don’t have any other options for him either, so I go and lie down in the corner on my pallet as Moses mumbles in his sleep. The thick plaster walls are bloated with mildew. A starling swoops in and out of the holes in the ceiling’s ragged trellis, searching for an opening only to hit another wall. I try to ignore this bird, which reminds me a little too much of myself. I instead focus on the alternating mix of shadow and light as, upstairs, the refugees get settled in.

  Lying here, I try to picture Colton, his cheeks flushed with the warmth of the fire I imagine him sleeping next to, since it makes it easier for me to be in a place that is dry and warm if he is dry and warm too. I try to picture Leora singing softly in the background. One of those incoherent community hymns, I’m sure.

  Most of all, I try not to feel guilty—knowing Colton might be sleeping near a fire, but there is surely no roof over his head, if the community made it to the mountains like they planned. But I had to give him up if he was to survive, and for the first time, I understand that maybe my own mom didn’t leave me and my dad at that apartment because she didn’t want us. Maybe she left us because—like Luke, like me—she also felt she didn’t have another choice.

  Leora

  FEBRUARY

  I HEAR THEM OFF in the distance before I can see them, and my grip tightens around the handle of the ax. With my gloved hand, I wipe splinters of wood from my face and hair, and try peering through the thinned trees. I pray it is our men returning, and not drifters coming to see what they can take from us. Wrenching the ax blade free, I take one more hit, cracking the stubborn spruce in two. I set the halved piece on top of the pile and look over my shoulder, shivering with cold and with dread as I wait to see the source of the incoming footsteps.

  Wind blows through the forest, causing snow to sift down through the pines, speckling my head wrap and sending a cardinal into flight, his red brilliant against the contrast of evergreens. I steady my breathing and bite the inside of my cheek. My lungs strain against the urgency to retreat, yet I find myself crouching even lower beside the stack of firewood. Jabil Snyder is the one who breaks into view first, carrying a stringer weighted with trout, their mottled backs glistening in the winter sun.

  The exposed portion of his face reveals the stubble that has grown in the three days he’s been gone, chopping holes in the ice-covered lake across the valley. The men have made an effort to provide sustenance for our Mennonite community, which—over the past months—has become reliant on whatever we can hunt and gather from the woodlands.

  Jabil does not see me hiding behind the woodpile, and I do not slip out from behind it. Instead, I rise and let the ax fall from my hand, the blade piercing through the snow crust until all but the smooth, timeworn handle disappears. My adrenaline subsides.

  We haven’t seen anyone over these past three days, and Charlie remained behind to provide us with protection in case our compound should come under attack. But this whole time I’ve been on high alert, unable to convince myself a single armed Englischer and the smattering of mostly elderly Mennonite men—who would not arm themselves and defend the compound if the need were to arise—could hold back even the smallest gang intent on harming us.

  Would I defend my siblings and my grandmother, regardless of whether that required me to go against everything I’ve been taught to be right?

  While I ponder this, Jabil’s men talk and laugh as they make their way up the old logging trail toward the new compound. More than their telltale stringers of fish, this reveals that they had a worthwhile journey. My younger brother, Seth, and Jabil’s youngest brother, David, bring up the rear of the group. They talk, their toboggan-capped heads bowed in collusion, their rucksacks jangling with stringers free of trout. I am grateful Jabil took them with him, though supervising two teenage boys, overeager to become men, was surely not an easy task.

  Seth snickers and looks around, as if making sure no one can eavesdrop on their conversation, which lets me know they must not be talking about anything good. He spots me against the tree and halts. We stare at each other in silence. I raise my hand and smile. He doesn’t wave back, just turns toward David and continues walking. His slight stings, and yet I deserve it. For too long I have treated him like a son rather than a brother—endlessly reprimanding him without maintaining a bond of friendship—so he is pulling away from me in the natural course of adolescence, without granting me the same respect he would give Mamm.

  “Leora?”

  I startle. So focused on my sibling failure, I didn’t hear Jabil approach.

  He walks up and places his mackinaw around my shoulders. The fabric wafts of fish, sweat, and snow. “You shouldn’t be out in this,” he says. “It’s too cold.”

  “I come out here all the time.”

  Without touching me, he draws the lapels of his coat over my sodden wool coat beneath it. “I know.”

  The acceptance in his voice makes me restless. I bend to pick up the ax, but he moves faster than I, slipping it into the rucksack on his back—the stringer of fish trapped in his other hand. Keen for a reprieve from the elements, the rest of the men do not wait for us; they continue hiking together up the trail, their boots marring the runner of snow.

  Jabil extends his hand before him as if to say, “Shall we walk?” It’s a gallant gesture, which seems inconsistent with his rugged appearance. However, my own appearance shows how very kind Jabil’s gesture is. The tide of post-EMP destruction feels to have swept away my femininity, like every other woman’s.

  He asks as we begin copying the anglers’ steps, “See anyone while we were gone?”

  “No. You?”

  “Two guys trapping.” He pauses. “Making their way to Kalispell.”

  “What’s in Kalispell?”

  “The airport.”

  I look over at him. “They think they can fly from there?”

  “No. They want to join the militia.”

  My heart pounds. I sense Jabil studying me, as if
attempting to pinpoint the reason I chose this day—a harsh, bitter day—to split firewood for the community when he made sure we had a plentiful supply before he left. I don’t tell him why, for there’s no need.

  As the perimeter’s gate opens to admit us, and Jabil pulls it open further to let me slip past him, I know—and he knows—that the person I was waiting for today, and every day, was Moses Hughes. The former soldier whose plane crashed in our field the same day the EMP turned my life upside down. Moses is the one I cannot forget. The one who—despite his absence and my own better judgment—I am waiting for. The one I cannot leave behind.

  The men work fast in the gathering dim. They scrape off the trouts’ glittering scales and expertly fillet the flesh from the delicate ladder of bones. Myron Beiler lights a wick sticking like a flag out of a small tin container of lard and sets a cracked globe over it before moving the tin to the center of the rock table, so it’s easier for the men to see. The fillets will be evenly distributed among the community, regardless of the amount each man caught. The bones and heads will all be boiled down in one large kettle to make broth. Nothing is wasted. Not anymore.

  Jabil, beside me, sees me studying the men. “What are you thinking about?” he asks.

  “That my brother didn’t get any fish.”

  “You won’t go hungry.”

  I don’t look at him. “We’re all hungry.”

  “That we are.” Sighing, he takes off his woolen hat to scrub a hand through his hair.

  We continue walking across the compound—hearing the clang of cast iron inside cabins, smelling the rendered lard sizzling in skillets, or seeing the narrow gaps between logs, highlighted by the fires glowing in the hearths. Our destination, the smokehouse, is lengthwise to the perimeter. A simple construction—as time and materials required of all our buildings—the smokehouse is a narrow shed with holes slatted along the top to vent out smoke that often curls around the structures of the community, like fog.