by Laura Bickle
Copper wagged his tail and sniffed my laundry basket vigorously.
“Yes, there’s food in there. In good time.”
Copper fell into step beside me, his tail slapping at my skirt as we walked.
The dilapidated barn looked undisturbed, and I set my burden down to haul open the doors. The dogs had their own dog door cut into the side, covered with canvas flaps. Sunny squeezed herself through the door, panting from the effort.
“Hello, sweet girl.” I put my arms around her, and she licked my face. It felt good to bask in the unconditional warm slobber of the dogs, who would love me no matter whether I was baptized or not.
I rose and carried the basket into the dimness of the barn.
“It’s Katie,” I announced.
A voice echoed from the shadows in the back stall. “I’m glad it’s you.”
I was heartened to hear that Alex was conscious. I could tell that he’d been moving around in the barn; the straw was disturbed and the waste bucket I’d discreetly left for him had been emptied. He was sitting up in his stall with his hands folded in his lap, watching me with his blue eyes.
“I brought food.”
A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Well, I’m glad for that. And for someone to talk to. The dogs aren’t good conversationalists.”
I reached forward to examine the wound on his head. He winced when I touched it, but it seemed as if the redness was beginning to recede.
“Did you take your antibiotic this morning?”
“Yes. And a fistful of ibuprofen. And I used part of the hydrogen peroxide.”
I wrinkled my nose. I could smell a bit of the peroxide on him, but I mostly smelled the sour odor of someone who hadn’t bathed in a few days.
“I brought you some things,” I said. “Including soap.”
Alex sighed happily. “I would really love a bath, Bonnet.”
I frowned at him calling me “Bonnet” but decided to let it slide. He didn’t say it with sarcasm; it was said with the affection of a nickname. “There isn’t a spring room in the barn,” I said. “But there is a pump out back. I’ll bring you a washbasin before I leave this afternoon.”
I set about unpacking the contents of the laundry basket: sandwiches, apples, a thermos full of cider, a fresh block of soap, a battery-powered flashlight, a toothbrush, baking soda, and a straight razor.
Alex picked up the straight razor. “Ouch. I’ve only seen these in the movies.”
“Don’t cut yourself. There are no more antibiotics.”
I also handed him a set of men’s clothes. “These are for you. They will make you less obvious if you are seen.”
He grimaced. “Yeah. I know that I reek.” He took the bundle and shook out a shirt, britches, socks, undergarments, and Plain shoes.
“I hope that they will fit. The shoes may be a bit tight on you, but they’ll do until I can find something better.”
He held the shirt up to his chest and lifted a chiding eyebrow. “Where did the clothes come from? Your husband? Your brother?”
My mouth flattened, and I said quietly: “I’m doing laundry for a family that lost two young men to Outside. I expect that the dead are less likely to miss them.”
“Oh.” His hands lowered the shirt to his lap. “Sorry.”
I shook my head, ashamed for taking out my bad temper on another. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I’ve had a bad morning.”
His eyes widened. “You didn’t go back to town, did you?”
“No. I went to church.”
“Ah, well. That explains it,” he blurted. “I mean . . . well . . . Two hours of sermons is enough to dim anyone’s sparkle.”
I frowned, changed the subject. “I have news from Outside.”
He stopped chewing, dropping crumbs onto his stubble. “Yeah?”
“Ja. I took some cell phone batteries with me yesterday.”
He smirked. “Took or stole?”
I was silent for a moment. “I left money. Do you want me to tell you?” I wasn’t sure if he wanted information or to simply continue goading me.
“Yes. I want to know.” He lifted his hands in surrender, but his eyes burned hungrily for the news. “Tell me.”
“The Englishwoman staying with us has a husband in the military. She spoke to him. The . . . the contagion has spread.”
“How far?”
“Far enough that he estimates that two-thirds of the people everywhere are just . . . gone.”
Alex set down his sandwich.
I continued, the words falling over each other. “There are people who have survived . . . he said in places like Vatican City. Stonehenge. Religious sites.” I shook my head. “I don’t believe it. Not all of it, anyway.”
He looked up. “I was right. They offer some protection against the vampires.”
“God cannot be with everyone. Not everyone is right.”
“Maybe, in your view. But it seems like whoever’s left standing will demonstrate his approval the most.” His mouth turned down. “Short of hiding in monasteries, are they any closer to finding a way to stop them?”
“It doesn’t sound like it. They are working on it. But . . . Mrs. Parsall says that they may be forced to use nuclear weapons to stop the spread.”
His jaw dropped. “They can’t. They can’t do that. If they nuke us back into the Stone Age, to nuclear winter, no one will survive.”
I cocked my head. I knew that nuclear weapons were poison, but I hadn’t heard that term. “Nuclear winter?”
Alex leaned his head back against the wall. “The nukes would devastate our climate, plunge us into a winter like no one’s ever seen. The dust would blot out the sun. All of us would freeze or starve to death. Never mind the rest of the mammals on the planet.”
“Would that be a worse way to go than the vampires?” I couldn’t imagine a worse way than having my head torn off by the creature from the Laundromat.
His mouth opened, closed, like a fish’s over a hook. “I don’t know. They have to find another way.”
“It is out of our hands,” I said, turning my attention back to the basket. I handed him a clean blanket.
“Is that what they call Gelassenheit, Bonnet?”
My blood curdled in anger. “What do you know about it?” I forced myself to say blandly. To turn the other cheek.
“That your people tend to surrender yourselves to God’s will. I always thought it was kind of passive, but . . .”
I turned to face him with eyes narrowed. As conflicted as I felt about my own religion, I would not brook sarcasm from an Outsider who knew nothing about it except what he’d read in college textbooks. Plain folk were charged with being mild-mannered, but something within me snapped: “Let me tell you about how Gelassenheit saved your life. When I found you on the other side of our fence, I was forbidden to take you in by the Elders. They said that no one goes in or out of the gate. I asked them—begged them to reconsider. A man stood over you with a rifle, was going to put you down like a dog.”
My voice lifted, and I could see him shrinking back, the armor of cynicism falling from him. “I begged them to leave you there, that it was up to God whether you lived or died. And they took their gun and walked away. I violated their rules to bring you back here, because I thought that was the right thing to do. If they were to find out, you would be exiled. Thrown out of the gate and fed to the monsters.”
I put my face very close to his, so close that my bonnet strings brushed his shoulder, and hissed: “Don’t dare to tell me about Gelassenheit.”
His gaze fell from my furious one. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m a jerk.” When he glanced up, the expression in his ice-blue eyes had thawed a bit, seeming as hurt as it had when he’d talked about Cassia and the end of the world. He swallowed hard. “I owe you. Thank you. I mean it.”
I gave him a curt nod, crawled away, back to the basket. My cheeks flamed, and I was ashamed of my outburst. “You’re welcome.”
The anger drained out of m
e as I dug in the basket. I set a jar of apple butter on the floor and a wrapped-up loaf of bread. Though I seemed to be doing well at pilfering and provisioning for Alex, I had no idea what to do with him next.
I cleared my throat, and my voice was more gentle. “I thought you would be bored, so I brought you some things to read.”
I gave him copies of the Bible and the Ausbund. Chastened, he took the books gratefully. “Thank you.”
“And I also brought you some less boring reading.” Hesitantly, I handed him a stack of well-worn Wonder Woman comics. “Just don’t spill anything on them.”
A brilliant smile spread across his face. “Diana, princess of the Amazons! I love her.” He began to page through them. “‘Beautiful as Aphrodite, strong as Hercules, wise as Athena, and swift as Mercury . . .’”
I hesitated and returned the smile. Maybe we had just found a small patch of common ground.
Chapter Thirteen
I managed to avoid Elijah until the Singing.
By then, there was nowhere to hide.
Sunday evenings were when the young unmarried members of our community got together to socialize in a pre- approved fashion. After Nachtesse, we all walked to the one-room schoolhouse with our copies of the Ausbund tucked under our arms, giggling in the gloaming. The Singing took place without adult supervision. It was our chance to be free each week. There was always something magical about it: the music, the shy glances passed between boys and girls, holding hands in the darkness.
But it wasn’t magical tonight. I told my mother that I didn’t want to go and busied myself with washing dishes. She took the dishes from me and dried my hands with the dishtowel.
“Go. It will be good for you to get your mind off things.”
“But, Mother . . .” I protested.
“It’s Sunday. No chores.” She lifted her finger and smiled. “Go.”
I sighed, then trudged up to my room to stare sullenly at the dresses in the closet. Mrs. Parsall watched me from the bed, peering over her glasses. My mother was teaching her how to crochet, to keep her occupied. She was not doing a half-bad job on the afghan she’d started with marled ombre yarn. The rows were quite even, though she did count the stitches under her breath.
She laid down her hook when she saw me. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes. To the Singing.” I rolled my eyes.
“Are you sure that you want to go out?” she asked neutrally. But I could see the anxiety in her eyes. She knew what lay in the darkness as much as I did.
I sighed and stared into the closet. “My mother insists.”
“I would like to go to the Singing.” Sarah peeped into the room and stuck her tongue out at me.
“You’re too young,” Mrs. Parsall and I said automatically, at the same time. That made us both laugh.
Sarah bounded in and wedged herself into my closet. She liked helping me get ready for the Singing, imagining what it would be like when a boy like Elijah would come to the house to walk with her into the night. When I was her age, I stood on the back step and watched the older boys and girls disappear too. It was hard to tell her not to envy that.
I pulled out a plain brown dress and began to take off my apron. I wasn’t much in the mood for this and wanted to fade into the background.
“No! Wear this one.” Sarah pulled my newest dress from the closet, a twilight-blue one that I’d made two months ago.
I made a face. “I’d rather wear the brown one.”
“But the blue one is prettier.”
“I don’t feel pretty today.” I unpinned my dress, careful to put the pins in a pin box with a magnet on my dresser.
“I don’t know how you manage those pins,” Mrs. Parsall said, plucking at her own uneven neckline.
Plain women didn’t use complicated fasteners on our clothing, like zippers or buttons. I could see that Mrs. Parsall was still trying to get the hang of the pins. A loose one glinted at her collar, and I could see a scrape on her neck from where she’d stabbed herself.
I stepped out of my dress and reached for the brown. I turned my back to them, then slipped the Himmelsbrief into my pocket. I don’t think they saw, as their attention was fixed on the closet.
“Wear the blue!” my sister insisted.
“Sarah, your sister is old enough to make her own decisions.” Doubtless Mrs. Parsall was thinking the same thing I was: the blue would make me more of a target at night. The brown would blend right in. “But maybe she will let you braid her hair.”
“I think that’s a fine compromise,” I said, fastening the brown dress shut.
Sarah grinned and drew me down onto the bed. She tugged off my cap and began loosening the pins that held it in place. I stared down at the floor, resigned, as my hair tumbled over my shoulders. It hung now almost to my waist. It wasn’t thick and lustrous like some of the other girls, but fine and straight, easy to braid and pin up. Flyaways occasionally escaped, despite my best efforts, but it was easier to deal with than recalcitrant waves. My friend Hannah complained about hers requiring a headful of pins to look tidy. My hair, on the other hand, was like a good Plain girl: obedient.
Sarah brushed my hair, filling it with static. She hummed a hymn from the Ausbund, a song that we had sung that morning. I shut my eyes against it.
“Will Elijah be coming by to take you to the Singing?” Sarah asked, beginning the plaits tight against my scalp.
“I don’t think so. He’s had a very busy day,” I said. “I doubt that he will come, now that he is baptized and a full-grown man.”
Mrs. Parsall watched the twitch at the corner of my mouth. “He went through with it, then?”
“Yes.” I was mercifully able to lower my head and blink back tears as the braid became long and Sarah needed more room to work.
“It will be all right,” I heard her say. But it seemed strange to hear her soothing me, for something as silly and ephemeral as romance, in light of the losses she faced.
“I’m sure it will.” I bit my lip as Sarah finished the plait, pinning it around the circumference of my head.
“There you are.” Sarah sat back, glowing.
“You look beautiful,” Mrs. Parsall said.
I reached up and touched the braid. The back was a little uneven, but it felt tight as a halo. I had no mirror to inspect myself. My father had one for shaving, but to use one to admire oneself was shamelessly prideful. Even without the mirror, I could tell that Sarah had done a very good job with her little hands.
“Thank you,” I told my sister, twisting to kiss her cheek.
She smiled and bounced off the bed. “I’ll wait up for you.”
I winked at her. She always said that, but she always fell asleep. “I know you will.”
Sarah padded out of the room in her bare feet to find my mother. Sunday nights were their special time together. Mother was teaching her how to set sleeves in a dress, and I was certain that the treadle sewing machine would be thumping along in moments.
I stared out at the sun, drawing low on the horizon, stretching the shadows of trees across the fields. “I suppose that I should go, while there’s still light.”
Mrs. Parsall crooked her finger. “Come here.”
I came to sit beside her, next to the nest of yarn she was working with. Mrs. Parsall dragged her purse out from under the bed, and I thought she meant to use her cell phone again. Instead of the phone, she pulled out a compact with a hand mirror and a shiny tube of lipstick.
She turned the point of my chin toward her and dabbed at my face with the scented powder. I began to protest. “Mrs. Parsall . . .”
“Hush. I’m using a light hand. And I’m going to insist that you call me ‘Ginger’ from now on.”
I was never comfortable calling an adult by her first name before all this had happened, but the old rules seemed to be slipping away. “Okay . . . Ginger.”
The powder puff whisked across my face. “Stupid boy,” she muttered as she worked. “He doesn’t know h
is ass from a turnip.”
I grinned in spite of myself.
Mrs. Parsall—Ginger, I reminded myself—opened the lipstick, screwed up a pale pink color. “Like this,” she said, sticking her lips out in a pout. I mimicked her, and she swept the lipstick over my mouth.
“Close your eyes.” I felt the touch of the lipstick on my eyelids and my cheeks, then Ginger’s soft fingertips rubbing the pigment into my face.
“Stunning.” She handed me the compact to inspect myself.
I had never been called stunning before in my life.
As I gazed into the mirror, my lips parted in a small O of startlement. And it was not just because Plain people never complimented each other on appearance. I had not thought much of makeup before. Though Ginger told me that the women in magazines were covered in inches of the stuff, I honestly believed that they looked like that naturally. But she had worked magic, changed me from a bland Plain girl to . . . a pretty girl. The powder covered my freckles and the hint of sunburn, dimmed the shine of my oily skin. The soft pink was a sheer flush on my cheeks, contrasting with the gray of my eyes. And my mouth was all of a sudden dewy and luscious, as if I’d eaten fresh strawberries.
“Show Elijah that,” Ginger chortled. “You’ll have him wrapped around your little finger.”
She tucked the makeup into my pocket. I protested.
“It’s yours,” she said simply. “I have no need of it.”
“Thank you,” I said, almost afraid to touch my now-perfect face. I couldn’t resist plucking the compact out of my pocket for another look. I felt powerful, in some strange fashion.
“Be careful,” she said, severely.
I nodded. “I will.”
Ginger went back to her crocheting as I put my bonnet on, mindful not to disturb the braid. As I grabbed my Ausbund and left, I heard her counting: “. . . seventeen, eighteen . . . oh, crap.” She went back to the beginning to count the stitches in the row. “One, two, three . . .”
* * *
I stepped outside, feeling the warmth of the setting sun on my made-up face. The wind rustled through the grass as I walked down the dirt lane from our house to the field. I made sure to keep to the brightest areas, where the sun drove my shadow long behind me.
