Brother, Frank

by Michael Bunker

  Broadfall pants have big pockets.

  I leave the dawdi haus and walk back to the Shetlers’ pond, and without thinking or praying or philosophizing, I toss all of it. I throw everything—all these things that remind me of what I really am—into the pond.

  I’m a monster, and I know it. Frank is the doctor, and I’m the monster.

  Maybe I can change.

  Probably not.

  * * *

  I’m back in Ben’s room. The scene of the almost crime. The dawn is breaking now and I can see the pinks and yellows through the window.

  I reach over and switch Ben back on, and he slowly wakes up.

  “Good morning,” he says.

  “Yeah, little buddy,” I say. “Good morning to you.”

  “What time is it?” Ben says.

  “Early.”

  “Okay.”

  “We have to get ready,” I say. “The elders’ meeting is today and I want to get the cows milked and get everything ready in case...”

  “... In case we have to go?” Ben says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think we’ll have to go?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. And I don’t. But I’m pretty sure we will. I don’t tell Ben that, because I don’t want him to lose hope. But inside, I’m pretty sure.

  “Where will we go?” Ben asks. “If we have to go.”

  “Back on the run,” I say.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Me either.”

  I turn to go, but I tarry at the door with my back turned to Ben. I hear him get up and start to get dressed, so I leave. Maybe breakfast will make me feel better, but I doubt it.

  * * *

  After milking, I’m surprised to find April Troyer standing outside the barn. She’s just standing there. Waiting for me, I suppose.

  “April,” I say by way of greeting. My head is a little low, and I’m not sure what I should say to her.

  “Good morning, Frederick,” she says. She rarely calls me “Doc.”

  “How are you this morning?” I ask.

  “I’m doing as well as can be expected. Nervous, and a little afraid.”

  “So I guess Mose told you what happened?”

  “Yes. He did.”

  “And what do you think?”

  April looks up at me. She waits until I raise my head and I’m looking her in the eyes.

  “I think I want you to stay. And I want all of this trouble to go away.”

  “Me too,” I say. I’m not sure what else to say. I feel totally powerless, and despite all my doubts and fears and problems, feeling powerless is not something I’m really ready to accept. “It’s not up to me or you though. If the elders say we have to go, then we’ll have to go.”

  “I guess I’ve not done well with getting men to stay,” April says.

  Then she begins to cry.

  I feel uncomfortable. Part of me wants to take her in my arms and soothe her and tell her it’s all going to be all right. Part of me wants to ask her to marry me and run away with me. But none of that would be right. So I don’t say anything.

  After a bit, she wipes away her tears and smiles at me. “Whatever happens, it is God’s will.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We must satisfy ourselves with that, then,” she says.

  I reach out and squeeze her hand, and she squeezes mine back. I’m not good at leaving my fate to others, but giving up my godhood has taught me a lot about being dependent on other people. I’m not sure I like it, but I’m willing to see what happens.

  * * *

  After we clean up and have breakfast, we load the buggy and the wagon and we head out to the meeting. April is riding in the buggy with Mose and Sarah. I’ve been told that April and Sarah won’t be allowed in the meeting. I’m not good with that, but I don’t make the rules here. These people have their own ways.

  Ben drives the wagon and I ride next to him on the bench. As we go, I’m struck again by the beauty of this place. The peacefulness and quiet. We pass Amish farms, well ordered and immaculate. Fields are bursting with life, and we see Amish farmers working their crops, unaware of what we’re up to or what’s in their midst.

  “What are we going to say?” Ben asks.

  I think about it before I answer. There’s nothing easy about any of this. Once this train went off the track, all the easy answers went up in flames.

  “I don’t know that we’ll even get to speak, Ben, but if we do, I guess we’ll say whatever we need to say to try to get them to see that you aren’t a danger to them. That you’re just an Amish boy who wants to live peaceably among them. We’ll tell them that you’ve learned your lesson and that you won’t do it—won’t change—anymore.”

  “How can I know that I won’t?”

  “We all just have to do our best, Ben. Do the right thing at the time, I guess.”

  “Sometimes we have to lie, right?” Ben says. “Do you remember that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And there’s a time to kill, too,” Ben says. “The Bible says that.”

  I look at Ben and wonder what he’s thinking. Why he would say that. He has no facial expression to give away his thoughts, but it’s obvious that he’s thought a lot about this. “I don’t know, Ben. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Is that why you were going to kill me?” Ben asks.

  My head drops to my chest and I sigh without responding, but the unspoken answer is unequivocal.

  Yes.

  * * *

  The meeting is not what I expected. It gets rancorous pretty fast. Even the elders are having trouble keeping order. And in addition to the elders, Gene Strasser invited men he calls “interested parties.” It becomes apparent pretty quickly that Elder Strasser did indeed see Ben change, and he was none too pleased about the fact that I’d brought a mechanical monstrosity into their midst. It also becomes apparent that Strasser has lots of friends. He doesn’t intend to lose this particular argument.

  Mose Shetler plays our lead defense attorney, and the arguments, charges and counter-charges are flying thick and heavy. Ben and I never even have the opportunity to talk.

  What it comes down to is this: Is Ben a person? Is he human? Is he Amish? What is it that makes us human? A few organs? A will? What about things like empathy and compassion? Where does the soul reside?

  One side—our side, actually—says the discussion should be about what Ben did. Is Ben’s behavior enough to get him kicked out?

  You see, Ben never got violent. He didn’t hurt the boys who were attacking John. He could have, but he didn’t. He just changed into a scary killer robot. Is being scary a violation of the Ordnung?

  The Ordnung is the set of unwritten rules of the Amish community. Every plain community has one. And even though the rules are unwritten, they are iron-clad, and everyone is expected to know and abide by them.

  And Ben didn’t violate the Ordnung. Can he be banished for his appearance alone?

  The other side—Gene Strasser’s side—says it all comes down to just what Ben really is. That’s the meat of it, he says. That’s the issue.

  The argument just kind of circles around awhile, until Mose stands and folds his hands in front of him. He waits for silence before he speaks. When the room grows quiet, an elder acknowledges Mose with a slight dip of his head.

  “I do not hope to overstep my bounds here among you,” Mose begins. “I am fully submitted to the Ordnung and to the elders’ authority, and I recognize that I am guilty of bringing young Ben into our midst... and of keeping the truth from you all, as I should not have done. That is my sin, and I do repent. I’m sorrowful for it.”

  The elders don’t speak. They just sit and wait for whatever else Mose has to say.

  “But my sin is not Ben’s sin,” Mose says. “Ben is guilty of anger, it is true. And I’ve spoken to the boy, and he is sorrowful about it. He is repentant. He says to me that he will not do this thing again. That he will learn to control his temper... like
we all must.”

  Mose looks over at Ben and me, then continues.

  “According to our ways, Ben must be forgiven. He caused no lasting harm. The Englischer policemen weren’t even called to the scene. It was a momentary flare-up. A mistake. And young Ben realizes he made a mistake. He’s a boy... really. A young boy who, due to no fault or choice of his own, has been given another chance at this life. He knows he has a grave responsibility, and he accepts that.”

  At this point, Elder Strasser stands up to address the meeting. He doesn’t wait for silence or the nod from another elder.

  “All of this,” Elder Strasser says, “Is beyond the point. It is not the issue we need to judge here.” Strasser puts his hands on his suspenders and pauses so that he can look over the assembled group. He silently emphasizes the importance of what he’s going to say.

  “Mose Shetler, you have not brought a boy here among us! No! You have not brought a man either! This... this thing is neither! You have brought a Frankenstein here! He is a monster!”

  Mose, who’d seated himself during Gene Strasser’s speech, stands again. There is a great hubbub as men murmur and chat among themselves. Mose stands silently, waiting for the other elders to indicate that he can speak. Usually this approval comes by way of a slow nod from an elder who is making eye contact with the one desiring to speak. Eventually, when the chatter dies down, the nod comes.

  “Frankenstein was the doctor in that tale, I am told,” Mose says. “I have not read it, but my friend Fred Bontrager here has informed me of this story. And frankly, I do not find it applicable. Ben is not a monster. He’s a boy. He could be your boy, Gene Strasser, or he could be mine. He could be any Amish boy who is dealt with in such a way without his consent. He was dying, and a doctor who cared for him saved his life using the tools God gave him to do so. This is God’s will. Maybe you and I would have chosen differently for our boys, but we weren’t there. None of us here made this decision.”

  This, I note, is a prevarication at the very least. I’m here, and I’m the one who made the decision. My impulse is to stand up and take the blame, but my fear and cowardice get the best of me. And I don’t think speaking will help the situation. Better to let Mose handle it.

  There is more murmuring, but soon enough, the crowd settles again.

  “You say this boy is a monster?” Mose says. “Well, aren’t we all at first? Aren’t we all capable of every sin? Of much damage? Of murder? Do we not all sin, even now? Why are we casting stones when the boy has repented, and when the damage is behind us?

  “Ben Bontrager may be a Frankenstein’s monster,” Mose says. “I don’t believe he is, but maybe he is. But he is something else too. Something far more important in God’s eyes. He is our brother.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The wind picks up, gusting through and around the assembled army. Spread out like ants in either direction, tanks, APCs, Humvees, and trucks stand ready for an engagement. A military helicopter thunders overhead, then banks upward and to the right to join a formation of six other copters hovering over the town of Drury Falls.

  Dresser is in full battle gear. Outfitted in digital camo from head to toe, he’s back in his element, ready to kill to complete his mission. Or to feel complete. Whichever. He rubs his beard and looks out over the meandering farmland of central Ohio. The BDD will have to wait for another day. One terrorist cell at a time.

  An aide joins Dresser, who is once again checking a small, laminated map of the area. The aide stands quietly and is all business. Most of Dresser’s people—the soldiers currently placed under his command—have heard about the two recent bombings: the first at the Hampton Inn in Cambridge and the second, larger truck bomb at the makeshift Transport Authority headquarters at Wright-Patt. The word is out that whoever’s leading this operation is the target of insurgent threats, but most of these men don’t know Dresser or even what they’re really doing here. Special operators have been called in from all over the U.S., even from Afghanistan, and over the last twelve hours the force has been assembling here in Ohio and awaiting orders.

  Dresser turns to his aide and nods. The soldier’s eyes narrow in response. There are no salutes here. This is an off-the-books operation run by the new and highly classified Transport Authority.

  “We’ve set up a perimeter with the Shetler farm at its center, sir,” the aide says. “Most of our forces are pulled back five miles, with an outer perimeter of National Guard and local and state police forces set out at twenty-five miles, working roadblocks and removing noncombatants.”

  “Civilians?” Dresser says.

  “We’ve been operating for about eight hours, cleaning out the town. Buses have been moving out since dawn. The National Guard and the state police have been picking up stragglers. The roadblocks have stopped any ingress into the area.”

  “Air traffic?”

  “No-fly zone, all the way up to Cleveland and down to Cincinnati, sir.”

  “Good. Good.”

  “What about the Amish?” the aide asks.

  Dresser turns to the aide and pulls out a cigarette. He lights it and takes a deep draw.

  “The Amish are the problem here,” Dresser says. He glares at his new aide, gauging the man’s response. “And we can’t let this broken arrow out of the net.”

  “The Amish are the problem, sir?”

  “They’ve been hiding our targets, just like some of the civilian villagers we faced in Afghanistan and Iraq harbored fugitives and insurgent activity. If this weapon is dressed as an Amish, we can’t get close enough to ask friend or foe without putting our force at risk.”

  “What are your orders then, sir?”

  Dresser takes a long draw on the cigarette, then reaches up and puts on his shades.

  “There will be an acceptable number of civilian casualties today, son. That’s just an honest to get-it-straight fact. The TA is not about to let terrorists do to us here what they’ve done overseas.”

  The soldier doesn’t reply. It’s evident to Dresser that his new aide isn’t particularly comfortable with the possibility of killing the Amish.

  “Here’s the deal, young man. Time to decide if you want to protect your country or not. That’s the meat-and-potatoes reality of the new world we live in. Religious zealots are everywhere. Breeding like bunnies, too. And these particular religious zealots are harboring a weapon that could cause major disruption here in the homeland. And let’s get it straight: we’ve tried it the old way. We’ve gone door to door asking questions. We’ve asked for help. We’ve tried to rein in this threat using traditional domestic policing protocols, and it hasn’t worked. These people are working with a group called the BDD—a terrorist cell embedded deeply in our very own government—and together they have killed dozens of our men and women. Frankly, they’re holding our entire country hostage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Giving material aid and comfort to the enemy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dresser takes another pull on the cig before tossing it to the ground. “Normally I wouldn’t take the time to explain orders to you, son, especially orders concerning a top-secret operation. You’re here to do exactly what I say, when I say it. But since you’re new with me, I’m giving you this opportunity to get your head on straight. And I’m doing it because I’m going to need you. Shit, you probably ain’t never seen what we’re going to go up against today. None of us has.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So make sure our force is ready to take down the objective. And this five-mile perimeter is the kill zone, do you read me? Everything in this circle is a target, pure and simple.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  Just south of Dresser’s position, on a back road leading into Drury Falls, dozens of cars, trucks, and other vehicles are backed up at a roadblock. Eleven vehicles deep in the line is a nondescript RV: a vintage camper from the ’70s with pale and fading decorative stickers and a small wind-shredded Cincinnati Bengals
flag flying from the antenna. A bearded man and a woman who looks to be his wife wait patiently for the road to be opened—even though they know it won’t be happening soon.

  “Looks like this is as close as we’re gonna get,” the man says.

  The woman turns to him and shrugs. “Close enough, I think.”

  “Definitely close enough.”

  “Well, we won’t know until we flip the switch.” With a slight raising of her chin, she indicates someone approaching the vehicle. “Here comes the man.” She clutches a machine pistol in her left hand, down between the seats, out of the line of sight of the soldier approaching the RV. Her finger isn’t on the trigger; it’s pointing straight down the trigger guard. Ready if she needs it.

  A National Guardsman with a rifle on a sling strolls down the line of waiting cars. He talks to the people in the car ahead of the RV, then waves and approaches the RV. He walks up to the driver’s-side window and the bearded man rolls it down.

  “This road’ll be closed awhile,” the guardsman says. “Sorry for the inconvenience, but no one’s moving for the foreseeable future.”

  The bearded man leans out the window and smiles. “No worries. But we can’t turn around here, man. Everyone’s packed in, and this rig won’t take those ditches. No way.”

  The guardsman’s shoulders raise and lower, and he jerks his head to the rear of the RV. Go back. Back anywhere but here. Just not forward. “You can leave it here and walk back,” he says. “If you don’t mind leaving the keys in it in case we need to move it later. Nearest town isn’t too far, and a bunch of folks have already hiked back. Moving cars will take some time—when and if it happens—and I assure you this road won’t be open until tomorrow at the earliest.”

  The woman leans over, a manufactured look of worry on her face. “Any word on what’s going on?”

  “Not a clue. We’re just doing what we’re told, and that’s all we know.” He smiles, but his look emphasizes that he is noncommittal. Neither willing nor eager to discuss it. “I mean, you folks could sleep in your rig, I guess. If you don’t wanna leave the keys in it.”

  “I ain’t worried about leavin’ the keys,” the bearded man says. “No one in their right mind would steal this old thing, and if they did, they’d be sorry for it.”