by Anna Schmidt
“No, ma’am. You need to leave now,” John replied, forcing his voice to remain calm as he retraced his steps and prepared to open the door for her.
“Apparently your aunt is worried about you,” she continued. “So worried that she has contacted the local head of county government, who in turn has directed the director of the county’s emergency management program to make sure that you get to safety.”
John made a show of glancing around. “Well, I don’t see anybody from the county or my aunt, and I am not leaving.”
To his surprise, she began rummaging through the pockets of her rain jacket until she unearthed a notepad and pencil. “That’s your decision?”
“It is, and …”
She thrust the paper and pencil at him. “Then please write that down and date and sign it.”
She was giving up? Just like that? What had happened to the do-gooder Mennonites he’d known back in Indiana? The ones who quietly went about the work of helping others and did not leave until the work was finished? This woman had been sent to get him to evacuate, and yet …
She pushed the paper and pencil toward him again. “Either write the statement or come with me right now,” she said. “Those are your choices, and I don’t have time to debate the merits of one over the other.”
He grabbed the paper from her and scrawled out a one-sentence message. I’m staying on my property. Then he signed it with a flourish and handed it back to her.
“Date it,” she said. Only after he complied did she accept the paper. She folded it carefully and headed for the door. “Last chance,” she said quietly, her hand on the doorknob.
He reached around her to open the door, bracing it with his shoulder against the force of the wind, taking note that the rain had stopped and there was some light in the western sky. The storm might well swing to the north or south and miss them entirely. “Good day, Hester.”
She glanced up at him, and in the fading but yet stronger daylight after the dark of the barricaded house, he was stunned to see genuine concern in her expression. “You really should leave,” she said. “This is the real thing.”
In the bay behind her, John saw Margery idling her boat near his pier. Irritated that his neighbor had interfered in his life once more, he stepped back inside his house and closed the door. Then he stood next to the door, listening. A moment later he heard the throttle of Margery’s boat, and then he was alone. He went back to his radio and, despite the static, received the news that the watch had changed to a warning.
In all the time that John had occupied the point of land that jutted out from the mainland into the mouth of Little Sarasota Bay, there had been only two other times when a hurricane watch had turned to a warning. Both storms had missed Sarasota and its protective barrier islands, but neither had come close to the power that this one was predicted to be. John felt a surge of adrenaline as he digested the storm’s change in status and mentally went over his checklist. Every window was securely covered. He’d gathered ample supplies—drinking water, first-aid kit, a change of clothes, and nonperishable food. He had enough to cover his needs even if he got stuck here for several days.
That was a distinct possibility. His property had stood abandoned for years before he’d bought it and started renovating the main house, the packinghouse, and a variety of other outbuildings. The work had gone slowly because he was determined to do it all himself. He had deliberately ignored the overgrown lane that led to the house from the road, preferring to access his land by kayak so as to discourage visitors until he had the place ready for business. But getting in or out by water might prove impossible depending on the path of the storm.
Still, John had come to this place to prove to himself—and to others—that it was possible to live a strict Amish life in the midst of the outside world. Even the battery-powered radio was stretching the boundaries, but it was the one concession he had made to Margery after the last hurricane. He picked up his Bible and his dog-eared copy of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden: Life in the Woods. The book had been a favorite of his mother’s, and other than his Bible, it was the only book he had brought with him to Florida. It had also been at the root of his break with his Amish community—or theirs with him.
After his father died, John’s interest in Thoreau’s ideas of living a completely self-sustaining and separate life had increased. Thoreau’s experiment seemed to John to go beyond even the strict traditions of separateness practiced by those of his faith. His zeal for Thoreau’s idea had been his undoing in the tightly knit Amish community where he had grown up. Stubborn like his mother, John had stood his ground, and she alone had stood with him. And then his mother had died, and he found himself standing utterly alone.
He washed his supper dishes. Then he made a final survey of his emergency supplies. Satisfied that he had everything within his reach that he might need to ride out the storm, he picked up his Bible and let it fall open one last time. He closed his eyes, praying for guidance, and let his finger run down the page to whatever passage of scripture God might choose for him.
“And seek the peace of the city whither I have caused you to be carried away captives, and pray unto the LORD for it: for in the peace thereof shall ye have peace.”
His Bible had fallen open to the book of Jeremiah, the twenty-ninth chapter. His finger had stopped on verse 7. It seemed an odd message—in some ways appropriate yet in others a mystery. He was hardly a captive. John considered finding another random passage, but that would be like saying God had not guided him to this one. He marked the page with the red ribbon bookmark, and then placed his Bible and Thoreau’s book into a plastic bag that had once held nuts delivered by Margery the previous spring and zipped it shut. Whatever the meaning of the verse, he was prepared to face whatever came.
He checked the clock and saw that he had a couple of hours yet before dark. Outside, he stood on his porch and let the wind and rain take their licks at him. He surveyed his property—perhaps some of it for the last time, depending on which way the storm hit. In between remodeling the house and cleaning up what remained of the abandoned orange groves, he’d started planting what he would need to sustain himself. Near the house he’d put in a large garden of herbs and vegetables in the Japanese raised-bed style that he’d read about. He’d also added to Tucker’s groves, planting a variety of kiwi, orange, lemon, lime, and mango trees, carefully orchestrated to give him a harvest during most of the year. More recently he’d bought a couple of laying hens to supplement the steady diet of fish he’d been living on since arriving in Florida.
The chickens! He’d forgotten all about them. The rain had let up some, but the sky had a sickly yellowish-green cast to it, and the air was heavy with moisture. The winds were already gathering strength. It’s coming too fast, John thought as he took precious seconds to pause and consider the rapidly rising level of the intercoastal waterway and creek. This storm was definitely on the move.
Oversized raindrops plopped onto his head and shoulders, and within seconds the intermittent drops turned once again into an opaque curtain of pelting rain that had accompanied the Mennonite woman’s arrival earlier. Visibility beyond his hand in front of him was nearly impossible. Too late he covered his head with the hood of his slicker and stumbled on toward the chicken coop. In spite of his muscular six-foot frame, he had to fight to maintain his balance in the wind that had every tree on the property swaying in a ghoulish dance.
On the far side of the house he spotted one piece of plywood that had come loose from a window. Grabbing a large rock, he tried without success to hammer it back into place. Repeatedly the weight of the wood in tandem with the power of the wind threw him against the house, and when he heard the glass shatter, he dropped the board and focused on making it across the yard to the chicken coop.
The chickens were in full panic as John tried to corral them into a wire cage. They squawked in protest and pecked at his hands. He’d been stupid to wait so long to take them to shelter, but he’d gotten
caught up in trying to protect the house and dealing with Margery and the Mennonite woman. He’d been sure that he had time, that he would know when the storm was about to hit.
“Come on, ladies,” he muttered as he tried in vain to catch the hens. Just then he heard the ear-splitting shriek of metal torn from the roof of the coop. John heard more glass shatter as the metallic missile apparently found its target. He looked up in time to see a giant royal palm sway drunkenly for a moment. “Tucker’s folly,” the realtor had called this place, noting that this specific breed of palm was not made to withstand the winds of a strong tropical storm, much less a hurricane, but Tucker had planted them anyway, wanting to mark the location of his citrus business with something uniquely tropical. Now, decades later, a double row of the giant palms lined each side of the lane that ran from the house out to the main road.
As John watched, the tree seemed to find its balance, and then, as if in slow motion, it started to fall right toward the open roof of the coop.
“You’re on your own,” he shouted at the squawking hens as he raced out of the coop and tripped over his kayak. The vessel had apparently come loose from its bonds and flown halfway across the yard. So much for properly securing everything. He stumbled for several feet and then fell. And as he covered his head with both hands, the falling tree missed him by inches. Entreating God to keep him safe, John scrambled the rest of the way back to the main house, half crawling and half running for what he hoped would be safety.
It took him what seemed an hour but was probably no more than a couple of minutes to force the door closed and block it with the vintage desk he’d inherited with the house. Breathless and battered, soaked through with perspiration and rain, he sank to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest like he had as a boy whenever he was frightened. From outside he could hear the wail of the wind. The thunder rumbled an apocalyptic chorus in concert with the rain, which seemed to offer its own brand of percussionist accompaniment. It felt as if the house were shifting on its foundation as the walls groaned in protest. Florida homes did not have basements, and John had foolishly thought the heavy oak table would be enough to protect him. As he huddled against the wall, John had to admit that his decision to stay had been born of sheer stubbornness. Perhaps Margery and the Mennonite woman had been messengers, messengers he had ignored. He took out his Bible from its protective plastic and clutched it to his chest as he awaited his fate.
Hour after hour on through the night, the wind howled like a banshee, and the rain stoned the house relentlessly. And just when John would doze off from sheer exhaustion or when he thought he would go mad from the ceaseless pounding, he would hear the sound of another tree ripped from its roots and crashing against an outbuilding, followed by a swell of water breaking over the land. There were times when he imagined that he could hear the sea itself—that it had already wiped out Siesta Key. If that were the case, what chance did the rookeries—the small islands of mangroves that provided roosting and nesting havens for the flocks of pelicans, ibis, and egrets that inhabited the area—have of standing between him and the full fury of Hurricane Hester?
The house continued to sway and moan under the beating it was taking, but it held. After what seemed like forever, John stopped trying to figure out the source of the various convulsions and quakes that threatened to tear the place apart. His mind raced with the need to do something, anything to stop the chaos.
Then he saw water creeping across the floor toward him and knew he had to get to higher ground. He grabbed what supplies he could carry and ran for the stairway, hoping the surge of water would recede before it could reach the second floor. But just as he reached the landing, he realized that the winds had in fact abated significantly, and the rain was no more than a steady late-summer shower. Through the small round window at the top of the stairs, which he had decided to sacrifice rather than climb up and cover, he saw the black sky lighten slightly. He stood frozen for one long moment until the only other sound he was hearing was that of his own ragged breathing. And then he started to laugh.
It was over and he had survived.
He sat down on the step, his feet on the landing where he had stacked his supplies and his elbows resting on his knees. His breathing came in heaves as if he had just run a marathon, but he was smiling. He had made it through his first real hurricane. He threw back his head and let the release of laughter and relief roll through him. He had done it and his house had held. For the first time in hours, his breathing became normal, and as he savored the blessed calm, he felt the tension that had hog-tied his entire body for hours drain away. He opened a jug of water and drank a long swig, then pried the cover off Margery’s tin of cookies and pulled one out.
But after he’d given himself permission to celebrate by devouring two more cookies, he heard the wind start to build again. His body and mind went on immediate alert as he listened. He was confused by the exact replay of the ominous sounds he had spent the last several hours enduring. Only now they seemed to come from the opposite direction. Once again the house sang out in protest as rain and wind blasted away at the stucco of the outer walls until it succeeded in working its way in around the plywood window coverings and moldings.
John stood up, unsure of his next move. The calm had been the eye of the storm. How could he not have known that? He berated himself for his stupidity, his arrogance in thinking that he had won. Then he saw the water rising rapidly on the main floor. It was pouring in now, inching its way up the sturdy legs of his kitchen table. He turned to complete his journey to the second story, praying as he went that it would be high enough.
But just as he turned to clamor his way up the last of the stairs, the ceiling above him collapsed, and the stairs dropped away beneath him as the house surrendered to the storm.
Chapter 3
On the night the hurricane was predicted to strike, Hester prepared supper for her grandmother and her father. The three of them held hands as Arlen asked God to bless the food and keep them safe through the night.
“Amen,” Hester’s grandmother, Nelly, pronounced as she passed the plate of sliced rye bread to her son. Arlen took two slices and slathered each with the dark spicy mustard he liked before stacking on slices of ham and cheese.
“Und das Gemuse, Arlen,” Nelly instructed, handing him the bowl of green beans. “I never could get you to eat your vegetables. It’s a wonder Hester and the boys are as healthy as they are, given the way you eat.”
“Sarah made sure they ate right,” Hester’s father replied as he bit into his sandwich. “That was her department.”
Nelly rolled her eyes and looked at Hester’s plate. “This one eats like der Vogel—reminds me of one of those little birds on the beach as well. All nervous energy, always ready to just fly off somewhere.”
“I’m home tonight, Gramma,” Hester assured her. “We’ve done everything we can to make sure as many people as possible are secure, and Grady tells us there’s plenty of time to get you and the others to shelters if the creek floods after the hurricane passes.”
“We’ll be fine,” Nelly assured her. “Gott ist gut. Now eat. Wherever that hurricane lands, I know you and your father are going to be out there in the thick of things trying to help folks recover and rebuild. You need your strength.”
Hester smiled and heaped another spoonful of Nelly’s famous potato salad onto her plate.
“There’s a good girl.”
Shortly after they had finished supper and washed and dried the last of the dishes, her grandmother yawned and announced her intention to get into bed and read her Bible for a bit before going to sleep. Arlen had insisted that his mother spend the night with them. Hester kissed Nelly’s cheek, knowing that she would need to gently remove the Bible from her grandmother’s hands before getting into bed and turning out the light.
All through the night she and her father sat together inside their secure house miles from the Gulf or even the bay. Unless the creek flooded, they would suffer little da
mage so far inland. Some trees down and roof tiles blown off but generally no real damage. They listened as the edge of the storm passed over them on its way inland. Her father read aloud from his much-worn Bible as the winds weakened and her grandmother slept through it all.
Before going to bed, she told her father about going to see John Steiner the day before. “I abandoned him, Dad. I let my irritation at being asked to go there get the better of me.”
Her father handed her his Bible. “Seek guidance, liebchen, and remember, God forgives us. You pray on the matter and I’m sure you will find your answer.”
As always she found comfort in her father’s lack of censure when it came to her actions. But then her father placed his arm around her shoulder as they walked down the hall together. “You know, Hester, sometimes even I lose sight of my role as pastor to others. Being someone others look up to can be heady stuff.” He did not have to remind her that in their faith, such pride was unacceptable. “Your post with MCC is not unlike mine as pastor—we have both been chosen to show others the way, but we are no different than those who follow our leadership.”