Amish Sweethearts

by Leslie Gould

  As she walked back toward the house, a firefly flittered above the gate. Then another, until dozens congregated for just a moment and then darted back toward the creek. “Be still, and know that I am God.”

  I will, she answered. That was all she could do.

  She ended up going to the lumberyard during Reuben’s lunch break, even though Dat was working. She sat beside Reuben on his porch, in a plastic chair, while he ate his sandwich.

  She explained that she had been writing to Zane, and after asking his forgiveness, she said, “I can’t keep courting you.”

  He kept on chewing.

  “I haven’t been fair to you, at all. I kept thinking love is a commitment—which it is. And I do care about you, but I don’t think in the way a wife loves her husband.”

  He swallowed and finally said, “What do you mean?”

  She shifted toward him. “I can’t marry you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  He took the last bite of his sandwich and after he’d swallowed asked, “Does this have anything to do with Zane?”

  She shaded her eyes and turned her face toward him. “In a way it does. He told me he always appreciated my honesty, which made me realize just what a liar I’ve been. To you.”

  He stood then, brushed his hands together, and exhaled as he looked down at her with a pained expression on his face. “So this is it?”

  Lila nodded. Without saying anything more, he headed toward the lumberyard. For once she appreciated that he hadn’t tried to talk things through. It proved they weren’t a good fit. He didn’t really want to hear what she was thinking—only how it impacted him. She’d rather be single and make a good life for herself like Beth had than spend her life knowing she’d kept Reuben from spending his life with a woman who loved him. And kept herself from being loved.

  She stayed put. She’d rather talk to Dat here than back home with Rose and Trudy around.

  It didn’t take long for him to march toward her. “What did you tell Reuben?” he demanded as he approached the porch.

  She took a deep breath. “I said I couldn’t court him anymore.”

  Dat shook his head. “So you’re leaving the church, then? For Zane.”

  “I’m not leaving the church,” she insisted. “I sent Zane a note and said I won’t be writing him any longer.” She stood. “I won’t be courting anyone.”

  17

  Even in the mountains the summer days were blistering hot, but at least the nights were cool. Sarge, Grant, Wade, and Zane stood at the gate of a village, waiting for Jaalal to meet them. Casey and the rest of the FET had stayed back at base. Two of the women were ill, and Sarge wanted all of them to rest. Zane had a duffel bag full of baby blankets slung over his left shoulder. Lila had sent more from the ladies back at Thread by Thread, to give to the mothers in the village.

  His team had a tip that one of the local men from this village had information about a group of insurgents over the next mountain pass. Wade had been keeping track of the relationships between different informants and thought it could be legitimate. Zane convinced Sarge to make a visit, saying they could count on Jaalal to help them.

  Grant toed the dirt. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

  Jaalal was usually on time, and that was a concern, but Grant seemed to have a bad feeling about everything these days. It was their fifth visit to this particular village, and they hadn’t had any problems before.

  Zane was counting down the days—three—until Grant left for his furlough. His baby girl had been born two weeks before, a little early, but Grant said she was doing fine. He’d hoped for another boy though, saying he had no idea what to do with a girl.

  Zane told him he’d figure it out, but he wasn’t sure he would.

  “Just keep alert,” Sarge said.

  Grant didn’t answer Sarge. Instead he turned toward Zane. “Where is he?” Grant glared. “Maybe your buddy isn’t as reliable as you think.”

  “He’ll be here,” Zane said. Jaalal hadn’t let them down yet.

  Grant shook his head. “And maybe Mr. Pacifist here”—Grant had seen Zane reading an article on the topic last time they were on base—“is in cahoots with the enemy.”

  Zane didn’t bother to respond. It was one of Grant’s new topics.

  “Knock it off,” Wade said.

  Sarge added, “And keep your head up.”

  “This guy is bad for morale,” Grant shot back, nodding toward Zane.

  Sarge glared at Grant. “You’re bad for morale.”

  Grant groaned. “I’m tired, is all.”

  “You’ll be home soon,” Wade said, his voice low.

  Grant gave him a dirty look. “Yeah. Where I’ll get even less sleep. You can bet Donna will expect me to get up in the middle of the night with the little princess.”

  “Yeah, no rest for the weary.” Zane couldn’t help himself. Poor Donna. Zane turned toward the mountains. He’d known from the beginning that Grant was annoying—he just hadn’t guessed how bad it could get. At least Wade was showing, more and more, how tired he was of Grant’s negativity too.

  “I bet you got lots of sleep while you were home,” Grant said to Zane. “Unless your Amish girlfriend was around.”

  Zane didn’t even bother to respond. The guy was relentless. They were headed back to base in two days. Grant would fly to Bagram from there and then on to Texas. Zane was looking forward to two weeks plus four days, counting Grant’s travel both ways, of peace.

  Although peace was relative. The fighting had heated up in the area—as it did every summer, according to Jaalal.

  Sarge pulled a packet from the pocket of his pants. “I almost forgot—we got a mail delivery.” He handed an envelope to Grant and one to Zane. “You two are the lucky winners.”

  Grant opened his, pulled out a couple of photos, and held them up. A shot of the newborn with Donna and Alex. One of just the baby.

  He flashed them around.

  “Cool,” Zane said, downplaying his response. He wanted to tell Grant he had a beautiful family and to appreciate them. But that wouldn’t have gone over well.

  “Yeah, well, you do like babies,” Grant said. “So what does the Amish chick say? It doesn’t look like much of a letter.”

  Grant was right about that. It couldn’t be more than a single page. Her last letter had been four.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?” Grant asked.

  “Later,” Zane answered, tucking it into his pocket. Grant lunged as if he were going to try to snatch it, but Sarge told him to focus on fighting the enemy, not one another.

  They continued to wait, the sun growing hotter and hotter. Jaalal had never been this late before. Finally Grant, Wade, and Sarge moved to the shade of the wall, while Zane stayed at the gate.

  Grant tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Wade leaned against the wall. The conifers across the road swayed in the hot breeze. Zane turned toward the gate, took Lila’s envelope from his pocket, and pulled out the letter. It was only a short paragraph.

  Dear Zane, I will no longer be able to write to you. I am not the honest person you think I am, and I’m sorry for that. Please forgive me for not being a better friend to you. Lila

  That was all. A sick feeling swept over him as he slipped the letter back into the envelope and secured it in his pocket, wondering what had happened. Most likely something to do with her Dat pressuring her to marry Reuben as soon as possible. She’d probably be wed and pregnant by the time he got home. Maybe they’d already married.

  His stomach sank as he glanced back at Grant. He was jealous of the guy—out and out jealous. Grant still had his eyes closed, but Sarge was looking down the road and so was Wade.

  Zane heard the truck just as it came around the corner. He stepped out, expecting Jaalal. It was Jaalal’s truck, but the older man wasn’t in the cab. Benham was driving, and a man Zane didn’t recognize sat in the passenger seat.

  Sarge hopped to his feet, and Zane waved, stepping out into the road.
The pickup slowed and then stopped.

  “Easy,” Sarge said, just loud enough for Zane to hear. Grant was on his feet now, moving toward the gate, wide-eyed.

  Zane stepped toward the pickup, and Benham jumped out. “Where’s your grandfather?” Zane asked in Pashto.

  “He’ll be here in a minute,” Benham answered.

  “Who’s with you?” Zane asked.

  “A friend.”

  Zane hadn’t seen the man before, but he tried to look welcoming as he called out, “Salaam.”

  The man didn’t respond.

  A boy, who appeared to be Adam’s age, pushed open the village gate, peered out, and then stepped back.

  “What should we do?” Sarge asked, his voice low.

  “Try to stall,” Zane answered softly.

  Grant kept sliding along the wall. “Bet he’s not coming. I knew we couldn’t trust him.”

  “Take it easy,” Zane said, keeping his voice low. A rustling drew Zane’s attention to the gate. The boy stepped out again. Zane motioned for him to go back, but the boy froze.

  Benham’s friend was a big guy, thicker through the middle than most Afghan men.

  Zane smiled. “I’m Specialist Beck.” He nodded toward Sarge. “Sergeant Powers, Specialist Turner, and Private Carlson.” Wade nodded, but Sarge didn’t respond. Grant eased his way along the wall toward the gate.

  The man frowned. Zane hoped he would introduce himself, but he didn’t.

  The roar of another vehicle distracted Zane. Surely it was Jaalal. He’d take charge and vouch for Benham’s friend. But as another pickup neared them, Zane could see the pickup bed was full of armed men.

  “Take cover!” Sarge yelled.

  Zane dashed to the wall, staying away from the gate, not wanting a fight to move inside the village. Benham lifted an AK-47 and was aiming it toward the wall—not toward Zane, but farther up. Toward Grant. And the boy.

  Zane swung his rifle into position with one hand and backed up, scooping up the boy with his free hand, lifting him alongside the duffel bag slung over his arm. Benham fired, and Zane shot back before he realized that he’d chosen to. He’d reacted on instinct—it was as simple as that. Benham fell behind the truck.

  Zane turned toward the wall, shielding the boy with the duffel bag. Over his shoulder he could see Benham’s friend turn and aim. Zane twisted slightly, getting another shot off, as the man fired at Zane. Pop, pop, pop. The force knocked him against the wall. He knew he’d been hit, but he didn’t know where. He staggered, still holding the boy, lowering him to the ground as gently as he could.

  “Wadrega! Marasta!”

  Zane recognized the words, easy ones. Stop! Help! And the voice. It was Jaalal. His friend. But maybe not anymore.

  The boy fell the few inches to the ground from Zane’s arm. Zane crouched over him.

  The boy looked up at him wide-eyed, blood across his face. Zane leaned against the wall, pulling the boy along with him. He expected another shot.

  He called out to Sarge, who was coming toward him in slow motion, “Don’t shoot Jaalal.” They couldn’t afford to lose him.

  Zane scooted the boy flush against the wall and then attempted to stand, trying to hold up his rifle with his right hand. His arm didn’t work. He collapsed, jerking away from the boy, his head slamming against the hard-packed ground.

  He came to, staring up into Jaalal’s worried face.

  “The little boy?”

  “He’s right here,” Jaalal answered.

  “He’s bleeding.”

  Jaalal shook his head. “It’s your blood. He’s all right.”

  Relief swept through him. “How about Benham?” Zane asked.

  Jaalal shook his head. “He’s a stupid boy.”

  “But alive?”

  Jaalal nodded. Thank God he wasn’t that great of a marksman. Jaalal scooped up the little boy, pulling him out from between Zane and the wall. The boy stayed quiet in Jaalal’s arms, looking over his shoulder, as Jaalal hurried him away toward the gate, yelling at the other Afghan men as he did. Thank God the little one was all right.

  Sarge yelled for everyone to climb down. Zane could hear a clamoring and a few shouts. Again he expected a firefight, but nothing happened. A minute later Jaalal returned.

  “Is everything all right?” Zane asked.

  “The men are with me,” Jaalal said. “To stop Benham. If only we’d gotten here sooner.”

  “Are you sure the boy’s all right?” Zane couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  Jaalal nodded. “Shaken up, but that’s all.” He picked up the duffel bag that had fallen to Zane’s side. “This helped.” Bullet holes had torn through the canvas and blankets and out the side. The bag had changed the trajectory of the bullets.

  Zane shuddered. He would have taken more bullets—and the boy would have been hit too. “How about Grant? Was he hit?”

  “Benham missed,” Jaalal answered.

  That was when Zane noticed Grant hovering to the side. Had Zane spoken to Jaalal in Pashto or English? He wasn’t sure. “Manana,” he said.

  Jaalal shook his head. “Don’t thank me. I nearly got you killed.”

  “Step aside,” Sarge said to Jaalal with his back to Zane, his gun still pointed toward the pickup.

  Jaalal obeyed the command and moved a couple of feet away. Zane guessed Wade was standing guard over the others.

  Zane couldn’t feel anything, so maybe the wound wasn’t that bad—or maybe he was in shock. But his right shoulder was warm, and he thought that was where the bullet had hit. He touched it with his other hand and it came away bloody. That’s when he realized his helmet was off and his head hurt. He moved his hand up to his neck and the back of his head. More blood. He felt faint again and concentrated on his breathing.

  “Radio for a chopper,” Sarge ordered Grant. “Tell them we have a soldier down—and two enemy combatants too. Ask for reinforcements. Tell them we have an undetermined situation.”

  Zane must have hit Benham’s friend too. Zane could hear Grant on the radio, his voice quavering a few times. When he’d finished, Sarge ordered him to check on Zane’s wounds.

  “The others can be trusted,” Jaalal said. “I don’t know what set Benham off, but it’s not a conspiracy, I can assure you.”

  Sarge didn’t answer for a long minute but finally said, “We’ll see.”

  Grant stood above Zane. “Look what you got us into,” he muttered.

  “Shut up,” Sarge hissed. “He saved your life.”

  Grant knelt but didn’t seem inclined to help. “It’s probably bad enough to get you out of here for a while, but not out of the deployment altogether.” He frowned as he pulled Zane’s jacket open. “Tough luck for you, Mr. Pacifist.”

  “I mean it, Turner.” Sarge stayed rigid. “Another word and I’ll write you up for insubordination.”

  Jaalal towered over Zane, both his hands up. “Sarge, may I see to my friend’s wounds?”

  Zane met Sarge’s gaze, nodded, and mouthed, Please.

  Sarge took his first-aid kit from his pants pocket, tossed it at Jaalal, and stepped back against the wall, where he could keep his gun on Benham and his friend. Grant hopped to his feet and pulled away.

  Jaalal squatted beside Zane, pulling the scissors from the first-aid kit. Next he undid the Velcro on Zane’s jacket, eased it aside, and began cutting Zane’s T-shirt.

  “Denki,” Zane said, relaxing a little.

  Jaalal met Zane’s eyes for a second and shook his head.

  “Thank you,” Zane translated, smiling just a little that he’d reverted to Pennsylvania Dutch, but a stab of pain stopped him from explaining.

  Jaalal tore open the quick-clot packet and pressed it against Zane’s shoulder. Wade appeared, his face ashen. He pointed to Zane. “He’s bleeding from his head too.”

  “Give me your first-aid kit,” Jaalal said to Grant. “I need another packet.”

  “Get Zane’s,” he answered. “I might still need mine bef
ore the day is done.”

  “It’s in my pants pocket,” Zane said. With Lila’s letter. Was she still praying for him? Or had she stopped?

  Jaalal opened the pocket.

  “Be careful with the letter,” Zane said. He didn’t want blood all over it.

  “I’ll do my best,” Jaalal answered, tucking it back inside. He pulled out the packet, ripped open the package, and pressed the quick clot against the back of Zane’s head. Then he scooted closer to Zane and pressed his other hand against his shoulder. The man’s brown eyes were watery, and the whites of his eyes a little yellow. “You’re going to be just fine,” Jaalal said. “You’ll be home before you know it, and that’s where you should stay.”

  “Speak in English,” Grant said. “We need to know what you’re saying.”

  Again, Zane hadn’t registered the Pashto. “Let your God bless you,” Jaalal said, still in Pashto. And then in a whisper he added, “And don’t come back here.”

  Zane closed his eyes, aware of Jaalal’s hands pressing against him and his breath on his face. If he never came back he’d never see Jaalal again. But he’d never forget him either.

  By the time the helicopter arrived, his wounds felt as if they were on fire. Jaalal kept pressing until the medics took over. Then he stepped back. Zane lifted his good arm in farewell to his friend.

  “God keep you,” Jaalal said, the wind of the chopper blasting against his face.

  “And you,” Zane whispered.

  Grant stood by Sarge now, his weapon pulled too. Sarge turned to Zane quickly. “We’ll be down to base as soon as we can. Hopefully before they fly you out.”

  One of the medics ran back to the chopper. As Zane waited, he watched the branches of the trees above his head dip in the wind. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. . . .”

  He was as near to death as he’d ever been, yet very much alive, as alive as he’d been as a child, running through the field at dusk, the fireflies dancing among the poplar trees. God was with him, just as he had been then. I will do my best to be still and know that you are God, he prayed.

  The medic returned, and two of them moved Zane onto a gurney and then lifted him. For a split second he could see the other Afghans still standing around the pickup. Clearly they were under Jaalal’s control. The medics loaded Zane into the chopper first and then Benham and the other injured man.