The Alliance

by Jolina Petersheim

  To my surprise, Jabil says, “All right, I’ll go.”

  Then he seems to think twice because he glances over at Bishop Lowell for permission, who nods his head with the air of a king. “But make sure any houses are visibly abandoned before you enter,” Bishop Lowell instructs. “And abide by our community rules, even if you are beyond our border. Don’t shoot at anyone, Moses, unless they shoot at you first.”

  I nod, of course, and Jabil does as well—though he would literally rather die than shoot someone. Needless to say, I do not feel as compelled.

  Because it’s the Sabbath, we are not supposed to work but have a day of rest. How are we supposed to rest, I wonder, when we know a gang is devouring the town only ten miles up the road? How long until they pick the town’s carcass clean and then scuttle over here to discover what else they can find? The idea is especially disturbing, considering we do not have enough manpower or firepower to hold back a large crowd. But I can tell the bishop is trying to establish a sense of harmony by encouraging the community to do the types of activities they did every Sabbath before the EMP. So we rearrange benches and chairs around tables carted over to the pavilion from the soup kitchen. Bishop Lowell leads us in the silent prayer, and we begin to eat. The soup is more watered down than it was yesterday, each slice of bread not as thick.

  I’m using crust to soak up my broth when Leora comes and sits down across from me. “You should come to the singing tonight,” she says. “The distraction would be good for you.”

  Her warmth and invitation catch me off guard, since she’s not said more than three words to me all week. “Maybe,” I say, giving my best noncommittal shrug. “But I’ve got to change the tire on the Suburban for tomorrow and go over some tactical stuff with Charlie.”

  She looks down, tracing the table’s wood grain. “About that supply run to town you’re planning. . . . If you find some ammunition . . . I might need some.”

  “Ammunition? For a pacifist?” My smile disappears when I see her face. “Sorry, that was a bad joke. But all the ammunition in the world isn’t going to bring Melinda back.”

  Leora sits on the bench with her hands knotted. “This is not about Melinda.”

  “Well, I’m sorry—” I toss my spoon into the empty bowl—“but I can’t help you unless you tell me what this is about.”

  Red blotches mottle Leora’s neck, revealing her discomfort even more than her clenched hands. “I need you to help me find ammunition because this—this is about revenge.”

  Any shocked expression I had before was just a warm-up to what must be registering in this instant. I glance around the pavilion and see that no one’s paying attention as they are too busy consuming their meals. I lean across the table and lower my voice, just in case. “When I first came here, you told me your nonresistance was founded on stories of martyrs who died for their beliefs. That, no matter what, they never took up arms to defend themselves or their families. And now you’re telling me you want to take revenge?”

  Leora smiles—as if she knows full well how preposterous she is sounding—but tears pool in the corners of her eyes. She says, “I guess you could say I’m having a crisis of belief.” She pauses, reaches for my hand. “Will you help me, Moses? You know about guns and ammunition; surely you must know about revenge.”

  “Revenge,” I murmur. “Yes, I’d say I know it well.”

  In the distance, at the edge of the pavilion, I see Jabil standing in half sun, half shadow, watching us with eyes like two cups of ink. I push back my chair and rise with my bowl. I set it down on the tray and walk up the lane. But when I pass the dawdi haus, I turn and look back, seeing that Jabil is now sitting on the bench . . . sitting beside Leora.

  Unknowingly absorbing the darkness in her that I have just left.

  Leora

  THE AUGUST AIR holds the first hint of autumn’s chill, causing me to hunker lower in my cotton wrap that my own fingers have spun. Yet I cannot enjoy this shift of the seasons as I wonder—skirting the firelight and scanning the faces of those I’ve known for years—if someone in the community molested my sister last week. Or if someone, deep in the shadows, is biding his time until he can strike again. I am not sure which thought fills me with more rage.

  It may be imprudent, but imprudent or not, I have asked Sal not to tell anyone about the attack because I do not wish to evoke more fear in our community, which has been on tenterhooks since the shooting. But my main motivation is not selfless. I simply do not wish for my sister to be treated like an untouchable more than she already is. If it’s discovered that I took a life to avenge my sister’s, I will be untouchable. Yet Anna will continue to be ensconced inside the community, where, I pray—devoid of her attacker—she will remain safe.

  I walk toward the refreshment table, heaped with a bounty of apples in every color our orchard provides. Olga Beiler has made apple pies, apple dumplings, and wassail. The spices waft on the air like a promise that life will be unsullied again. Though in the aftermath of last week, that can never be the case. I fill a heavy stone mug with the beverage, simmering in a cast-iron pot suspended over the fire. Olga smiles at me and asks how I am doing. I reply that I am fine. All the while, my heart is a drum beating high inside my ribs.

  I glance around the bonfire, searching for the face of an Englischer I know I wouldn’t be pursuing if he didn’t possess the knowledge of corporeal retribution that I need to learn. But I am not pursuing him for his knowledge alone. No, I remember sitting across from him beneath the pavilion and feeling such a connection to his brokenness that I wondered if the two of us, together, could become one perfect whole. Is this, then, what draws people to each other? Not the combination of perfect selves, but the mirrored fragments we see reflected?

  Olga studies me as she leans over the fire and stirs the wassail to keep the spices circulating. Bishop Lowell has encouraged this singing, accompanied with refreshments, because he wants to keep his people’s spirits up, especially since they know the truth regarding our supplies. But how much longer can we indulge in extravagances such as this?

  Olga strikes the spoon against the top of the pot. Her fleshy arm wobbles as she points to the outskirts of the gathering. “Jabil’s over there,” she says in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “Danke,” I murmur without looking in his direction. I move away from her with my cup. Square straw bales have been circled around the fire. The hex symbol on the Snyders’ barn behind us is composed of jewel-toned triangles, as intricately patterned as an auction quilt. Above the barn’s roofline—almost obscured by the weather vane—the moon is so thin, it’s outshone by the firmament’s plethora of stars.

  I do not take a seat on a bale, as I am afraid Jabil will claim his place beside me as he has done at every other singing for the past three months. Instead, I stand near the fire, sipping the too-hot wassail, just grateful for something to occupy my hands.

  I don’t admit to myself who I am waiting for until Moses appears on the other side of the fire. There must be fifty members of the community gathered here, but they fade into the background until all I can see is him. The two of us continue to stare—the fire moving like a sentient being between us—until Jabil breaks the spell and comes to stand so close to me, the fabric of his pants brushes against my dress.

  “Can we talk?” he asks.

  I nod stiffly and pull my wrap up to cover my head. Jabil draws me away from the fire and over to the barn, his hand burning his possession into the small of my back. A hymn that I have heard since infancy begins, the lyrics acquired more through osmosis than effort. But listening to Ausbund 112 now—“The one who lives in God’s love is a disciple of Christ and knows the truth. Love is kind and friendly and does no one harm”—the meaning resounds in my spirit more than ever before.

  Am I truly going to walk away from everything I’ve been taught?

  My Anabaptist forebears suffered far worse than anything my sister might have suffered last week, and hymns like this germinated from that bitt
er seed of hardship. Yet they persevered; they turned the other cheek and prayed for those who persecuted them. And here, at the first test, I am planning to take revenge.

  Jabil turns me toward him, maneuvering my body as if a prop on a stage. We are shielded between the slats of the barn and the boughs of a heavy pine that was probably planted back when this community was founded in 1988. Cracked corn, left over from where the Dutch bantam chickens have feasted, crunches beneath our shoes. Somewhere in the woods, a lone wolf howls as if trying to harmonize with the community. Jabil’s fingers seek mine. I am surprised how cold and callused they feel. My head pounds.

  “I would wait for you forever, Leora,” he murmurs, voice quaking, “if I just knew I weren’t clinging to false hope.”

  I should cut him loose once and for all; I know this. I remain silent. Truth is, I do not want him to stop waiting because I fear this would make me want him. Like my vadder at his worst, I am only attracted to what I should not have.

  “Leora?” The three syllables of my name are fraught with a thousand questions.

  I look up at Jabil. Those benevolent dark eyes, the waved dark hair lapping over his collar, the sharp angles of his shoulders, cheekbones, and nose. His steadfastness without my giving him anything in return is a testament to his faithful heart. Jabil Snyder would be a good husband to me and father to our children. This has never been in question. What has been in question is if there is more to this life than steadfastness.

  I peer over Jabil’s shoulder and see Moses, the almost-feminine sweep of his pale lashes contrasted with that unkempt beard as he stares unseeingly into the flames. The community members are singing all around him—their faces joyous despite the looming tribulations—but his own countenance remains somber. Is he thinking about his broken places? Is he, I dare ponder, thinking about me, wishing he could be here in Jabil’s stead?

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Jabil. “Everything in me wants to tell you that you are not clinging to false hope . . . but I can’t say that. Not yet.”

  Withdrawing his hand from mine, Jabil flexes his fingers as if he is going to reach out to me again, but then he folds his arms, squares his shoulders, and I can almost perceive some tender place within him hardening against me. “Not yet?” he says. “Is it because of what we are facing as a community, or because of the person who’s now inside it?”

  I long to tell him I have no idea what he’s talking about, but we would both know I was being dishonest. Jabil no doubt sensed my attraction to Moses from the time he withdrew the pilot’s body from the plane’s wreckage and brought it up to the house, and—despite my misgivings at seeing a partially undressed man—I felt compelled to never leave Moses’s side. If this is true, the fact that Jabil continued checking Moses for injuries proves what kind of man he is. Any woman would be honored to have him as her husband. That is, at this point, any woman but me.

  “Maybe I just need time,” I murmur. “We don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. We don’t even know what we’re going to feed our community in a month. How could we embark on any kind of relationship when faced with such uncertainty?”

  Jabil glances away from me, his eyes glittering with suppressed anger or regret. “Love has always prospered in times like these. Don’t blame your uncertainty on the state of things around us.”

  Struck mute by his words, I watch his departing silhouette become absorbed by the darkness. I remain sheltered by the pine boughs until the heat once produced by his proximity is replaced with an arctic wind. Yet even now, I have no desire to return to the warmth of the fire.

  Lamplight glows through our picture window as I follow the lane. It must be Sal, but it reminds me of Mamm and how she used to wait up for me after every hymn sing, doing a pile of mending or laundry until I came in the kitchen and told her about my night. Only once did she speak to me about marriage, but even before that night I inferred that, deep down, she yearned for me to join my life with someone who would be as steadfast as her husband was inconstant. It is touching, the sort of life she envisioned for me. But I am not sure if such a life is even possible. Or if that is the sort of life I want.

  Four years ago, when Jabil first asked if he could walk me home from Mt. Hebron School, where I was attempting to teach students almost the same age as me, Mamm seemed certain that our future together was simply a matter of time.

  The image of him then—such boyishness in his expressive brown eyes, such a stoop in his shoulders, as if, as an adolescent, he feared the great man he would become—makes me want to weep. I am not the only one the responsibilities of life have changed.

  Entering the kitchen, I see no sign of Mamm or mending, of course, but my eyes and heart still yearn for one more glance. The only sign of Sal’s being here is that the supper dishes, which were previously cluttering up the sink, have all been washed and dried. Shrugging off my cloak and bonnet, I set them on the chair and trace the craftsmanship I religiously condition with linseed oil, as if trying to conjure forth the vadder who was an artist of inanimate things.

  For a month after he left us, I waited, listening for my mamm’s nocturnal migration to the couch and the mourning that ensued. I could not sleep until I heard her, and I could not sleep afterward for the anguish evoked by her stifled wails. One particular night, when I feared my mamm’s crying would awaken Seth and Anna, I rose from the bed I shared with my sister and padded across the cool hardwood to the living room. Mamm’s body was coiled in a fetal position—not a blanket covering her, her slim calves and bare feet pale in the dark.

  I could see her mental undoing as if a hidden door had opened and the cogs and wheels of her mind were suddenly made visible. I covered her with the afghan and pulled it up so the braided tassels brushed against her chin. Her swollen eyes opened. I knelt beside the couch and took her hand, though I didn’t want to bring comfort to her as much as I wanted her to bring comfort to me. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She was too consumed with her own sorrow to see that she and I were mourning the same man.

  She looked up at me with a nearly tangible imploring. “Just learn from my experience, Leora,” she said, tears coating her voice. “It is better to open your heart to someone dependable than to someone exciting who, in the end, will only make you cry.”

  The night I knelt, providing comfort to the woman who had previously done everything in her power to comfort me, I glimpsed beneath the layers and could see that she was not unshakable. Instead of loving her through her vulnerability, I judged her for it. My heart aches with the memory and with the wish that I could turn back time. But I cannot go back. Regardless of what the future holds, I must go forward.

  Moses

  Charlie and I sat up at the Snyders’ kitchen table late last night—our eyes straining against the muted glow of a kerosene light hanging overhead—and pored over a map of the city, trying to gauge which areas to explore and which areas we’d be better off to avoid. It would’ve made sense to have Sal in on our planning, since she knows this area better than either of us. But the community made a rule that Englischers aren’t allowed to interact with the opposite sex after dark. But I remember Leora with Jabil at the hymn sing, their shadowed bodies slanted toward each other and their hands clutched tight. My gut constricts at the memory, and not for the first time I understand that the Mennonites aren’t being held to the same standard as the rest of us.

  “Why you so distracted?” Charlie asks. “You thinking about that skinny four-eyed gal?”

  I’ve known guys like Charlie before, and it’s better to lie low and ignore them. Otherwise they’ll know they’re getting to you, which only makes it more fun for them. So I just keep looking down at the map that’s spread across the hood of Charlie’s truck, circling the area where he remembers seeing the armory on a side road branching off Main Street. The same street where we intersected with the gang; therefore, we’re hoping we’ll have better luck avoiding them by going into town during the day versus at night.

  The Silverado�
��now part of the blockade—is parked next to the Colorado woman’s Mercedes SUV, which looks as abandoned as it is, with its tinted windows and black paint job glazed with dust. The sight of it makes me depressed, thinking of her family that will forever be haunted by her loss while I’m already struggling to remember her name.

  “We going to do this thing or not?” I ask, shouldering my backpack.

  Charlie tightens the straps of his matching backpack and stands behind me, zipping open compartments and counting everything before zipping them shut again—making me feel like he’s an overbearing father making sure his kindergartner is prepared for his first day of school. But I figure I might as well let him, since he’s the one who got me set up in the first place. He was even so generous as to give me an MRE—Meal, Ready-to-Eat—that has enough calories to put blubber on a whale. Who cares that the food’s expiration date is ’06, or that the cheese squished from the tube is a strange nuclear orange? Charlie swears that expiration dates don’t matter on MREs, as long as everything’s sealed tight.

  “Where’s my pipe bomb launcher?” he asks, like he’s asking for a stick of gum.

  “In the back of the Suburban.”

  “Good boy.” Charlie hooks a camo hat backward over my head, which I take off and stack on the pile by our feet. For years, Charlie’s been lugging around this arsenal of stuff that he picked up at different Salvation Army stores, so that the covered bed of his truck looks like some life-size GI Joes went skinny-dipping over yonder and left their clothes behind. Charlie makes excuses for what we guys call his “play clothes” because he says he knew things were going to turn sour, so he wanted to make sure he was prepared whenever they did. I bet he never thought he’d be stuck in a pacifist Mennonite community when they did go sour, though.