The Divide

by Jolina Petersheim

  My chest aches with the realization that Jabil was right. “I’m not asking you for anything.” My voice breaks. “I never have. I just want to be—” What do I want? To be whole? Desired? Loved? I settle for the one term that encompasses them all. “Held.”

  Moses continues staring at that same patch of loft, but then he lifts his head. Tears stand in his eyes. “I don’t know why you want to be with me,” he whispers.

  “You wouldn’t say that—” reaching out, I cradle his face, his scars—“if you could see yourself the way I do.”

  Moses

  I am free-falling—eyes closed, arms spread, pants fluttering against my shins as the wind buffets my ears so hard they sting—and then, as always, I jerk awake before I strike the desert floor. Arms tighten around me. I thrash, searching for escape. A voice, in my ear: “It’s okay; it’s okay.” My entire body stills. I turn my head, feeling a current of warm breath against my cheek.

  Leora. It all comes rushing back, as vivid and adrenaline-inducing as the dream. We did nothing more than hold each other through the dark hours of the night, but I know we can’t expect the others to believe that. “You—you shouldn’t be here,” I say, to protect her reputation, but also to protect me from feeling when I know that feeling so much for someone can only bring pain.

  I can tell that she takes my words seriously, because she does as my worst self intended. Her arms stiffen and loosen their grip. She withdraws, turns from me—her loose hair cloaking her face so that she becomes one with the shadows around her. “Why’d you let me stay?” she asks. “If you don’t want me here?”

  I am at a loss, for I’m aware the truth would be just as hurtful as a lie. And then a gunshot splinters the pastoral quiet, changing the course of my thoughts. In the darkness, inside the community, I know it changes the course of everything.

  “What was that?” Leora asks, breathless, but it’s just a reaction. She knows.

  I grab my revolver and flip out the chamber to make sure it’s loaded, though I made sure it was loaded last night. “I’ll go—” Another shot fragments my sentence. Leora and I look at each other. “Stay here,” I say, holstering my gun. “I’ll check it out.”

  “I’m not staying here!” she cries. “That could be my family!”

  I nod, and we take turns scrambling down the ladder to the ground. I take hold of my weapon, easing open the barn door with my foot. The rim of the horizon above the trees is traced with light, but the black sky’s still full of stars. I make sense of my surroundings by noting the contrast of the icy path against the log buildings. Snow cossets everything in a pure hush. Did I imagine the gunshot? Was it some echo from my dreams? But no, I remind myself, Leora heard it too.

  She exits behind me. Bishop Lowell shambles past without his cane, the whites of his eyes bright with panic. He is so focused on his mission, he doesn’t stop when he sees us leaving the barn. He just continues hobbling toward the gate when the hinges creak open and a man appears in front of it, his outline darker than the gloom. The man lifts his arms. I can see the gun—its long barrel glinting—but the bishop continues right toward him. And then I see what he is seeing: the prone body marked out in the snow in front of the gate. Malachi, Jabil’s younger brother and Bishop Lowell’s brother’s son, was on duty tonight and has been shot.

  The stranger’s barrel swings in that direction, preparing to finish the job. I see this all in slow motion, the same as I saw everything in slow motion the day my brother died. Perhaps it’s my mind’s way of slowing time down so I can think clearly enough to make the right decision, or maybe my mind’s not thinking clearly at all. Regardless, this time warp presents an ultimatum: let the bishop die trying to protect his nephew, or shoot a stranger when I know the bishop would rather die than be protected at such a cost.

  Choice made, time resumes its maniacal sprint, leaving me with one gesture, one mark, one chance to get it right. I pull the trigger, and the bullet rips through falling snow, smashing into the chest of the man, who clutches it and crumples. But so does Bishop Lowell.

  Ears ringing, I sprint toward him. There’s no question the man who shot the bishop is dead, and my veins flood with a sated fury, which will soon need quenched again. Jabil comes running up the path. He’s not wearing a coat. Then again, neither am I. “What happened?” he asks, clearly torn between going to his uncle’s and his brother’s aid.

  But Malachi’s now sitting up, holding his shoulder, making it obvious his uncle’s injuries are far more severe. Jabil’s eyes dart between Leora and me—a question visible in their depths. But what can I tell him that he doesn’t already understand?

  Malachi begins to speak, his words halting as if he’s in shock, “The guy asked if he could come in, but I—I told him I couldn’t open the gate. So he—he told me he and his daughter were freezing. That we’d blocked their cave. I couldn’t see her in the dark, so I went outside the gate to check it out, and that—that’s when he shot me.”

  “We blocked their cave?” Leora asks.

  I touch her shoulder. “It was probably just a lure.”

  “We don’t know that.” She glances through the open gate. “She could be out there.”

  Charlie hovers over us, wearing his headlamp. He’s breathing hard. Apparently his claim about sleeping soundly is true. His light shines on the soles of Jabil’s boots as he kneels next to the bishop. The laces are untied, the worn treads clotted with snow.

  “Das Licht leuchtet in der Finsternis,” Bishop Lowell murmurs.

  Jabil whimpers, “No, no, Uncle. I—I can’t do this without you,” and I learn the truth: this is not just Jabil’s uncle; this is the last tie to his deceased father. Jabil presses his hands over the stomach wound. But it’s clear the bishop doesn’t stand a chance. I turn from Jabil’s tears, seeing how they dampen the bishop’s shirt.

  “You will be a wonderful bishop, Jabil.” I glance back and see the bishop’s hair, which I thought stark white, has a yellow hue as it’s spread across the snow.

  Jabil sobs as the bishop begins to struggle. Standing, I move back to give Jabil and his uncle privacy. Leora looks up, one hand supporting Jabil’s quaking shoulder. She shakes her head softly—wiping tears from her eyes with her other hand—and that’s when I learn the leader of the community is dead. Soon, Jabil Snyder will take his place.

  Bishop Lowell’s body is lying on the bed he shared with his wife, Verna, who’s used the past few hours since his death to bathe her husband, comb his hair, and then employ Jabil and me to help dress him in his best suit. The bishop’s square, age-spotted hands are interlaced over the German Bible he read from one day ago: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” The fulfillment of that promise now seems impossible as we sit at the table in the muted light of a candle, guttering and smoking against the darkness.

  Jabil says, “We could check out the cave in the morning, when we bury him.”

  Leora straightens. “This can’t wait ’til morning.”

  Jabil glances at the rocking chair, where his aunt is sitting still, her thousand-yard stare transfixed on her husband’s drawn face. “I’m not leaving her like this.”

  Shadows take flight as Leora sets her mug down and lifts one hand to her chest. “There’s no way a little girl could survive without shelter.”

  “But we’re not even sure that guy’s daughter exists.”

  “And we’re not sure she doesn’t.” Leora stands from the chair. “I’ll look for her myself.”

  Jabil says, “Hold on now,” and turns to me, an interloper to the max. “You go with her.”

  “Sure.” I glance over, but Leora doesn’t meet my eyes. “That is, if she’ll let me.”

  “Come if you want.” However, her tone and body language contradict this invitation. I should’ve never let my guard down last night, for both our sakes. I should have never looked at Leora, held her, let her see that hidden portion of my heart as I told her about all I’ve seen. I knew that drea
m world could last only so long before the waking and the reality crashed back in.

  Leora and I snowshoe through the forest, the untouched path before us floodlit by the headlamp Charlie let me borrow. Charlie’s rank layers of clothes, which he also lent, aren’t enough to keep me from freezing, and I shiver as we approach the cave. Wolves howl from the ridge, calling to mind that coyote or wolf Leora and I kicked up when we hiked to the fire tower last summer. There is just as much unspoken tension between us as there was back then. But I don’t know how to gauge what she’s feeling, so I remain quiet, which doesn’t resolve anything.

  The front of the cave is blocked with a few large rocks we guys found inside and rolled to the opening and stacked. I shut off the headlamp to conserve the battery, like I promised Charlie I would. We shiver in the falling snow. The rock is a chilled marble slab against my back and has to be against hers. I ask, “You cold?”

  “Jah,” Leora says. “But if I’m this cold, how’s a child doing . . . out there?”

  “You have to remember—”

  She interrupts, “I know you think that guy made a daughter up so he could get inside, but I’ve got this feeling about it, Moses. I think she’s real.”

  We wait for what must be a good hour. Leora spends it intermittently calling out to the child and stomping her feet in an effort to warm up. My eyes have adjusted to the blackness, and the constellations appear so crystal clear, it’s as if they’re part of a connect-the-dots illustration, etched across the sky. Then I hear something. I reach for Leora’s hand, and she squeezes my fingers before letting go. She hears it too. I think, at first, it’s an animal, but then another branch cracks, too heavy for a wolf or deer. We can hear the person getting closer. My heart pounds.

  I whisper, “Should I turn on my headlamp?”

  Leora nods, so I push the button. My dilated pupils contract against the light. My hand drops down to my revolver, but I see it’s nothing more than a child—swallowed in a camo coat that brushes the ground—as she squints against the artificial brilliance. I release my grip on the gun and turn the headlamp to the side. She remains standing in front of us, her eyes screwed tight, bracing herself. She says something, but her words are muffled by the collar of her coat.

  “It’s okay,” Leora murmurs, extending a hand. “We won’t hurt you.”

  The girl tosses a stick on the snow and her hat falls off, brown curls springing free to take on lives of their own. Round freckles splotch her coffee skin, as if concentrated drops of color on her cheekbones and nose. “Do it,” she says.

  “What?” I’m genuinely confused.

  Her eyes open. “Whatever you’re here for.”

  Leora says, “We’re here to make sure you’re all right.”

  The girl just looks at the stick, lying on the ground in front of her.

  “We have this place,” I explain. “Where you can stay. Not far from here.”

  She folds her arms. “What’s in it for you?”

  I say, “What’s in it for me’s knowing you’re not getting eaten by bears!”

  A hint of a smile tugs at her mouth. “They got food?”

  “Some.” Leora takes a step. The girl flinches until Leora reaches down for her hat.

  She snatches it back from her. “Bring the food here,” she demands.

  “You have no shelter.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I say, “We blocked your cave with rocks.”

  “Yeah.” She glances behind us. “Why’d you do that?”

  “We used it for a tomb.”

  “For, like, dead people? Where am I suppose’ta sleep?”

  “At the compound,” I say. “As far’s I can tell, you don’t have much choice.”

  The girl frowns, twisting the hat. “How’ll my dad find me if I’m not here?”

  My stomach sinks. How do you tell a child her father is dead—and even worse, that you are the one who killed him? I ask, “How long’s he been gone?”

  She looks to the side. “Just tonight. He told me to wait. That he’d bring back food.”

  “Do you have any left?”

  “No. I’m hungry.”

  The wolves cut loose again. She glances at the forest, which is as black as pitch compared to the light. Her eyes turn to me. “Could we leave him a message?”

  I clarify, “Your dad?”

  She nods.

  I look at Leora, who says, “We don’t have anything to write with.”

  “Could you bring back a note?”

  “Yes,” Leora says, her voice breaking. “We’ll come back.”

  She asks, “You got somethin’ on ya I can eat?”

  I check Charlie’s coat pockets and find a shriveled piece of venison jerky he must’ve forgotten about. The girl grabs it from me before I can hand it to her. Her face has the sharp, focused intensity of a starving dog as she swallows the meat almost whole, and then glances up and tries to smile. “Thanks,” she says.

  I smile back. “Sure thing.”

  Leora asks, “What’s your name?”

  “Angel?” The girl poses this as a question, so I assume this is not her real name, but one she’s put on like she’s put on her dad’s coat.

  “How’d you and your dad get here, Angel?”

  “What you think we did?” she says to Leora. “We walked.”

  “No, I mean why did you come here?”

  Angel shrugs. “We had to get out.”

  I guess that’s the answer most of us could give these days.

  Leora

  “WAKE UP.” I open my eyes at the sound of the terse voice and see Sal standing over my bed, holding something. I blink hard, narrowing my gaze, trying to pinpoint the item in the dim light. It’s the ID from that soldier I killed. My exhausted mind struggles to comprehend how Sal could’ve found the card in the drawer. She flicks it onto the bed and folds her arms.

  “Where’d you get it?” she asks.

  “Why were you going through my stuff?” I am more confused than perturbed.

  Her lips flatten over her teeth. “I was cleaning.”

  “Who cleans first thing in the morning?”

  “Those with a kid who gets up at the crack of dawn.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, I see Colton—bedecked in his wool snowsuit and matching hat to combat the chill—levering his spherical bulk by pulling himself up on the table’s leg.

  “I went to make breakfast,” she says, “and found mice droppings in the silverware drawer.”

  “Great,” I mutter. “How can mice even survive up here?”

  “Who knows? Maybe you guys brought them with.” After a pause, Sal resumes her interrogation. “So . . . how’d you get the card?”

  I should’ve known she wouldn’t let up. I evasively reply, “It was given to me.”

  “By my cousin?”

  “I—I didn’t know you had a cousin.” I stare at her. My head pounds.

  “You never asked. His name’s Alex Ramirez.” She points. “It says so right on the card.”

  My throat is dry. Swallowing, I wipe my palms on the quilt and look over at Anna, who’s curled up on the opposite side of the mattress. Seth’s dividing sheet is pulled around his bed, and Angel’s sleeping on the pallet that I quickly made up when we came in so early this morning. I say, “We’re going to wake everybody up.” Rising from the bed, I walk over to the kitchen table. Sal comes in behind me. I take hold of the spindles of the chair. “When did you see him last?”

  “Alex? I’m not sure,” she says. “One night at the warehouse, but that was weeks ago.”

  Through tears, I look up at her, gauging if I should lie. But I can’t. I owe her the truth, and maybe telling it will serve as part of my atonement. “He was going to turn us in,” I murmur.

  Colton totters away from the table and buries his face against my skirted legs, rubbing his round baby cheeks on them. Once he regains his balance, he lifts his arms, wanting held. I bend and pick him up—like I’ve done so many times—bu
t then I look over and see Sal.

  Her wary eyes flick from her son up to me. She says, “He was going to turn who in?”

  “The community. Seth and I, we came across your cousin in the woods. He said he’d shoot us unless we told him where the community was.” I look away. The memory of that moment is clear: the snow, the shift in weight as I withdrew the gun from my coat pocket, the surprise on the man’s face when I pulled the trigger—a surprise which surely mirrored my own.

  Sal flinches. “What’d you do?”

  “I had no choice, Sal.” I force myself to hold her gaze.

  Her hand comes up to her mouth. Her eyes, above it, are wide. “You—”

  I nod. “I shot him. He died right away.”

  “Oh, Leora,” she rasps. There are no tears. No anger. Only fear. She reaches for her son and takes him away from me. Another shift in weight. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  The firelight cuts in and out as I pace in front of the hearth. Sal continues stuffing the clean cloth diapers and few articles of clothing I made for Colton into her backpack and then zips it shut. “Wake up,” she calls to Angel, the same as she called to me less than an hour ago. When the child doesn’t respond, she walks over to the pallet on the floor and bends to pull on one of her socked feet. “You need to get dressed,” she says.

  Angel lifts her head, looks up between us in confusion, and lies back down.

  “You can’t take her!” I cry. “She doesn’t even know who you are!”

  Sal gives me a look. “She came with you, didn’t she?”