by G. P. Ching
An Amish home would never have such decoration, not because of the electricity required to run them, but because it would be considered a form of vanity. It would be viewed as an attempt to make a house look better than its neighbor. An Amish community is grounded in sameness and humility. It’s virtuous to hold others above self.
Still, they are beautiful; my eye is drawn again and again to the cherry red plastic hanging like ripe fruit from an electric vine. They seem harmless in this setting, where they can be enjoyed without judgment.
“Are you ready to go in?” Jeremiah nudges my elbow, his hands filled with our luggage.
“I’m sorry. Let me help you carry that.” I reach for my suitcase, but Jeremiah shakes his head.
“No, I’ve got it. Can you knock on the door?”
I climb the two steps to the porch and pound my knuckles twice against the wood. The door whips open before I can make contact the third time. A boy in a T-shirt and cap holds his hands out toward me.
“They’re here! Everyone, come see. The newbies are here,” the boy yells.
I don’t recognize the face in front of me, but I do recognize the voice.
“Caleb? Is that you?” I ask.
“In the flesh.” He removes his cap to reveal a headful of spiky brown hair.
“We never heard what happened to you,” I say.
“Well, I decided not to go back. I’m not surprised Hemlock Hollow didn’t advertise my refusal of baptism. I’m the custodian here now.”
“Oh.” I balk at the permanence he puts behind the words and glance toward Jeremiah, who’s joined me on the porch.
“Come on in, you two.”
I follow Caleb through a sparsely decorated living room. A plain boy stands next to the sofa, hat in hands.
“Jacob!” I throw my arms around his neck for a quick hug then retreat a proper distance. Jeremiah ducks between us to shake Jacob’s hand. “You look…exactly the same!”
The boy shakes his dark mop of hair and smiles. “Well, I didn’t yesterday, but I’m ready to go home.”
“Living English hasn’t changed you, then?” I ask.
There is an awkward pause while Jacob studies the floor; the smile fades from his face. “Yes, Lydia. Living English has changed me. The people here don’t value each other the way we do back home. People are tools here.”
“Hey, that’s your opinion, man,” Caleb interjects.
“Yes,” Jacob states. “That is my opinion.” The smile returns to its proper place on his face. “Lydia, Jeremiah, gut to see ya again. I’ll take Abe back for ya. Hope to see you both again soon.” Without even a glance at Caleb, Jacob bounds to the front door.
I wave goodbye as he glances back and nods in my direction. What was that all about? He’s lived here for months and not even a handshake for his host? I want to ask but it’s none of my business. Still, tension hangs thick in the air as the door closes and Caleb doesn’t acknowledge Jacob’s leaving. Moments later, Abe’s rhythmic clip-clop grows soft with distance.
After an awkward moment of silence, Caleb claps his hands together as if he means the sound to clear the heavy mood. “Let me give you guys the tour.”
I exchange glances with Jeremiah. He shrugs.
Caleb holds his hands out toward a faded blue sofa with worn edges, a matching chair, coffee table, and end tables. “This is the family room.”
“It’s plain,” Jeremiah says. He means it as a compliment.
“Glad you like it, because it’s where we spend most of our time when we’re home.” Caleb turns around and points into an arched doorway. “That is the kitchen.”
I step forward and peek in. The refrigerator is gigantic and strangely quiet compared to our gas-powered one. I recognize the irradiator and the dish sanitizer, but something is missing. “Where’s the stove?”
“We don’t use them anymore,” Caleb says. “The new irradiator cooks the food while it sanitizes it.”
“Oh.” I run my fingers over the smooth silver top of the device, wondering if it will be difficult to use.
“Don’t worry. I’ll show you how it works later. Gotta warn you, the food tastes like crap.”
I glance at Jeremiah, but he’s opening and shutting the irradiator experimentally. Caleb does not expound on the quality of the food.
We follow Caleb back through the family room to a hall near the rear of the house. He points into a small rectangular room with a well-used twin bed and dresser. “It’s not paradise, but it will have to do,” he says to me.
“It’s perfect.” The quality of the furniture isn’t important to me. I didn’t come here to sleep, and I hope to spend as little time as possible in here anyway.
Jeremiah sets my suitcase down on the bed. I walk to the only window and look out. Fields of corn go on and on, as far as I can see. I guess the English world isn’t so different after all. If I wasn’t so excited to be here, I’d be disappointed. “Looks like Hemlock Hollow,” I say.
Caleb laughs. “You might not want to judge by that view.” He motions toward Jeremiah.
“You’re right next door. Let’s get you settled in.”
The boys slip from the room, giving me a moment alone.
It doesn’t take long to unpack everything I own, and I begin to wonder where we’re going to get our Englisher costumes. I return to the living room to ask. Caleb isn’t there, but a girl in a tight T-shirt and jeans is reading a magazine on the sofa. She glances up at me.
“Lydia, I’m so excited to have you here.” Her bright blond curls bounce over her shoulder with the movement of her head.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Don’t you recognize me?”
I concentrate on the makeup-covered face in front of me. The girl’s skin is flawless. Silver eyeshadow feathers across her lids and over her eyebrows toward her ears. It looks like she’s wearing silver, wing-shaped glasses that have melted to her skin. The color contrasts sharply with her robin’s egg blue eyelashes—long, thick lashes. A wide black line surrounds each eye and her lips are puffy and blood red. But under it all, I recognize the bow-shaped mouth and narrow nose. “My word, Hannah, is that you?”
The girl nods, bounding from the sofa and spreading her arms.
I accept her embrace. “You are so beautiful. Look at your hair, your makeup. It’s like something from a painting… or a dream.”
“You’ll look like this too. It’s expected here.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
Hannah opens her mouth but is interrupted when Jeremiah and Caleb enter the room.
“Great, everyone’s here. We can do the welcoming ceremony,” Caleb says.
“What’s the welcoming ceremony?” I ask.
Caleb and Hannah move to the windows and shut the blinds, plunging the room into darkness.
“Hannah, can I have a drum roll, please?” Caleb asks.
Hannah drums her fingers on the coffee table and trills her tongue off the roof of her mouth. Ritualistically, Caleb approaches the wall, chin held high with the exaggerated step-together-step of a formal occasion. His eyes fix on a switch. A light switch. Suddenly, I understand what all the fuss is about. This will be the first time Jeremiah or I have ever seen an electric light work.
Plain folk aren’t against electricity per se. Our community is against dependence on an ungodly world. That’s why it’s okay for us to use gas to power our homes. Gas isn’t connected physically to the grid, and frankly, we could live without it in a pinch. Still, whether it’s the novelty or taboo that draws me in, I’m excited for this experience.
I smile, oddly breathless with anticipation as Caleb’s finger hooks beneath the off-white plastic switch. Hannah quits her drumming with a fake cymbal crash. Click. The lightbulb in the lamp next to me glows for a moment. The bulb flares quieter than my gas version. But then bluish-white lightning arcs from where the lamp plugs into the wall, dancing for a moment in the storm of its own making.
ZAP! The bolt strikes me in
the chest. Sparks fill my vision. A boom rattles my eardrums. Head snapping forward, my feet lift off the carpet and I fly backward until my shoulder blades slam into the far wall. Crack! My skull follows my momentum. Pain radiates from my heart to my fingertips as I am suspended for a moment, arms outstretched.
Jeremiah yells my name.
The white light retracts and my body crumples to the floor. I fall as if the hand of God has dropped me from heaven.
4
When I wake, Jeremiah and Caleb are hovering over me. Something cold and wet blots my forehead and dribbles down my temple—Jeremiah with a moist handkerchief.
“Did I pass out?” I ask.
“Oh, thank the good Lord,” Jeremiah says on a sigh. He slides an arm under my shoulders and hugs me to his chest. “You were electrocuted.”
“Electrocuted?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Caleb says. “You weren’t even touching the outlet. How could that have happened?”
“Well, don’t ask us. You’re supposed to be the expert,” Jeremiah says accusingly.
“Jeremiah, it wasn’t Caleb’s fault,” I say. “If he says he’s never seen this happen, I believe him. I’m okay.” I sit up and rub my chest, still sore from where the electricity struck me. My hand touches skin. “Oh my. It burned through.” I grip the singed edges to close the hole in my dress as heat rises in my cheeks.
“Don’t worry. We kept you covered.” Jeremiah helps me up.
Once I get my feet under me, I peek under my palm. The hole is the size of a silver dollar and directly over my heart, with crispy brown edges that stand out against my pale skin. Amazingly, my flesh is unscathed. “If you all would please excuse me, I’d like to change,” I say.
“You should change into the English clothes I bought for you,” Hannah says. “Maybe static electricity was the cause. Wool is the worst material for that. I think it would be safer if you dressed English.”
I run my hand down my apron to the thin wool of my skirt. “Yes, I’d like that.”
With thoughts of the rubbery fabric from my tree box in my head, I follow Hannah across the hall to a closet brimming with clothes that are as foreign to me as the ceiling fan above our heads. Hannah pulls out a pair of denim pants and three different shirts.
“These look small but the material stretches to fit, even the jeans. They just have one size here that fits everyone. Layer them, like this.” She demonstrates.
“Okay.” I’m skeptical. The T-shirt looks especially tiny as if it were made for a doll. Will it fit over my head? I carry the items back to my room and shut the door behind me.
Undressing is a process. I shed the skin of where I come from piece by piece, carefully folding my apron and dress, even though they’re both ruined. By the time I reach my tights I wish I’d never come. Although the colors, fabrics, and decoration of the clothing on the bed fascinate me, I’m at war with myself over wearing it. I am naked in more ways than one.
Reluctantly, I slide into the pants, which Hannah called jeans, marveling at how the denim is as soft as a baby’s blanket. The midnight blue slithers over my hips, stretching, expanding as I dress. Once I have them on, I tug the zipper, unzip them and zip them again. I smile at the novelty of the interwoven metal teeth. The jeans don’t feel that different from tights. I squat and stand, getting used to the feel. Next is an elastic lace undergarment with thin straps. It’s snug, lifting my breasts and hugging my waist. In this, I can’t even look down my body without blushing. Quickly, I cover myself with a formfitting T-shirt, paper-thin and cornflower blue. This layer has cap sleeves and covers more skin. I can tolerate a look in the mirror now. The color makes my eyes look greener than they actually are.
Everything on my body is snug, stretchy, and leaves me feeling on display. Thank goodness for the last layer, a silvery jacket. Silky and light, I weigh it in my hand. A tag on the collar says it maintains body temperature in all but the most extreme weather. I slide my arms into the sleeves. With a hood and a zipper, it drapes over the T-shirt, giving me some sense of modesty. This zipper is harder to work because I have to start it myself. When I finally succeed in hooking the sides together, I zip it as high as it will go, just under my chin. I frown. I do not look like an Englisher. I tug the zipper halfway down, until it looks more like what Hannah might wear and shrug at my reflection. This is how Englishers look and how I must look to fit in. It’s not too bad.
One more thing. My kapp doesn’t match the ensemble. Fingers trembling, I pull the meshy white bonnet from my head. Emboldened by my new English clothes, I unpin my hair and let it fall in honey-brown waves around my shoulders. I part it on the side, something no plain woman ever does, and brush it until it shines.
What will Jeremiah think? He’s never seen my hair down.
Excited to show him, I slip from the room and quietly return to the living area. Jeremiah is watching something through the blinds of the front window, his fingers spreading the slats. I notice he’s also dressed in jeans. Despite my best efforts, my gaze lingers on how they fit his lower body. He’s wearing a stretchy black shirt that shows off every muscle, and there’s something in his hair that tames his golden curls, making them appear slightly damp. I want to talk about our new clothes, but it isn’t a good time. His face is positively somber.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Jeremiah turns, opens his mouth to answer but comes up short of breath when he sees me. “Lydia,” he whispers.
Noticing Jeremiah has forgotten how to speak, Caleb pipes up from his place at the far window. “We have visitors. Government vehicles across the field. The green color means they’re from Crater City, the capitol. This never happens. I’ve lived here for three years and we’ve never even seen the authorities—not even an officer. We’re the only house out this way.”
“Why are they here?” I ask.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Caleb answers. He exchanges glances with Hannah. “They don’t have their sirens on. That’s a good sign. But we’re doomed if they figure out who you are.”
“I’ll take care of their clothes and things,” Hannah says, bolting for my room.
“Looks like you two are getting the crash course in acting English,” Caleb says. “No matter what, they can’t find out you’re from the preservation.”
That’s what the Englishers call Hemlock Hollow, the Amish preservation. In school we learn there used to be some people called Indians who lived on what the English called reservations. After the war, when the reservation system ended badly and the Amish were allowed to keep their independence from the government by being walled in on land nobody wanted, our home was nicknamed a cultural preservation. I guess changing the name sounded better to people. No matter how you twist the words, Englishers think of our preservation as a kind of zoo and us as animals. Most Englishers assume we’ve either died from the radiation or we live like wild animals, and that’s fine with us.
A sharp knock turns Caleb’s head. He opens the door without hesitation. On the porch, a man in a dull green military uniform waits, rigid and serious. His black armband sports the emblem of the Green Republic, the same emblem on the vehicles in the driveway.
“Can I help you?” Caleb asks.
“I’m Officer Reynolds,” the man says. “Are you Caleb Hunter?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“We’ve been informed that a surge took place at this address consistent with energy scamping. Have you kids been scamping electricity? Before you answer, I’m required to inform you that early admission is a misdemeanor. If you lie and we find out, it’s a felony.”
“No one here is scamping electricity.”
“How do you explain the surge?”
“Lydia was electrocuted.” Caleb points toward me.
I cross my arms over my chest to feel more covered in my English clothes. My brain repeats the word scamping over and over, trying to figure out what it means. I decide it must be like stealing, but I don’t
understand how anyone could “steal” the white-blue light that poured into me.
Officer Reynolds pushes into the room, scanning me from head to toe. “She doesn’t look electrocuted.”
“It was weird. I’ve never seen anything like it. She was standing next to the lamp and the electricity jumped from the outlet into her chest.”
Officer Reynolds takes another good look at me, and then frowns at Caleb. “I’m going to need to search the house. Do you agree to this search?”
“Yes, of course,” Caleb says.
With a gesture of his hand, Reynolds urges a team of six officers into action. We watch out the front door as they circle the house at a jog, arms full of buzzing equipment. “Caleb Hunter, you and your property are under investigation for scamping. As such, specialized equipment will be used to detect any device that could drain, store, or emit electricity. As part of this investigation, we’ve cut power to your home. This power will be restored once the grounds and interior are found free of scamp contraband.”
An officer returns to the base of the porch steps. “Sir, the exterior is clean.”
“Excellent. Please proceed to the kitchen, Stanley.”
Tick-tick-tick. The machine strung over Stanley’s shoulder clicks evenly as the man squeezes past Caleb and Jeremiah to enter the house and turns left for the kitchen. I retreat farther into the living room, Hannah’s hands on my shoulders. The officer scans the irradiator, the dishwasher, the refrigerator, each appliance and each outlet. The gauge on his detector flutters slightly.
“Everything’s normal in here,” he calls.
Another man enters the house and then another. Officer Reynolds sends them to the bedrooms with their clicking machines. Out the open door, I see the other three men head for the cornfield with equipment humming. For several minutes we huddle in the middle of the room, listening to the officer’s heavy footsteps and the buzz of their equipment. Finally, all three men return to Reynolds, fiddling with the knobs on their devices.