by Laura Bickle
Frau Miller turned her face to the pillow and howled as the flow of blood thickened and tapped on the wooden floor. I backed away from the widening puddle. My mother and the midwife were up to their elbows in it, shouting instructions. I grasped Frau Miller’s hand. Her nails chewed into my palms like talons, and I did the only thing I could: I recited the Lord’s Prayer, over and over.
My mother finally fled to the door, her sleeves and front of her apron soaked in blood. She looked as if she’d been butchering. She shouted down the steps: “Someone get an ambulance! Now!”
But it was too late. I felt Frau Miller’s hand loosening in mine, saw her blank stare. She didn’t blink.
And there was no lusty cry of a baby. The midwife was unable to wrestle the baby free before it suffocated with the umbilical cord wrapped around its neck. I learned later that the child would have been another son. An unbaptized son who would never join his brothers or parents in heaven.
The birthing room held the same acrid smell of death about it that I smelled now in the barn. It had taken days to air the Millers’ room out and scrubbing the floor with lemon juice to release it.
I sat back on my heels. Light had drained from the day, darkening the barn, and there was little else I could do for Alex here.
He needed medicine. He needed it or he was going to die. Of this much, I was certain.
I trudged back across the field, my gait and heart heavy. I had interfered in things I should not have. This was an ongoing struggle for me. For the others in our community, following the Ordnung was a reflex, like breathing. It was almost as if . . . they were moved by others. Others’ interpretation of the Ordnung. Not self-controlled, not their own interpretation. I knew that, deep down, I was not like that. I had to mull things over. I followed what I understood. And for that, I was both grateful and afraid.
Something pale moved across the meadow, like a sheet blown by the wind. I squinted at it, shading my hand from the last of the sunset.
It was a horse, riderless, pale as moonlight. I could make out some tack and gear on it. It was not an animal I recognized.
I stuffed my fingers in my mouth and whistled. The shrill sound made my ears ache, but it caught the horse’s attention. It slowed, allowed me to approach it within yards. I saw that his sides were heaving, that he was lathered from running, that the white of his eye showed when it rolled back to me.
“Shhh,” I said. I approached him from the front, showing that I was no threat. “Where did you come from?” I whispered.
The horse blew and pawed, agitated. He finally allowed me to reach out and grasp his bridle, rub his nose. I said soothing nonsense words to him. A stab of fear ran through me . . . If this was an English horse, I could not keep him. The horse, unconscious of the rules, had violated the Bishop’s order.
But I set that aside for now. I could do him the kindness of leading him to water and strip him of his gear, so that he could be free and not encumbered by saddle sores.
I murmured to him in low tones, and he allowed me to remove the bridle. I let it fall in the grass, hoping that it would not be discovered. I think that he understood that I was trying to help him.
Then he turned his side to me, to show me the saddle buckle.
And I gasped.
The saddle was stained with blood, a rusty blotch that spread over the horse’s left side. In the foothold, a torn boot dangled.
I stood still, shaking. The horse glanced back at me with a pleading eye.
I sucked in my breath, timidly unbuckled the strap at his belly while trying to keep the boot from bumping my shoulder. I think that there was still something in it: flies swarmed around it, and I could see a bit of bone peeking out of the top of the boot.
I shoved the saddle away, to the ground.
The horse whinnied, shook himself. I saw that the saddle had left angry red marks along his belly, saw that he was relieved to be free of that horror.
“You have to leave from here,” I said. “Go away.”
The horse stared at me, unyielding. His tail switched.
I made shooing gestures with my hands.
“They will kill you if you stay,” I pleaded.
He snorted and walked away slowly, toward a distant tree line where a creek flowed. My heart broke to watch him go.
But it ached even more for that boot left behind in the saddle.
Chapter Eight
The next morning I rode my bicycle down the dirt road to the gate that separated our community from Outside. It was an old green girl’s bike with a white plastic basket with flowers on the front and on the banana seat. I’d purchased it from an English garage sale for ten dollars when I was twelve. It was on the edge of what was allowed by Ordnung—bicycles were permitted, and the rules on rubber tires had been relaxed when I was a child. The bike wobbled on the ruts made by the metal wheels of the buggies. Determinedly, I rode slowly to the wooden gate. The gate closed the road, connecting a wood and barbed-wire fence on either side that stretched as far as the eye could see.
A meandering cabbage butterfly drifted through it. The fence was a flimsy thing. An able-bodied person would easily be able to climb over it. It was symbolic, every bit as much an illusion of security as the Hexenmeister’s carefully crafted hex signs. I didn’t understand how remaining behind a couple of two-by-fours was meant to save us from the end of the world.
I pulled up short before the gate. It had been bolted with a simple iron lock that was probably older than my parents. My heart hammered in my throat as I contemplated breaking the Elders’ edicts . . . again.
But I found that each rebellion was easier than the last. Perhaps this was what they meant about the road to hell.
I lifted my bike up and set it down on the other side of the fence. I clambered gracelessly over the wooden beams and dropped down beside it. Money from my Rumspringa box clinked in my apron pockets. Money that could hopefully buy some medicine for Alex.
And I prayed I could avoid whatever that bloody fate was that had befallen the horse’s rider. But I could not, in good conscience, allow a man to die when I could do something about it. All I needed to do was get him in good enough shape to walk, to get him out of here. Like the horse.
Righting my bike, I pedaled off into the sunshine.
Some things about Outside seemed utterly normal. Canada geese flew overhead in their tight formations. A red-tailed hawk perched on a telephone wire, watching me as I rode along the empty pavement. Black-eyed Susans and orange tiger lilies grew in profusion at the side of the road. The sun was warm on my back, and a breeze tickled through the tassels of grass.
As before, there was no traffic. I rode without fear, the wind rustling through my skirts. I pedaled fast up hills and allowed myself the thrill of going downhill at hazardous speed. It was like flying. No one could see me, the flying Plain girl with the wind tearing at my bonnet strings.
But other things were not anywhere close to normal.
I saw a trailer that had burned down to its foundations, the sharp smell of the melted plastic siding still in the air. Closer to the village, a car accident made the road impassible. I had to walk my bike on the shoulder around the abandoned cars.
Sobered, I continued on toward town, where there was more evidence of fire. Burned-out cars had slid off the road into telephone poles. All the glass was broken out of the general store, glittering on the asphalt like ice. Smoke billowed out of the structure.
I swallowed and continued. I was afraid to be Outside alone, without Elijah. But, no matter what, I would have to get used to his absence. I would have to prove to him and to myself that I could.
I stopped at the furniture store and pulled my bike up on the porch. I called into the darkness of the structure for Seth and Joseph, but no one answered. I reached into my pocket for a pencil and snagged a scrap of paper that blew up against the building. I left the boys a note:
Seth, Joseph:
I don’t know if you’ll get this note. But your fat
her and Elijah are looking for you. All they want is for you to come home.
—Katie
I wedged the note between the door and the door frame. If they came back here, if they saw it, they would know.
I continued on, pedaling down the side streets. I saw a police car overturned on its roof, burned to a crisp that blackened the pavement. A truck carrying pumpkins had jackknifed in the road, smashed gourds painting the street a lurid shade of orange. Flies had descended upon the mess, and I wrinkled my nose as I walked my bike around it.
I finally arrived at the drugstore, next door to a Laundromat and bar. I didn’t really expect to find anyone there, since the streets had been empty.
The door at the front of the drugstore was locked, and the sign on the window said that it was closed. I shook the door handle, rattling the glass.
I stepped back and looked up. The lights were on inside, so I assumed that the structure still had electricity, that the power lines to this part of town were still intact. I was certain the drugstore kept surveillance cameras on the property to deter precisely the kind of thing I was planning on doing.
I cast about the parking lot, and my eye fell on a cigarette receptacle. It was heavy, but I managed to lift it and swing it clumsily.
The glass door shattered in a glittering hail. My blood pounded in my ears. I couldn’t believe the destruction I’d caused—not even when the alarm went off.
The screech of the alarm caused me to jump back, and my first instinct was to flee, but I fought that down. If the alarm brought police, that was good. They could look for Seth and Joseph. They could get Alex to a hospital. At the very least, they could tell me what was happening.
My shoes crunched in the broken glass as I walked into the fluorescent glare of the store. I picked up a large backpack in the school supplies area and began to shop.
I bypassed the makeup and glossy magazines, the bubble bath and the candy, veering toward the back of the store where the actual health items seemed to be hidden. Strange arrangement for a store that had a purpose to sell medicine.
I picked up rolls of gauze, sterile bandages, antibiotic cream, ibuprofen, and hydrogen peroxide, stuffing them quickly into the bag. As I worked my way farther back, I found myself staring at the closed window of the pharmacy counter.
Antibiotics would be there. I tried to lift the steel curtain covering the window, but to no avail.
I set my bag down and began to think. There must be something to pry it up. I grabbed a cane from a nearby display and succeeded in wedging it beneath the steel curtain, bending it back enough to just allow space for me to jump the counter and wriggle through.
I knocked over scads of plastic baskets and rattling pill bottles before I found the light switch behind the pharmacist’s counter. I was surrounded by a bewildering array of shelves of bottles and boxes. I had no idea what purposes the vast majority of them were used for. I picked up bottles at random. I didn’t understand the labels.
There had to be some kind of tool here for pharmacists to tell . . . I went to a desk in the back that held a large red book. I opened it. To my relief, it was an index of drugs. I searched for “antibiotics” and carefully wrote down the names of several on a nearby notepad. The terminology was largely unfamiliar to me, but I could read through the lists and copy the information.
Carefully scrutinizing the shelves, I was able to find most of them: a bottle of erythromycin, packets of something called Zithromax (which sounded like a comic book superhero), and some similar odd packages called Bactrim. I crammed as many as I could into a plastic bag and squirmed out under the counter.
I paused to think, my mind and heart racing. I might not get another chance to be Outside again. What else did I need? I wandered down the battery aisle. Several chargers and batteries that worked for cell phones were arranged on a plastic display. I knew that Mrs. Parsall’s cell battery had been getting low. I’d taken a good look at it last night before we went to bed, memorizing the model number printed on the back. I found two extra batteries and a car charger that were supposed to work for that model.
Last, I went down the dog food aisle. I scooped all the cans of dog food that would fit into the backpack. I hesitated, then went back for a second backpack and filled that with dry food. I knew as well as anyone else that when food went short, the animals would suffer most. Not if I could help it.
On the way out, I emptied my pockets of all the bills I had and placed them next to the cash register. I had no idea how much the medicines cost, but knew that it wouldn’t anywhere near cover the damage I’d done to the store.
I glanced longingly back at the pharmacy counter and the pet food display, briefly thought of loading up with everything I could carry. But I knew, deep down, that I should not take more than I could pay for.
Still feeling guilty, I stepped through the shattered door to my bike. I nestled one backpack in the basket and slung the other on my back. I began to push away from the curb, when something caught my eye.
Something red and white and delicious.
The glow of a Coca-Cola machine beckoned behind the door of the Suds ’n’ Duds, the bar and Laundromat next door. I’d always thought drinking and laundry were a strange combination, but I had noticed that many people Outside required constant stimulation. Odd.
I looked away from the Coke machine, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.
But I couldn’t help glancing back at the seductive glow. Like a moth to the flame, I drifted toward it. In the bottom of my pocket, I fingered some loose coins. They clanked together, slipping against my sweaty palms.
The doors opened at my touch, and I stepped inside. Unlike the drugstore, the Laundromat advertised that it was open twenty-four hours. The washing machines and dryers lining the walls and aisles had long since fallen silent, and the fluorescent lighting buzzed and flickered overhead. I had never used machines like that. We used simple tubs, washboards, and lye soap. I couldn’t imagine not having anything to do while laundry did itself. The cracked tile on the floor looked grimy, and I smelled a combination of stale beer and perfumed laundry soap. I stepped around abandoned plastic baskets full of clothes on the floor to stand before the warm red glow of the Coke machine.
I fed the machine a dollar in quarters and nickels, then punched the glowing button to release the soda. The machine clunked inside, and I reached down to retrieve my treat from the receptacle.
But nothing came out.
Gritting my teeth, I reached up into the mouth of the machine, trying to feel if it had gotten stuck. My fingers wiggled in air and darkness.
I stood back and pressed the button again. Nothing happened. The machine had eaten my money.
I dug into my pocket. I only had two dimes left.
My hands balled into fists. This might be the last chance I ever got to taste a Coke. Whether it was because of what had happened Outside, or my parents’ rescinding of Rumspringa, I wanted the syrupy taste of this small rebellion. And this stupid machine was denying that bit of freedom to me . . . just like everyone else.
I slammed my hand against the face of the machine. It was the first time I’d ever struck anything or anyone out of anger. The blow echoed against the plastic, startling me with the force of it traveling up my arm to my shoulder. But the machine was unmoved. It continued to hum as if nothing had happened, smugly digesting my change in the face of my pathetic assault.
Shoulders slumped in defeat, I turned to walk away. The drugstore had caved under the force of my criminal will, but the Coke machine was virtuous. Inviolate.
I paused, glancing over the rows of battered washing machines to the bar. It wasn’t much, just a long counter with chipped, mirrored shelves of bottles behind it and wobbly stools before it. But it was apparently enough to keep the folks entertained while they were doing their laundry. A television perched above the bar was tuned to the soft snow of static. They must have served some food here too, since flies swarmed over a paper tray of french fries ab
andoned on the counter.
My eyes narrowed. There might be Coca-Cola there.
And, after all, I had paid for it.
I circled behind the bar, scanning the bottles and cans. The spirits were colorless, brown, amber, and red. I didn’t know why one would drink something called “extra dry.” Nor did I understand why someone would drink something violent, as suggested by the “brut” on the label. And “Irish Rose” sounded entirely unappetizing. Flowers, in my experience, tended to taste bitter. My gaze roved over cans stuffed into a small refrigerator under the bar. Just beer and wilted lemons.
I frowned. I’d tasted beer once before and hated it.
I really wanted a Coke. Just a Coke.
At the end of the mirror behind the bar stood a shiny steel metal door. I grasped the latch. It was cold—I expected that it was a refrigerator of some type. A walk-in cooler that might contain what I was looking for.
Cold air blew into my face as I opened it, and my breath made ghosts in the fog. Something inside smelled funny, but I chalked it up to rotting food. I reached inside for a light switch, and a weak fluorescent light flickered on overhead. It illuminated metal racks on wheels full of beer, a couple of kegs on the floor . . .
. . . and a familiar stack of red and white cans, tucked behind one of the movable racks. I grinned in triumph.
A spider web brushed across my face, and I rubbed it away.
I should have paid attention to that, to that sensation that made me shudder. I pawed at my face and took two quick steps inside, trying not to imagine the spider that had created the string now caught in my hair.
I reached for the cans of Coke, victorious adrenaline surging through me. But that adrenaline soured, curdled as I became aware of something sticky on the floor that was sucking at my shoes.
I stared down.
A brown stain spread across the concrete floor to a drain. At first I assumed that some of the cans had frozen, exploded. But as I pushed the rack aside, I saw that it had trickled from a body on the floor.