MY BASKET IS HALF-FILLED with a cornucopia of root vegetables—the richly fertilized soil caking to the tapered ends—when the Suburban crackles down the lane and deposits Moses and Jabil in front of the Snyders’ house. I rest my palms on the edge of the raised bed and watch both men turn to watch the vehicle pull away, a tail of low-lying dust trailing behind.
From the back, they appear oddly similar despite their differences in height, coloring, and dress. Perhaps this is because their appearance is overshadowed by the characteristics of their inward man, which matters to me most: integrity, work ethic, and a desire to protect the weak.
Wanting to find out if they had any success at the armory, I wipe my hands on my apron and rise from the garden, crossing the stretch of lawn between the Snyders’ house and ours. Moses and Jabil stop speaking when they see me coming. They look at each other, their expressions pained in a way that makes me want to turn back.
Overcome with shyness—and more than a little confusion—I ask, “Find anything?”
Jabil woodenly replies, “A pack of toothbrushes, fire starters, some blankets, and a case of refried beans probably looted from Burt’s Grocery.”
“No ammunition?” I look at Moses.
He shakes his head. “Finding stuff like that was just wishful thinking. You wouldn’t even recognize Liberty, Leora. Two and a half weeks of scavenging has totally destroyed the buildings—some still standing, most burnt to the ground. But the flip side is that I was also expecting to be faced with more danger than we were.”
Jabil adds, “Yeah, we barely saw anything.” This unnecessary echo confounds me less than his flexed jaw and hands that make his entire body appear constricted in warning. However, I came over not only to find out if they had any success, but also to show my appreciation for everything they’ve done for Mt. Hebron. So with considerable effort I soften my features and ask if they’d be interested in joining my family for lunch.
I watch them visibly brace before accepting my invitation. I feel a moment of anxiety, picturing Jabil bonding with Moses during their foray into town. And if they do, what might such bonding mean for me? I collect my basket of vegetables and go up the back porch steps.
Inside, I slide a tray of cooked butternut squash onto the countertop and place a fresh loaf of sourdough bread on the table. Jabil and Moses enter.
Moses takes off his shoes and washes his hands at the sink. “Need help with anything?”
The men in our community consider the kitchen a woman’s domain, just as we consider the logging pavilion a man’s. Recovering from surprise, I respond, “Guess you can help me peel the squash.” In silence, Moses and I stand side by side as the steam rises between us, redolent of our treasured hoard of nutmeg and cloves. I take off my spectacles, clean the fogged lenses on my apron, and slip them into my pocket. The kitchen brightens. Over my shoulder, I watch Jabil light the kerosene lamp hanging above the table. The use of fuel seems an extravagance, considering the sun is shining outside. Then Jabil looks at me, and I can tell he has lit the lamp not for illumination as much as to thwart the intimacy fostered by the dimness.
Taking the hand beater, I puree the goldenrod-colored vegetables into soup. Somehow, Moses anticipates my every need—mashing the roasted onion and garlic, adding a pinch of cayenne and sage, the two of us moving in a culinary dance whose steps are improvised yet sure. I lift my gaze to his, and we stare at each other in the vivid light. I am painfully conscious of his warmth and of his breathing, which is as hitched and uneven as mine. For the first time, I am grateful I am not hiding behind my lenses or behind my unnecessary desire to be the stand-in patriarch of my orphaned family, so that I can never allow myself to be just what I am: a young woman with the desire to be desired and loved.
When the soup is prepared, the table spread with a cloth my mamm once kept in her hope chest for special occasions, along with a crystal relish tray of pickled baby corn, okra, and cheese, I find that I am shaking from the revelation of my hunger. Not wanting to reveal my unsettled state, I wait a moment to let my flushed cheeks subside and then return to the table to see that Jabil has already claimed my seat. Over the years, he has attended enough meals to know that this was my vadder’s old chair, so I am sure this is a hated move.
I sit down and fold my hands on the table. Moses, also having attended enough meals to anticipate our actions, bows his head. Then, feeling a gaze upon me, I open my eyes. But Moses is still praying. I glance over and see that Jabil is perusing my features as I had seen Moses earlier perusing the map of Liberty that was spread across the hood of the truck, as if searching for dangers not readily foreseen. Our gazes remain locked as the silent prayer continues and the grandfather clock marks the seconds pouring through the accelerated hourglass of our world.
Contrite for keeping my eyes open during prayer, I reach down into my apron, withdraw my spectacles, and put them on. Truth be told, they are not needed. My minor astigmatism improved more than three years ago. But by that point, my vadder’s unstable presence in our home left me longing for something behind which I could hide, even if it was made from a medium as unstable as glass.
The prayer time ends. Young Colton opens his mouth like a little bird as he waits for Grossmammi Eunice to fill it with a spoonful of soup. Sal, his mother, has disappeared again. The third time this week. Anna dips a torn portion of sourdough into the soup and munches happily, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. I pass a napkin to her. She smiles and cleans the corners of her stained lips. Tears sting my eyes as I realize that my sister probably does not comprehend what happened to her that night in the field.
Anna hasn’t allowed me to examine her, and I’m not sure I would have the stomach even if I could. It is hard enough to see the scratch on her face and recall the blood marring her gown. Later, I checked that Anna was sleeping and got up from our bed. I carried her nightgown out to the woodstove, stoked the fire, and tucked it down into the box. Watching the flames devour the soft cotton, I viewed the action as a portent of my future revenge.
I hear Seth asking, as if from far away, “How’d you learn to fly?”
I glance over at Moses, to whom, no doubt, the question was addressed. “My grandpa.” Jabbing his spoon in Seth’s direction, he smiles. “Actually, I was about your age when he took me and my brother up for the first time.”
“Did you ever fly a fighter plane?” Seth’s eyes gleam with interest. I watch Jabil shift in his seat, uncomfortable with the direction of conversation. Or maybe he’s uncomfortable that the conversation is not being directed by him.
“No, but my grandpa did. He was in Vietnam.”
“Did he—?”
I break in. “Seth, that’s enough.”
My brother glances at me. “Don’t treat me like a kid.”
I am taken aback by his resentment and am preparing to defend myself when Jabil says, “Thank you for the delicious meal, Leora, but we should be hitting the road.”
“Again?” I ask. “You just got back.”
“We had to come get some things for Charlie.”
Seth looks at Moses. “Can I come too?” His voice fissures on the last syllable, and his face grows red. Moses, with his airplane and his gun, is every boy’s childhood hero brought to life. But I fear the adult awakening Seth would experience if he ventured into Liberty with him.
“I’m sorry,” Jabil answers before I can tell Seth no. “It’s not safe.”
Jabil’s caution brings sorrow to my eyes. My sister was attacked by something—or someone—because I wasn’t cautious enough. Maybe if I’d married him like Mamm wished, it wouldn’t have happened. Setting my napkin beside my plate, I murmur good-bye to the men and leave the room. Even with our bedroom door closed, I can hear the restrained hum of voices in the kitchen, the clinking of cutlery against plates, followed by the shuffle of boots crossing the hardwood floor. The front door closes as Jabil and Moses leave to scavenge for supplies.
Enough time passes for me to drift into a restless sleep. I awaken to a hand touching my shoulder. I lift my face from the quilt—my vision blurred—and see that Sal’s returned and is staring down at me with Colton on her hip, his mouth still bearing traces of butternut soup.
“You okay?” she asks. “Upset about Anna?”
I nod and glance over her shoulder toward the door, wincing as I see she’s left it cracked. Wiping my eyes, I get down off the bed and close the door with one hand. I turn back and say, “I’ve come to my own conclusions about who attacked her. But that doesn’t mean a whole lot.”
“Your own conclusions?”
“That night, after I found Anna, I saw a light on the lane. Charlie’d been wearing a headlamp when he was guarding the gate.” I shrug. “It’s not much, but it makes me wonder if he was returning to his post after what he did.”
Sal moves to sit down on our bed but then keeps standing. “Have you talked to him?”
“You can’t just come out and accuse someone of something like that. Can you?”
“No,” she murmurs. I look at Sal’s downcast face and am shocked to see that the same person who usually never displays any emotion appears about to cry.
I place a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”
Sal glances up and meets my eyes, her own potent with anger. “I was here,” she says. “I should’ve heard something. I should’ve known.”
“And I wasn’t here. Don’t you think that haunts me, too?”
She reaches up to clasp my hand that’s resting on her shoulder. Her nails are ragged and filled with dirt. When she sees me looking down at them, it’s as if an unseen portal between the two of us slams closed. Her face resumes its unmalleable veneer, and she leaves without another word, the soil left by the treads of her boots the only proof that she was in our room.
Moses
As planned, we return to the civic center to bury the dead man. Jabil remains outside, standing like a defenseless sentinel halfway between the vehicle and the emergency exit. Charlie trails me down the hall, covering my back more thoroughly than he did before. At first, everything appears the same as it did this morning: the smell, the hodgepodge of possessions, the shining expanse of parquet floor marked for a basketball game no one might ever play again.
But then I come to the section where the body used to be. The sleeping bag and the mostly empty jar of moonshine are gone. I glance over my shoulder and spot a bearded man curled up on the bottom row of the left-hand bleachers. As I draw closer, the man stands and holds up his hands, fingers spread, like he’s expecting a fight. He appears younger than the dead man, though just as weather-beaten and thin.
Charlie must see him too. He opens the gym door. “You all right in there, Moses?”
The bearded man looks from me to Charlie and then down at my hands.
I lower my gun. “Everything’s fine.”
The door closes. The man blinks at me. I’m not here to cause trouble, but I’m not sure the same can be said for him. I take a step closer, and the man takes a step back, his calves pressed against the bleacher’s varnished wood. He looks to the right and then to the left—trying to decide, I guess, which would be the best route of escape if the need should arise.
“We came earlier,” I explain. “That’s when we found the body. What’d you do with it?”
“Buried him. Waited ’til you left. Thought you were the gang.”
“The gang?”
“They were here last week. Didn’t give people time to pack—” he motions to the items scattered around the edges of the court—“just drove them out the doors with guns. Then they went through the building, picking out what they wanted and leaving the rest behind. Once Victor and I knew they were gone, we came here to stay, figuring they wouldn’t be back.”
“The dead guy?”
I nod.
“Yeah. He was.”
“Were the two of you homeless?”
He smirks. “Let’s just say I haven’t had a roof of my own in the past two years.”
On a whim, I pull the prescription bottle from my pocket. I toss it to him, the pills clinking. He catches it in one hand. “We found this on the body. Mean anything to you?”
He turns the bottle over. “Victor musta stole it from me.”
“You’re the first man I ever met who’s named Melinda.”
The man looks up and squints. “I got this stuff fair and square.”
“Guess that depends on your definition of fair.”
“Look, all I know’s some woman came here about a week or so ago, telling me she’d do just about anything to get home. I have some connections, so I directed her to a friend of a friend, and she gave me some pills as repayment.”
I quip, “How generous of you to help her. You’ve not seen her since?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t take advantage. I swear. I’m not that kind of guy.”
Anger deepens my voice. “No. You just turned her over to those who are.”
“You know nothing about me, man. I got a wife and kids.”
I begin studying the man’s features. Something about him looked familiar, and now I start to suspect why. Same prominent cheekbones, dark hair, and eyes.
“How many kids?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. I lift the gun. “Answer the question!”
“What’s wrong with you? Three kids. Two girls and a boy.”
Taking a breath, I say, “About three weeks ago, my plane crashed in a field in the Mt. Hebron community. The family who took me in told me that two years ago their father disappeared.” The man’s astonishment confirms my hunch. “You’re Luke Ebersole—the man who disappeared—aren’t you?”
He hesitates, looking down at the bottle, and then nods.
“Why don’t you go to your family? Let them know you’re alive?”
Luke pockets the bottle and plucks at his threadbare shirt. Wrists protrude like branches from the sleeves. “Believe me, nobody wants me showing up like this.”
“Maybe not. But I think it’s worse not showing up at all.”
He kicks at a Coke can lying near his feet, sending it rolling across the floor. “Why you think I’m sticking round while everybody else’s left? It’s not simple, getting clean. I’ve tried.”
I think of his eldest daughter, perpetually waiting for a man with no intentions of ever coming home. I think of myself, waiting for my own father to come back, and whenever he did, trying to be his little soldier so he would want to stay. “Then you gotta try harder.”
He folds his arms. “I got no time to try. Word has it another gang’s coming this way that’s going to—”
“Which way?” I cut him short.
“Supposedly from the north. That’s why town’s so deserted. Nobody’s stopping here anymore because they know what’s on their heels.”
Now I understand why the number of people walking past our perimeter has increased over the past few days. Everyone’s trying to get out while they can. I recall the items spread along the sides of the highway, like a mutant Hansel and Gretel trail leading out of Liberty. These were not people merely weary of their burdens; these were people running for their lives.
“Will you tell my wife and kids about what’s coming?” he asks.
This backhanded consideration makes me sick. “Your wife’s dead, Luke.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“’Fraid not.” I don’t care if I rip his heart out. He deserves it.
Luke’s knees buckle like an easel. One second, they’re propping his body; the next second, he’s down. Peering up at me through his scum of hair, he rasps, “When?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think it was around a year after you left. Your oldest daughter’s been taking care of Anna and Seth on her own.”
He pauses, processing. “And my mudder?”
“Leora’s been taking care of her too.” I stare down at him, his arms dangling over his legs, the bald patch on his crown shining in the light. “You should be ashamed,” I spit.
He lowers his head and sobs. “I am. I am.”
My courage falters when I see Leora and her sister sitting on the front porch steps. Anna’s making a necklace by stringing the buttons pooled in her lap; Leora’s mending one of the dresses that I recognize as hers because she was wearing it the day I crashed, when everything both ended and began.
Overhead, the rising crescent moon winks like one of the buttons glittering in Anna’s lap. Anna passes another button to Leora, and she sews it onto the dress, which seems odd since I’ve never noticed buttons on any of the Mennonite women’s dresses before. Leora glances up as I approach. “Hello,” she says.
“Hey,” I respond, yet my thoughts are consumed by the man I met in the center, an abstract sketch of the fully fleshed father and husband he had been. And I wonder if news of his proximity would be a burden or a gift.
Anna’s pale eyes dart between me and her sister. An intelligence is there I haven’t noticed due to the impediment of her speech . . . if she ever speaks at all.
I straighten my back. “Okay to talk in front of your sister?”
“Depends.” Leora doesn’t look up. “What do you have to say?”
“It’s about something I heard in town.”
“Go ahead. I’m not letting Anna out of my sight.”
Leora’s curtness makes me realize I came here with information I have no clue how to give. I decide not to tell her about her father but about the drifter I met in town. For now, just like I told Jabil, she doesn’t need to know they’re one and the same.
“Is it true?” she asks, once I’m finished conveying Luke’s news.
“The person who said it seemed to know what he was talking about.”
She sets the dress down and looks up, gripping a button in her palm. “So what are you going to do about it? Use the Suburban to scout the area?”
“Believe me, if a massive gang saw a vehicle coming up the road toward them, they’d kill the driver and hijack it without a second thought. No, I’m wondering if there’s somewhere I can go that’s up high and offers a long-range view down the main road? I am talking like way out of their long-range view. If there’s something like that, maybe I could take Charlie’s spotting scope and see what’s coming miles before it gets here.”
She pauses, fingering the button. “If any large group is coming from the north, they’d be coming down Highway 87. And if I’m remembering right, you can see up that road for miles from the fire tower. I wouldn’t completely trust it, though. It hasn’t been maintained in ages. It’s been years since I’ve been up there myself.”
“And it might be occupied.”
“A fire tower occupied?” she asks. “By whom?”
“By any random person looking to take advantage of a remote structure. Especially one with a vantage point like that. But it’s worth checking out. Could you show me on a map?”
She shakes her head and picks up the needle again. “I’ve only been there a handful of times. It’s the same trail that takes you down by Glacier Falls.”
“Where’s that?”
Leora sighs. “I guess I should take you.”
“No way. I want you safe.”
Face half-concealed in shadow, her thoughts are hard to read. She glances over at her sister. “I don’t think there’s any safe place anymore. I’m in as much danger walking in my own yard,” she says, spearing the fabric of the dress, “as I would be walking in the woods with you.”