THE BOYS WHO WERE SHOT yesterday were buried last night. The men placed their bodies in homemade caskets and lowered them into holes dug at the edge of the property, where the fence separates us from national forest land. I decided to come out here this afternoon while Anna takes her standard Sunday nap—a picture book tented on top of the covers and her arms outstretched, as if everything is the same as it has always been. I didn’t realize, until crossing the lane away from our house, that this is the first time I’ve been alone since the EMP. For a moment I battle guilt, wondering if Anna will be all right without me. But I cannot watch her every second, protecting her from the outsiders and from my own people, whom—considering what happened right outside our gates—I am also not sure I can trust.
The small gravestone is marked only with my mudder’s name, Dorothy Ebersole, and not with the dates of her birth and death. Myron Beiler crafted the simple marker out of kindness, since there was nothing, not even a wooden cross, that we could afford. A few weeds have sprouted since I last tended the area. I pull them and leave in their place a fistful of Indian paintbrush—one of the wildflowers she always loved. I glance at the sunken mound, where her own pine box has settled, and try to picture the transformation that has taken place in heaven rather than the one beneath the earth.
I walk over to the new, unmarked graves, convex with soil. I am sure they are deep, just as I am sure the caskets were as sturdy as they could be, considering the necessary haste of burying the men within twenty-four hours after their deaths. Jabil never does anything halfheartedly, and I know from the guilt I saw lingering around his mouth last evening—when the men hitched up the wagon to carry the bodies across the field—that these burial rites were a kind of penance for such a careless extinguishing of two lives. I don’t blame him for not stopping the shooting; I don’t blame anyone. I merely think there must be another way to approach this end of our world.
I stand by the graves for some time, until the sun begins to descend behind the snow-covered mountain range and, like a parting gift, wraps the valley with a ribbon of fire. Then I look beyond the graves into the forest, thick with feathered pines and spruce, the ground adorned with leftover ferns and cones. I step closer to the fence, gripping the cold wire squares, and see—down the row—an intricate spiderweb waiting to ensnare the creator’s prey. I understand that we could set traps. We could hunt and fish. We could gather roots and nuts and herbs. If what Sal claimed about herself is true—and not a scheme to remain on this property while everyone else is turned away—she should be the best person to help me discover what we need to survive.
Hope rouses in my chest as I stare deep into the forest. Then, next to a towering pine, I see a contrasting flash of white. I blink hard, wiping the crust of old tears from my eyes. The deer is exquisite, an albino more phantom than whitetail buck, and so unlike anything I’ve seen, I almost think the horrors of yesterday have distorted my mind. Its rack is symmetrical, the tines curling forward into lengthened points. The soft folds of its nostrils look darker compared to the blanched color of its fur. We stare at each other in the fading light, his hide rippling with the primal urge to run, even as his strange pink eyes remain affixed on me.
I know this deer is the one hunters have been seeking for years: the exotic creature left behind when the former fenced-in hunting reserve became national forest. Yet somehow he has remained—adapted and survived—despite the odd color of his own hide setting the odds against him. If he can survive, maybe our community can survive too, through compromise and adaptation. And thus, we must embrace this alliance with the Englischers, even if doing so means compromising everything about the sanctity of life that we’ve been taught.
I glance behind me—wondering, suddenly, if anyone else has contemplated coming to pay their respects to those who may or may not have intended to snuff out our lives, like a hand clamped over a candle flame. Not wanting the whitetail’s survival uncovered, I clap loudly, my palms stinging with the impact. The buck snorts. His tail stands up, the white tip as elongated as a spear. He bounds into the woods without looking back. This is when I comprehend the buck has remained, adapted, and survived not despite having a community, but because he has none.
I walk up the porch steps and sit on the bench to remove my shoes, since the soles are clotted with mud from my graveyard vigil. I set them aside to dry and look up at my house. Illumined by the kerosene lamp, the picture window appears like a shadow box, framing my family as they sit up for a meal my mudder, of course, has not prepared. Sal, her son in her lap, has assumed my usual place at the head of the table. Anna and Seth are sitting across from each other. Grossmammi Eunice is sitting up as well. Watching the scene, I feel both pleased and heartsick. My family is capable of living without me; therefore, I can no longer hide behind them rather than embracing a future and a plan.
Sal says, when I enter the house, “Hope it’s okay I made my way around your kitchen.”
“Please—” I hold up my hand—“you’re more than welcome to make yourself at home.”
And she is welcome, though I typically abhor someone invading my territory—even someone who isn’t a stranger. And food isn’t the only way Sal has helped. She has been staying with us for less than forty-eight hours, and she has swept the house, beaten dust from the rugs, and organized the dried goods and meats and cheeses, which have been brought in from Field to Table, according to product and color, so I have to fight no compulsion to redo her work. Sal believes she must do these things to compensate for her stay. I would console her by saying this is not the case, yet I know it’s true. Melinda—who must be sleeping—has not pulled her share of the weight, and so she should technically be ousted from the community. But the guilt I battle, because of how I first treated her, won’t let me turn her in.
“Has Melinda been up yet?” I point to the living room door that is, once again, closed. Sal shakes her head and fills Seth’s mug with coffee. I never let him drink coffee in case the myth is true and the caffeine stunts his growth—not to mention that it’s right before bed. But Seth just watches me, his eyes crackling with defiance, and takes a sip. Some things aren’t worth arguing over, especially since he seems to be purposely antagonizing me, and I don’t want to give him the reaction he seeks. If he’s being forced to face the responsibilities of adulthood, I guess he should be able to drink coffee like a man.
My grossmammi says, gumming around a spoonful of food, “They talked about the Four Horsemen when I was a girl, but I never thought I’d last long enough to see the end of times.” Her words are muddled by mashed potato and by her native Pennsylvania Dutch accent, which hasn’t lost its potency over the years, despite the different places she’s lived. I’m sure this combination makes it next to impossible for Sal to understand her, and I am grateful. Nothing like mentioning the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to top off the night.
I leave my family to finish their meal in peace, as my stomach is too unsettled to join them, passing through the kitchen and opening the door to the living room. The space is fetid with the scent of trapped air and unwashed clothes, but it does not hold the same dark power it used to. Perhaps that’s because there are too many current issues to remain debilitated by past events. I stride across the room and yank back the curtains. I have been patient with Melinda, but there’s a point when I have to stop letting myself be treated like the proprietor of a hotel. I glance at the couch where she sleeps and see the pillow and crocheted afghan, which we lent to her, stacked on the left-hand side. The end table beside the couch is cluttered with a still life of breakfast remnants, the whole of which I brought to her this morning: apple peelings, a piece of jelly toast nibbled along the crust, a white ceramic mug whose interior is ringed with a tea stain, the bag withered on the saucer beside it. I turn and survey the entire room, searching for her or for something I may have missed.
Looking at the pillow again, I see a small white square stamping out the embroidered background. I walk over to the couch and peer down at the pillow, finding a note written on a piece of stationery Melinda must have found in the desk. I pick the note up and study the erratic penmanship, for a moment unable to form the letters into words: Thanks for everything, it reads, but just waiting here is killing me.
There is a lump in my throat I would’ve never thought Melinda could summon—despite our moment on the porch, when I viewed her unshed tears. It’s not only because she’s left; it’s because I don’t know what’s going to happen to her now that she’s reentered our disjointed society. We could’ve figured something out if she had spoken with us. I regret not telling her those hollow platitudes, for offering someone false hope is better than offering them no hope at all. But maybe it wasn’t my silence that drove her away; maybe she just couldn’t handle the strain of separation from her family and decided it would be better to risk everything instead of moldering in a stranger’s house, marking the infinite hours of her life with pills.
I close the door behind me, strangely calm in the wake of Melinda’s departure. Sal, Grossmammi Eunice, and Seth look up. Baby Colton and Anna—who is stabbing her carrot with a fork—are the only ones who remain oblivious to my face, which must give my news away before I’ve had the chance to speak. “It seems . . .” I pause to breathe shallowly through my mouth. “It seems Melinda left sometime while we were at church.”
Seth sets his coffee mug down at once and rises from the table. He pulls his hat over his shaggy brown hair. I move toward him and hold on to his arm, partially to show my affection and partially to emphasize the severity of the request I’m about to make. He stiffens under my touch but doesn’t move away. How have I not noticed how tall he’s grown? How handsome he’s become? But I have to admit that he has been overlooked since long before the EMP. Anna’s special needs require so much attention that Seth has often been treated more like a cherished neighbor boy than a brother or a son.
“Find Jabil and ask if someone let Melinda through the gate,” I intone. “If they haven’t, she might still be around.” My brother nods at my instructions and leaves, his purposeful stride such a mirroring of my vadder’s that I have to turn from the sight.
Sal meets my eyes, and I can tell she understands the severity of what has happened all on her own. If Melinda—as weak and dehydrated as she was—has already gotten past our gates, she is as close to death as if she had accidentally overdosed—her death the tragic end I had been preparing myself for whenever I entered that same dank room where I found my mudder.
I beckon Sal toward me, and she rises with Colton on her hip. I pull the living room door closed behind us and ask quietly, “Does Melinda stand a chance?”
Though I am at least three inches taller than Sal, I feel young and naive standing next to her. I find myself pondering—looking down into her black, bottomless gaze—what those eyes must’ve seen to possess such knowledge. “No single woman stands much of a chance these days,” she says. “That’s why I had to leave town.” Sal turns from me and switches her son to her other hip. “You mind if me and Colton move in here?”
I am so taken aback, I don’t know what to say. Her request seems not only premature, but coldhearted, since we don’t know if Melinda is truly gone. On the other hand, I got so distracted by the arrival of the refugees and the shooting that followed, I never got around to speaking to Jabil about Seth staying at their house. So for the past two nights, my brother has grumbled each time he’s had to make his bed on the laundry room floor. If he were my son, I would teach him a lesson by making him sleep there even when his room opens back up.
But I am not his mother; I am his sister. I don’t want to squander these uncertain days teaching him lessons I am barely old enough to learn. I want the kind of fun relationship with him I’ve never made the effort to have with anyone.
“I . . . suppose,” I tell Sal. “You can sleep in the living room. But—”
“Great,” she interrupts, smiling. “You think your grandma can watch Colton while I run to get some things from the apartment?”
Again her request surprises me. No one has ventured past the perimeter since the young men’s deaths have set the community on edge. And yet here an eighteen-year-old single mother wants to get some things from her apartment like traversing the ten hazardous miles to Liberty is as easy as walking down to Field to Table for bread.
I say, “Let me ask. I’m sure she wouldn’t care.”
Indeed, the question has hardly left my mouth when Grossmammi Eunice reaches for the child. Her cataract-filmed eyes gleam with happiness as he’s placed in her arms, and those eyes are about the only feature that reveal she’s not tapped into some long-buried fountain of youth. You would never guess an eighty-nine-year-old Mennonite grandmother—who is legally blind, no less—would be vain about her appearance, but she is. Two days ago, I informed Grossmammi Eunice that our coconut oil can no longer be used as a daily tonic for her skin and hair. But judging from her glistening face, so far she hasn’t listened. I guess she figures it is more important to remain wrinkle-free than to cook our food.
When I come back from the outhouse, Sal has left to return to her apartment, and Anna is sitting at the table with baby Colton on her lap. Grossmammi Eunice is sitting beside her in case Anna makes any sudden movements, which could put the child at risk. But my sister does nothing untoward, just continues nuzzling that eight-month-old like he is from her own flesh. My heart seizes as I close the door behind me and remain clinging to the cool, round knob.
Shortly after our vadder left, Anna led me into the bathroom and showed me proof that her cycle had begun. I hugged her tight and cried into her braided hair, mourning her physical transition into womanhood far more than I had my own—possibly because I knew my sister’s mental transition might never match it. But here she is, loving on a child with a maternal instinct that does not always come naturally to me due to my impatience.
“Come, Anna,” I call. More firmly, I repeat her name. She looks up from the child, her cheeks flushed pink. “Let’s go to our room.” She shakes her head, holding the baby closer to her chest. “You can bring Colton.” Only after this suggestion does my sister comply and rise to her feet. She smiles as she walks by me, her spine straight as a dancer’s as she supports the baby’s head with her hand. I follow her into our bedroom. She sits on our bed with Colton on her lap, and I stretch out beside her. With one hand, she strokes the hair not pinned beneath my kapp.
The band across my chest begins to loosen only once I force myself to submit to the fact that Melinda might be gone, or she might not want to come back if we’re able to find her. I am aware the level of my grief overtakes my level of affection for this woman. Is it the sad familiarity of her dependence on the prescription bottle, or the fact that when she was under the influence of its contents, she never liked for me to see her eyes? But somehow, someway, Melinda’s disappearance has enlarged the pain generated by the disappearance of my vadder.
Anna continues stroking my hair and murmuring her nonsensical lullaby. Tears drip onto the spinning star quilt on our bed—tears that I have pent up inside me since the night we knew he wasn’t coming home, after which so much changed so fast that I didn’t have time to process it. I turn toward her and curl up like the babe in her arms. This is the first time in two years I can remember receiving comfort from a member of my family, rather than doling out what I don’t have to give. I wonder if my sister possessed this nurturing ability all along, and I have been too focused on trying to be her guardian to see it.
The volunteers gather beside the gates at dusk. Most carry lamps or flashlights—the necessary use of oil and batteries making me wish we could’ve searched earlier, by the renewable source of the sun. I spot Leora on the fringes of a larger group, which—looking closer—I see is only composed of the twelve-member Risser family: a massive search party by themselves.
When Leora moves past me, I reach out, and she steps back—the lamp swinging, throwing blades of light across the lane. I steady her on impulse, my hand still extended. She flinches at my touch and meets my eyes. I can tell, despite the dim light, that she’s been crying. “You okay?” She doesn’t answer but focuses on the space over my shoulder.
I pivot and look to see, of course, Jabil—the man who seems determined to keep his fingers in every administrative pie—climbing the scaffolding. Like a town crier he bellows out the information I’ve already learned: Every nook and cranny, field and dell of the community has been searched, so we know Melinda is not on the premises.
But no one remembers opening the gates for her, either, so she must’ve been desperate enough to climb over the national forest fence while we were at church. I have to wonder if the sound of yesterday’s gunshots was what made her understand the perilousness of our situation so she decided to take her chances and run.
“For safety purposes,” Jabil continues, “I think a man should accompany each group. We need people to go to the Mendenhalls, the McCords, and the Slocums and ask if they’ve seen a female who fits Melinda’s description.”
“I’d like to see how the McCords are doing anyway,” says Myron Beiler, the man who loaned me the crutches. “Our family will go there.”
“Thanks.” Jabil scratches something down on his list. “How about the Mendenhalls?”
Eugene Risser says, “We can go there.”
“You mind swinging by the Brooks’ place on your way out? Brian McCord said they were out of town when the EMP hit, but we should check their grounds too, just in case.”
Eugene nods, and I watch Jabil’s thick brows furrow as he holds a flashlight above his paper and makes another note on his list.
“Now,” Jabil says, “Leora?” I watch Leora nod in response. “I was wondering if you’d like to check on the Slocums. Since they’re the farthest away, I’ll take you in my wagon.”
Concealed by the darkness, I roll my eyes. A man needs to go with each family for safety purposes; yeah right, Jabil just wants an excuse to cozy up to Leora.
“And you, Moses—”
I give Jabil a look that I hope conveys how enthralled I am by his convenient administrative tactics.
“You can stay here with Charlie and guard the gates.”
“Gee, thanks,” I drawl. “I’m sure you sweated hard over where to put me on your list.”
Jabil’s busy scratching away on that stupid list, but I can see the grin fighting to overtake his mouth. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Straightening his back, Jabil tucks the flashlight under his arm. “All right, everybody, if you come across Melinda or hear any news of her whereabouts, come to the front gate and ring the triangle. I’m not sure we’ll be able to hear you at the Slocums’ place, but everyone else should. . . . And be safe!”
The three families begin to disperse, their flashlight beams and lamps signaling like Morse code into the darkness. Someone claps me on the back. I glance over my shoulder and see Jabil, no longer attempting to hide his smarmy grin. “Keep a watch out for us. Will ya?”
“I’ll keep a watch, all right,” I retort, trying not to pay attention as he gives Leora a hand into his wagon and then climbs up beside her. Snapping the reins on the horse’s back, he drives out through the gates. I pull the gates closed and slide the massive dead bolts—which Henri soldered after the shooting—into place. Sighing, I clamber up the scaffolding that Jabil just climbed down and sit on my usual perch next to Charlie, who’s wearing a headlamp and sipping some of our dwindling coffee rations from a teacup, the image incongruous with the .22 balanced across his knees. The outline of Jabil and Leora vanishes down the road: his suspendered back and wide-brimmed hat, her rigid posture and kapped hair making them look like they are decked out for a historical reenactment.
Leora
Halfway to the Slocums’ residence, our wagon overtakes a small, solitary figure. My blood pounds in my ears. I turn in the seat and struggle to peer at the person’s features concealed beneath a hood. I know the odds that it’s Melinda aren’t in my favor, since she wouldn’t be caught dead in a gray sweatshirt, but I still reach across Jabil’s lap and pull back on the reins.
He looks over at me, startled, and I jump down out of the wagon before he has the chance to stop me. I feel more helpless walking down that highway than I have ever felt in my life. Bonfires glimmer in the meadows where the refugees are camping. The pungent scent of wood smoke used to fill me with anticipation of fall: hunting season when the men would return from the mountains in their bright-orange garb, their mules packed down with the field-dressed game; applesauce day at our neighbor’s stove with a bubbling apple crumble waiting to be eaten as our reward; hymn sings around a bonfire, sitting on scratchy straw bales with our hands warmed by mugs of hot chocolate or coffee. Now, though, the wood smoke fills me only with dread, since we have no idea if the refugees in those meadows are families just trying to survive, or if they are mendicants plotting to overtake people like us, traveling the road.
The staccato pop of gunfire causes my nails to dig into my palms. I glance over my shoulder to see Jabil turned around on the bench seat, watching me as well. But the road is eerily deserted, considering the deluge of people who were standing in line for our soup kitchen when those two high school boys were killed. I wonder if their violent deaths caused the refugees to fear us: a community which preaches nonresistance at any cost and yet, at the first test, does not live up to its claims. Or perhaps there is something patrolling this road that we should also fear, and it’s keeping everyone but this small, solitary figure away. Perhaps I should fear her too. More gunfire makes me cry out and duck.
The person walking toward me laughs. “You ain’t been on the road for long, I take it?”
The voice is too harsh to be Melinda’s.
“No, I haven’t. Have you?”
She shrugs. “Lost track o’ time.”
We meet in the center of the highway: her well-worn sneakers on the right yellow line, my muddy black shoes on the left. Her stench is unbearable, but not wanting to appear rude, I remain where I am. The woman folds her arms. Moonlight dapples her features, overtaking the shadow cast by the hood. She is older than I thought. The skin of her face is pitted and raw from having been exposed to the elements. Her eyes, pinched between crinkled folds, are pale.
I have such difficulty distinguishing the irises from the whites that I assume the woman is blind until she reaches out and grapples my wrist in one birdlike claw. I leap back—another scream scaling my throat—but she just says, “Have you seen my dog? Griffin?” She releases me and squats on the road with the agility of a child, demonstrating that her pet is less than half a foot tall. “He’s straight-up Heinz 57. Skinny and black with a white chest and tail. He disappeared two days ago, when I was in town.”
“I’m so sorry. Haven’t seen him.”
The woman stands and glowers over my shoulder. “Didn’t expect you would. . . . That is, unless you seen him on a spit.” I am compelled to look at the meadow of bonfires too. “I think them people ate him.” Her smile—showing off more gums than teeth—is a bit deranged, and I wonder if she was homeless long before the EMP.
“You haven’t seen my friend, have you?” I ask, though it seems odd to swap inquiries with a woman searching for her dog. “Name’s Melinda? About thirty-five with short blonde hair? Rather pretty.” Or at least she was.
The woman shakes her head; then clarity comes to her pale eyes, like she can see right through me. “I’ve passed so many people all trying to find somebody they lost, makes me wonder if they cared that much about losing them before they was gone.”
I thank the woman and head back to the wagon, knowing that what she said is true. Before Melinda left, I would’ve never guessed how hard I would try to find her.
“Should I take you home?” Jabil asks as the wagon pulls back into Mt. Hebron.
“It’s past midnight.” I glance over. “Where else is there to go but home?”
He doesn’t respond. Moses latches the gate behind us. I turn on the bench seat and see him standing between the gate and the wagon, staring to the left, though nothing is there but the outline of Field to Table in the dark. For the second time tonight, I leap from the wagon. Jabil says to the horse, “Whoa, whoa.” The wooden wheels roll to a stop. He calls after me, “Thought you were going home.” When I don’t respond, he continues, “You shouldn’t be out this late.”
I keep walking away from him but call behind me, “Wasn’t I just out this late with you?”
Moses has climbed on top of the scaffolding again. I feel the draw of his eyes as I approach, but he says nothing. I mentally berate myself for jumping from Jabil’s wagon when I’m obviously wanted more there than here. I turn back to trail its tracks, which have gouged parallel grooves in the crusher-run gravel. The wagon is still close enough that I hope Jabil doesn’t turn around and see me, slighted and trying to catch up. I take two steps in his direction when Moses says, “Need something, Leora?”
Rattled, I about-face. I look up at him and shade my eyes, as if that gesture will help me see better in the night. I lower my hand. “Have you heard anything about Melinda?”
Moses gets up and walks to the scaffolding’s edge. He smiles down at me. “Sorry, no. No one’s seen anything.” He pauses. “You and Jabil were the last ones back.”
“We were also the farthest from the community.”
“No doubt that was planned.”
“Well. Not by me.”
Coughing a laugh, Moses shakes his head. “No, not by you.” He thumbs the air over his shoulder. “Charlie’s making rounds. Wanna come up? It’ll be a little while before he gets back.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling; I’m never brazen enough to ask for what I want. I grip the rungs, and scales of paint slough off like dead matter. Moses doesn’t offer me a hand, but directs a flashlight at my hands so I can make the climb on my own.
“How ’bout you?” he asks, once I’ve reached the top. “See anything?”
I shake my head and sit on the scaffolding edge beside him—our feet dangling, the heels of our boots tapping lightly on the rungs. “A window was broken and a lamp turned over. But nobody was there. Looked like the Slocums just packed up their stuff and left.”
“They have people nearby?”
“Doubt it. They moved here from Chicago to homestead.” I experience a bout of sadness, recalling the Slocums’ framed paintings, depicting peaceful scenes juxtaposed by the dwelling’s abandoned state. “Why didn’t they come here?” I ask. “We could’ve helped them.”
“Would we have, Leora? Sounds good in theory, but if it came down to our families or theirs, would we still have shared our rations equally, or kept some for ourselves?”
“I think, if it came down to that, we’d have to pray and ask God to provide.”
“Then you’d better start praying.”
I peer across at him. “What do you mean by that?”
Moses doesn’t say, just shuts off the flashlight and lies back on the scaffolding’s boards. He props his hands behind his head. “Today I counted the sacks of rice at Field to Table. I thought at first they’d been distributed to the community, but Jabil said that wasn’t the case.”
“So . . . we don’t have as much food as you thought?” Moses confirms this with a nod. My voice breaks. “How am I going to take care of my family?”
“Maybe it’s not your responsibility to take care of them.”
“If it’s not mine, whose is it? My vadder’s?” Moses appears stunned by the anger in my voice. I try to explain. “My mamm . . . she never got her footing back after our vadder disappeared. So overnight the yoke of that responsibility fell across my shoulders. I could tell she felt bad that I had to work so hard; life was hard on all of us, but it was especially challenging for her and for me. I guess that’s why she was eager to get me married—believing life would be easier if I just gave in and shared Jabil’s last name, along with his social and financial standing in our community. But I never gave in. I always wondered if she wanted me to be with Jabil because she had my best interest at heart, or because she saw in him the man she should’ve ended up with—if she’d only used her head.”
Moses sits up and leans back on his arms. He looks over at me and then looks ahead. “I won’t tell you what I think you should or shouldn’t feel, or what you should or shouldn’t do, ’cause I don’t know you well enough and it’s not my place. But I will say that I think you’ve been really brave, Leora. Nobody should have to go through what you’ve gone through.” Our fingertips brush. It might be an accident of proximity or on purpose. But neither of us pulls away.
I lift my shoulders. “I wouldn’t say your own life’s been a walk in the park.”
“No, it hasn’t.” Each word is measured and poured out when he continues. “But it’s been nice, lately . . . having somebody like you to walk beside me.”
Our hands remain close. I stare up at the sky in silence—my heart pulsing like the stars.