The Alliance (10 page)

The men silently watch the woman and child come through the gate, and I’m sure their wielded hammers, handsaws, and drills make a violent first impression. I recognize the woman right away, mostly because she’s wearing the same clothing she was wearing when we met her in town. She is smaller than I remember, her spine weighted with a cheap backpack that is so stuffed, the zipper will not fully close. She glances around at the men, hugging the baby tighter, fear in her eyes. I can tell she wonders if she fled town only to find refuge in a place that is no refuge at all.

I break away from the workers in an attempt to assure her we’re not as dangerous as we look. “Hey,” I say, smiling. “I’m Moses. The women are all working over at Field to Table.” I point to the long log cabin within walking distance of the gate. “You can go up there if you want; they’ll help with whatever you need.”

The woman is quiet for so long, I would begin to doubt she knows English if I hadn’t heard her speak to Leora the other night. Then she says, so abruptly that it catches me off guard, “On my way here, I saw a group making an assembly line down at the river. They were using buckets. But they don’t know if the water’s clean.” She pauses. “Do they?”

“If it
was
clean,” Charlie calls, eavesdropping from above, “it’s probably not now.”

Giving Charlie a look, which he returns with venom, I touch the woman lightly on the sleeve. She flinches, drawing her arm against her body as if it’s hurt.

“I was just on my way to Field to Table,” I say, acting like her behavior’s normal. “Would you like me to introduce you to the women of the community?”

She nods, cupping the child’s head to her chest. He’s in a sling that looks like it was made from a bedsheet. As we walk past the gate, there is only the sound of construction and our shoes crunching over gravel. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Sal.” She adjusts the sling, pulling a knit hat over the child’s ears, though it’s warm outside.

“What’s his name?”

“Colton.”

She’s sure not one for small talk, so I say nothing else as we draw closer to Field to Table. The bustling women in their somber dresses and filmy, winged
kapps
remind me of
worker bees eager to gather every ounce of sustenance before the window of time runs out. The glass doors of the building are propped open with fifty-pound sacks of rice. I wonder how long until rice—the most consumed and plentiful provision in the world—becomes priceless. A few weeks? A few months? Everything’s going to get harder, too, as we draw closer to winter, and the land isn’t able to compensate for the stores’ lack.

“Do people know the community’s out here?” I ask.

Sal studies me from the corner of her eye. “Yeah.”

“Then why haven’t they come, begging for food or trying to steal it?”

“Far as the begging goes,” she says, staring down at the sacks of rice, “guess they have more pride than I do. As for the stealing . . . I’d say it’s only a matter of time.”

Stepping to the side, I let Sal move past me into the dry goods store. So many women are coming in and out that, at first, our entrance doesn’t draw any attention. But then I see Leora. She’s sitting on an overturned crate next to a large plastic bucket, holding the bucket’s foil liner by the edges, while her younger sister, Anna, fills it with rice from a sack. Anna is concentrating on every scoop, her tongue clenched between small white teeth. Colton whimpers in Sal’s sling, and Leora lifts her head, scanning the aisles for the child like a mother would. Her eyes land on me. The bag quivers in her hand, spilling irreplaceable pellets of rice across
the floor, reminding me of the weddings I have attended where—out of ignorance or apathy—they tossed rice at the bride and groom instead of birdseed. One of the countless wasteful traditions that makes no sense after the EMP.

“What
is
this place?” Sal asks. “A grocery store?”

Breaking our stare, Leora looks down again, her ears bright against her
kapp
. I can’t tell if she is pleased or irritated by my reappearance. “Kind of,” I tell Sal absently. I glance around. Rows of shelves are faced with canned goods like lima beans, black beans, mixed vegetables, potatoes, diced tomatoes, and condensed milk. Each item is priced with an orange sticker, and some of the cans are dented around the rim. There is even a freezer and refrigerator section, both of which have already been cleared out. There is a produce section, also emptied. A shelf full of colorful glass jars is beside another shelf with nuts, dried fruit, and old-fashioned ribbon and horehound candy wrapped in bags and secured with twist ties.

In the back of the store is a grouping of two-seater tables covered with gingham tablecloths. There is a dispenser of K-Cups of coffee and tea and a blackboard featuring—in different colors of chalk—the menu from ten days ago: a roast beef, horseradish, and cheese sandwich on homemade bread with a baked good, pickle, and a hot or cold drink for $5.99. I imagine commuters stopping by to fill up on fresh-from-the-oven baked goods and mediocre coffee. Will they
remember this place? All of the meats, cheeses, produce, and canned goods? Will they try to make it back here and see if anything’s left? One thing’s for certain: only time will tell.

“Hold on a sec,” I tell her. “I’ve got to speak to someone.”

Leora says as I approach, “Thought you’d be gone by now.”

I say, simply, “Me too.”

“Is that the woman from town?”

I nod. “Her name’s Sal. She and her little boy just came through the gate.”

“Charlie let her in?”

“Yeah. But not because he wanted to.”

Leora checks that all the grains of rice are tucked inside the foil bag lining the bucket, drops an oxygen-absorber packet on top of them, takes a rubber mallet, and pounds the lid closed. She walks around the canned goods aisle over to where Sal stands.

“Hi there,” Leora says. She strokes the sole of the baby’s socked foot dangling from the sling. Feeling my gaze, she glances over. I don’t know what thoughts are taking place behind those glasses, and she doesn’t say anything to reveal them. Someone calls my name. Leora turns from me, and Jabil is standing there, his broad shoulders filling up the doorway and casting a shadow across the floor.

“Moses,” he repeats. “We need you at the gate.”

Sal says, “Are people coming?”

I turn from Jabil and see her ruddy skin tone has blanched to a flat white.

“It’s not your fault,” I tell her. “We’ve been expecting them for days.”

Jabil says to me, “You ready?”

I clear my throat. “I am.” Which is a lie. I haven’t been ready for something like this since our recon mission in the desert, after which they shipped me home with PTSD.

Leora

T
HOUGH SHE IS INSIDE THE GATES,
the
Englischers
still consider Sal an outsider—a person who, ironically, is one of their own. Therefore, she is required to go to the
dawdi haus
that has been converted into a hospital, where she will be asked a series of questions by Deacon Good. I don’t care for this method of sorting out those who are an asset to the community from those who shouldn’t be allowed to stay. I understand we have a limited food supply, and each person should have to work for whatever rations he gets. But I’m unsure which category, in the eyes of the
Englischers
, Sal and her son belong to.

Inside the Beilers’ cramped
dawdi haus
, the dark wood and blackout curtains—so patients will be able to rest during the brightest hours of the day—make it appear more like an old-world tavern than my memories of the hospital where Anna spent so many months with occupational therapists.

Sal and I approach Deacon Good’s desk. She doesn’t flinch when he looks up from his paperwork and begins asking her a series of questions, to all of which she has ready answers.

“Full name?”

“Sally Jean Ramirez.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Previous place of residence?”

She just looks at him, eyes sparking. “Montana.”

“Yes. Of course.” He jots something down. “Any relatives living in the area?”

“My uncle and grandmother. They’re the only ones I’ve got left . . . besides my son.”

“Their names, please?”

“Mike and Papina Ramirez.”

I can feel Sal watching me, but when I glance over, her eyes are downcast, her teeth worrying a flake of dead skin on her bottom lip.

“And what was your occupation before . . .?” Deacon Good lets the words hang.

“A . . . healer.”

The hesitation is long enough to raise my suspicions. When I look up at Deacon Good—his pen paused, mid-transcription—I can tell that he is studying her face to judge if she is lying as well. “What kind of healer?”

“My grandmother’s Kutenai. She taught me which herbs to gather for poultices and tonics and dyes. She was a midwife and told fortunes—”

Deacon Good holds up his hand, but smiles. “We won’t be needing that kind of assistance.” Despite his gold-rimmed glasses and penchant for learning, his fingers are
stained and blistered from where he’s been working side by side with the men.

Sal’s baby writhes, discontent with being lodged so tightly against her chest. She adjusts him and looks up again, first over at me and then at Deacon Good. “I promise you—my grandmother taught me everything she knew. She
raised
me. I know these woods behind your property like the back of my hand.” Sal continues when Deacon Good doesn’t respond, her words propelled by her desperation. “I heard people in town talking about coming out here and doing drives to push out the game in your woods to armed standers.”

“It hasn’t even been two weeks,” I interject. “Surely they’re not desperate enough to start poaching and killing for food.”

Sal shrugs. “Food’s running out, and it doesn’t look like Walmart’s going to be restocking anytime soon.”

“What about that large beef farm over on Willow?” asks Deacon Good.

Sal nods. “Mayor Ramsey tried asking if they’d sell a few head of cattle to the town—had money and everything—but they wouldn’t take it. Said money was of no use to anyone. That they needed to come with stuff to barter. But I think they
really
know they’ll be sitting pretty if they wait ’til we’re desperate enough to give them anything they want.” Sal stops, holds her child’s dimpled fingers like she’s
drawing comfort from him rather than supplying it. “Mayor Ramsey finally went and used the money to buy grain off the feed supply; the price was jacked up, but the owners believe that the ‘lights’ or whatever are gonna come back on and money’s still gonna have its use. Ramsey said if things get bad enough, grain is grain . . . even if it was supposed to be used for cattle.”

I look at the child, beginning to nod off in Sal’s arms. His cheeks are full, his arms and legs plump. Yet I am sure his mother envisions him three months from now—emaciated and too succumbed to perpetual hunger to put up a cry. For his sake, she set her pride aside, accepted my invitation, and came here to us . . . only to find she has to jump through numerous hoops in order to stay. “That’s horrific that the beef farmers won’t sell,” I murmur. “To have the power to help someone and not do it—”

Deacon Good interrupts, “Even here, Leora, in
our
community, we’re finding that we’re at war with our own flesh. We want to help people by providing good nutrition and medical care. But on the other hand, we also want to preserve ourselves.”

“So . . . I can stay?” Sal asks. “Since I can help with medical care?”

“For the time being,” Deacon Good says. “But at this point, I can’t promise how long.”

Our community desperately needs someone who
understands the conundrum of the body better than most of us do; therefore Sal’s occupation as healer could not be more fitting if she were responding to a Help Wanted advertisement. That being said, I can tell Deacon Good is unsure of what kind of “healing” Sal can provide. Our heritage is all too familiar with the German powwow doctors, whom Mennonites and Amish sometimes called into sick rooms, knowing such dark practices went against their religious beliefs, but when faith and traditional medicine failed them, they were simply too desperate to care. Does Sal’s Kutenai heritage rely on the same chants and archaic fallacies in order to bring healing? If so, I know her already-perilous position will not be held in our community for long.

Deacon Good marks one of the small, spiral-bound notebooks I’ve seen at Field to Table with a check stamper, also from Field to Table: the place where, before
Vadder
left, I used to work in the summers, and after, I used to go with Anna to help break up our days. The notebook and stamp have clearly become the community’s passport and seal. When was this decided? And does Jabil know? I understand that unprecedented events are taking place, and so the Mt. Hebron leadership is being forced to make unprecedented decisions. But without our leadership being accountable to the spiritual hierarchy back in Lancaster—for how can they be, without a telephone or the postal service to help them
communicate?—I fear that we will be subjected to whatever governing whims the bishop and deacons believe necessary. Even if they’re not.

Deacon Good slides the stamped notebook across the desk. “Keep that with you at all times,” he instructs Sal. “As our numbers grow, there’ll be random checks to make sure every
Englischer
within the community has gone through the screening process.”

I stare at him in disbelief, perplexed how—in ten days—fear has driven us from open doors to anyone in need to here: keeping those doors closed unless the
Englischers
can provide something of use. And yet, haven’t I
also
feared that there won’t be enough supplies to sustain us until the next harvest season? Haven’t I
also
considered breaking the rules and hoarding food instead of sharing it equally within the community, so that if it comes right down to it, my family will survive while Jabil Snyder’s family—right next door—may starve?

Sal, however, does not seem appalled by our community’s lack of charity. “Where will I stay?” she asks, lifting up her parka to slide the notebook into the back pocket of her jeans.

Deacon Good glances at me. I nod, despite our home having reached maximum capacity with Melinda. He says, “Thank you, Leora. You’ll receive extra rations to compensate.” The immediacy of these rations, I’m ashamed to say, is
far greater reward for opening my home to Sal and her child than any heavenly treasure I am bound to receive.

With this news, Sal and I exit the
dawdi haus
and head back up toward Field to Table. Passing the community’s entrance, she says, “Those are some impressive-looking guns.”

I have heard that
Englischers
sometimes use the term
guns
colloquially in reference to arm muscles. But when I glance over, I see Sal is using the term in the literal sense. Charlie, Henri, and Sean, with their weapons, are tucked behind sandbags lined along the front of the platform.

I ask, “You like guns?”

“No. But I like what they can do. They got ammunition to go with them, or they just for pretty?”

I stop walking and glance over at Sal, wondering why a healer would be so preoccupied with weaponry. She stops walking as well and smiles, revealing a dimple burrowed in her left cheek. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just trying to figure out how secure this place is before I move in.”

I consider telling her that guns and ammunition cannot guarantee our protection from the locusts. That God alone is the one in whom we can trust. Then again, I’ve been spoon-fed pacifist doctrine all my life, and I’m not sure its precepts would be so easily digested by someone who carries a streetwise aura probably acquired through a diet of hard knocks.

I say instead, “I’m not sure how much ammunition they
have. If they have any at all. Those guys up there don’t really share that kind of information with me.”

“Because you’re a woman?”

“No. Because I’m a pacifist.”

Sal raises one eyebrow. “Like a hippie?”

“I think of
hippie
as a political term.
Pacifist
is more of a religious term. The people who practice it wouldn’t take up arms to defend themselves, no matter what.”

She snorts. “Trust me, these so-called pacifists will be surprised how fast they’ll be singing a different tune when all that’s standing between them and death are some standards.”

I flinch. Sal doesn’t know I’m already singing a different tune. That I am declaring my convictions with a confidence I do not possess, as I prepare to stand between starvation and my family. In addition, a true pacifist would never defend herself, as that undermines the principles of self-sacrifice pacifists try to proclaim through actions instead of words, since the adage is true and the former—actions—speak more loudly. So, what
do
I believe if I would be willing to take up arms to threaten someone’s life, even if I would not be willing to take that life into my hands? This is sobering to ponder, especially considering the next few months are going to test my every value—proving, once and for all, whether pacifism is not just a collective belief, but my personal belief as well.

My brother, to put it mildly, isn’t too enthused that our new roommate is a girl. “Why can’t we ever get a cool
Englischer
, like Moses?” he grumbles.

I knock on the thin wall separating the living room from the laundry room, where we’re in the middle of preparing his bed. “What if Melinda hears you?”

He rolls his eyes. “She wouldn’t hear a bomb go off.”

His snarky comment doesn’t translate well in these uncertain days, when we have no idea who’s attacked us with the EMP and if we’re going to be attacked again, perhaps with a bomb whose devastation will be visible and immediate rather than invisible and growing worse over time. Regardless of the times, I shouldn’t let Seth get away with such insolence. But a part of me wants to let it slide because I’m thankful that, though he’s old enough to crave a masculine presence, he’s too young to like being outnumbered by women.

I tell him, “We’re called to serve anyone who crosses our path, not just the ones you think are ‘cool.’” I cringe at how superior this sounds. I’ve never been the kind of fun big sister little brothers like to be around, and lately it seems that Seth isn’t only
not
enjoying my company—he is avoiding it. Then again, I think he’s been avoiding every person in this house.

Seth is all long bones and joints, like an artist’s quick sketch of a body in motion. He collapses this body onto the pallet with graceless ease and mashes the pillow behind his head. “Moses crossed our path first, and he’s not staying here.”

“He
can’t
stay here. That wouldn’t be proper.”

“Since when’s this family been concerned with ‘proper’?” His derision seems overblown, considering he only had to give up his closet-sized room to Sal and Colton. But I remember being his age, and how I viewed my room like the calm eye in the center of our household storm. This storm has abated since our
vadder
’s disappearance, which brought me equal measures of relief and guilt, because how could a daughter be happy her
vadder
was gone?