My brother looks away in deference. But I know that while he’ll tolerate our point of view for now, he’ll never agree with it—or give his blessing. “All right then.”
I look around the table. Everyone is staring down at their plates, concentrating a little too intently on their food. Across from me, Irene scoots her husband’s plate closer to him. “Maybe you should eat your food instead of partaking in idle talk like an old woman.”
Sarah coughs into her hand but doesn’t quite cover her laugh. “There’s date pudding for dessert.”
“That’s my favorite.” Irene smiles at her sister-in-law. “Right after snitz pie.”
“I haven’t had snitz pie since Big Joe Beiler married Edna Miller,” William says through a mouthful of chicken.
I barely hear the exchange over the low thrum of my temper. Don’t get me wrong; I love my brother and sister. Growing up, they were my best friends and, sometimes, my partners in crime. There were many things I loved about being Amish: being part of a tight-knit community. Growing up with the knowledge that I was loved not only by my family, but by my brethren. But this afternoon I’m reminded of two things I detested: narrow-mindedness and intolerance.
As if reading my mind, Tomasetti sets his hand on my arm and squeezes. “Let it go,” he says quietly.
I’m relieved when my cell phone vibrates against my hip. “I’ve got to take this,” I say, pulling out my phone and getting to my feet.
I walk a few yards away from the picnic tables and answer with my usual: “Burkholder.”
“Sorry to bother you on your afternoon off, Chief. Just wondering if you’ve been following the weather.”
It’s Rupert Maddox, but everyone calls him “Glock” because he has a peculiar fondness for his sidearm. A war vet with two tours in Afghanistan under his belt, he’s my most solid officer and the first African American to grace the Painters Mill PD.
“Actually, I’m not,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Weather service just issued a tornado warning for Knox and Richland Counties,” he tells me. “We got some serious shit on the way. It just touched down north of Fredericktown.”
Thoughts of my family evaporate, and I press the phone more tightly against my ear. “Casualties?” I ask. “Damage?”
“SHP says it’s a war zone,” he says, referring to the state highway patrol. “There’s a tornado on the ground and headed this way, moving fast. Fifteen minutes and we’re going to be under the gun.”
“Call the mayor. Tell him to get the sirens going.”
“Roger that.”
But I know that while the tornado sirens are an effective warning for people living in town and will give them time to get into their basements or storm shelters, Holmes County is mostly rural. The majority of people live too far away to hear the sirens. To make matters worse, the Amish don’t have TVs or radios and have no way of knowing there’s a dangerous storm on the way.
“Call dispatch and tell Lois I want everyone on standby. If things look dicey at the station, she needs to take cover down in the jail.”
“Got it.”
“Glock, do you and LaShonda have a basement?”
“Got it covered, Chief. I’ve got a weather radio down there. And a Wii for the kids.”
“Good.” I look over at the picnic table to see Tomasetti standing, his head cocked, looking at me intently. “Look, I’m at my brother’s farm, and we’re about nine miles east of town. Can you give me a hand and help me get the word out?”
“I’ll take the west side and go door to door. Sheriff’s got some deputies out, too.”
“Thanks. Do me a favor and stay safe, will you?”
“You, too.”
I hit END and stride back to the table. “There’s a tornado on the ground west of here and heading this way.”
“I thought it looked bad,” Irene says, getting to her feet.
Jacob rises. “How close?”
“You’ve got fifteen minutes to get the animals turned out and everyone in the basement.”
William leaves the table and starts toward the buggy where his horse is hitched. “I’m going to turn my gelding out, too.”
“I’ll help.” Jacob starts after him. “Probably ought to put the buggy in the barn.”
Tomasetti leans close. “Saved by the tornado,” he mutters, but he’s already reaching for his smartphone to check radar.
Sarah has snatched up several serving dishes, still mounded with food, and stacked them haphazardly in her arms. Looking harried, Irene herds my niece and nephews toward the back porch. I know there’s a door off the kitchen that will take them to the stairs. The basement is a damp, dark room, but it’s their best protection against debris if the storm passes over or near the house.
I address Sarah: “Leave the food. You’ve only got a few minutes. Gather up the kids and get everyone in the basement.”
I turn my attention to William and Jacob twenty yards away, already working in tandem to unhitch the horse. “Ten minutes!” I call out to them.