Tribe

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “All she's told me is that it's some client's kid. What I can't figure out is why she's gone so gaga over her.”

  “Maybe it's her maternal instincts flaring up.” Rawlins came into the living room and kissed Todd on the top of his head. “Listen, you two go out and have a good time. I just can't get enough of you, but that's my problem.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what are you looking at?”

  “Old pictures.”

  “Of whom, old lovers?”

  “Well, kind of.”

  With a laugh Todd reached into the box, sifted through a few more pictures, pulled out one of a blond girl. “Here's one—I dated Kathy in high school for about six weeks.” Next he pulled out one of him walking down the aisle with a slender woman in a white dress. “Oh, shit, here's my wedding picture.”

  “No kidding.”

  Before Todd knew, Rawlins was perched next to him on the couch, pulling the photograph from his hand. There was Todd, looking so virile, so happy; he remembered thinking this proved it, if he was getting married he couldn't be gay. And Trish, tall and radiant, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders. They looked the ideal couple.

  “She was pretty.”

  “Yeah, she still is too. I've seen her only a couple of times since we were divorced, but I hear she's doing really well. She's a pediatrician.” Todd took a deep breath, knowing this was on his list of things he had to do. “I've got to write her. Or call. I mean, I never talked about my being gay, even though that's obviously why things didn't work out between us.”

  “She must know.”

  “I'm sure she does, particularly after Michael was killed.” The story had not only made all the local papers but The New York Times as well. “Still, I need to set things straight.”

  “So to speak.” Rawlins rubbed Todd on the back of the neck. “Man, I can't imagine you married.”

  “Those were my deep denial years. I was just trying so hard to be normal.”

  “But you're not. Hasn't anyone told you that you're deviant?”

  “God, I was so stupid. Not only was I messing up my own life, but a lot of other people's too.” Todd groaned, reached into the box of photos. “Look, here's an old picture of me and Janice.”

  It was a faded color snapshot, the two of them dancing at some frat-house kegger. They both wore bell-bottoms, their hair was long and free, and their faces looked simple, even pure.

  “My favorite dyke,” said Rawlins with a grin as he studied the picture. “Wow, you two were just a couple of kids.”

  “That was taken back at Northwestern when we were little boyfriend and girlfriend. Can you believe it?”

  “My, what a curious and queer relationship that was. And look at both of you with those jeans—a couple of little hippies, huh?”

  “We did have fun.”

  Rawlins stared into the box and asked, “What else you got there?”

  Todd dug around and finally pulled up a large-group photo. “Here's a group photo in front of the frat house I lived in.”

  Todd looked at the big old brick building with the large terrace out front. All the guys were gathered there, the faces so eager, so young, so full of unbridled energy. Some of the guys were holding beers, others looked to be screaming, and most had long hair, scruffy clothes. Immediately Todd's eyes fell upon not his own face but another. And immediately a wave of shame swelled over him.

  It was cold and dark in the basement, and Todd didn't think the other guy was ever going to get there. He'd been waiting ten minutes already. Shit, he should just take off, get the hell out of here.

  Several painful minutes later he finally heard footsteps descending into the basement of one of the journalism buildings. Furtive steps. Light and quick.

  “Hi,” said Pat, slipping into the shadows near Todd.

  “You're late.”

  “I wanted to make sure no one saw me.”

  “No one did, did they?”

  “No, it's okay.”

  “So how did it go?” asked Todd.

  The police had questioned Todd that morning, Pat this afternoon, and Todd couldn't hold it in, the question that had been burning in his gut for hours.

  “You didn't tell them anything, did you? They don't know, do they?”

  “About us? No. What about you, what did you say?”

  “Just that I went outside and heard something. Then I looked up and saw him falling. That's all. I didn't even tell them about the cigarette that dropped right in front of me.”

  Pat let out a deep sigh. “Man, I can't believe this.”

  “Pat, you didn't see anyone else out there on the fire escape, did you?”

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  The more Todd thought back on that night, the more he couldn't be sure that Greg had been alone outside Pat's window. That in turn made him wonder if someone hadn't come to their defense.

  “I don't know. I'm not sure what I saw, but there might have been someone else out there.” Knowing they could have only one possible ally at the fraternity, Todd said, “You told me you'd done it with someone else at the frat house, that, you know, you had sex with one of the other guys. Who was that?”

  “What? Are you crazy? He wasn't out there, that's for sure,” Pat defensively snapped. “I was right there, right inside. And Greg was by himself. He must have slipped, that's all. I mean, the fire escape was all icy.”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  “You know what they're saying about me at the frat house, don't you?”

  Todd nodded. The word was that Pat was a homo. The frat brothers who'd been in Kevin's room were sure they'd heard Pat about to have sex with a guy. Definitely a guy because both voices were deep and low.

  “Don't worry,” said Pat, who for a moment seemed as if he was going to cry. “I won't tell them about you.”

  That was all Todd wanted to know. “Thanks.”

  “Just hold me, will you?”

  “Pat, I don't think that's such a good idea. Something might happen.”

  “You mean like sex?” Pat stared at the cement floor, a dazed look on his face. “That wouldn't be so bad, would it? After all, this has been really hard, the cops and everything. ”

  “I know, but…”

  For fear of what it might lead to, he turned away. He didn't want to touch Pat or any other guy ever again. From now on it was going to be girls, only girls.

  Seeing Todd hesitate, Pat asked, “You didn't tell the police what you told me, did you?”

  Todd tensed and glared at him over his shoulder. “I told you I wouldn't.”

  “Good, then you don't have anything to worry about.”

  “But Pat— ”

  “Listen, I don't care what they call me back at the fraternity, I won't tell them it was you in my room, and I won't tell them that we've done it, had sex, you know.” Suddenly his voice became stern. “I promise no one will ever know just as long as you do one little thing—suck me.”

  “What?”

  “That's right—you have to give me a blow job.”

  “Now? Down…down here?”

  “You got it. I'm just all stressed out. I need it.” Pat opened his coat and started to unzip his jeans. “Trust me, you don't want to piss me off, especially not now.”

  All Todd wanted to do was run as fast and hard as he could. All he wanted was to scream out. To punch Pat in the jaw. But looking into his eyes, seeing the intent, the determination, Todd realized that he really didn't have an option, at least not if he didn't want the world to know.

  “So did you do it with one of the guys there in the fraternity?” asked Rawlins, studying the picture.

  “Well…”

  “I sense some genuine dirt here.”

  “Trust me, you don't want to know.” Todd moaned, took back the photo, and buried it in the box. “Something really horrible happened back then.”

  “Don't hold out on me, man.”

  Full of remorse, Todd shook his head. “Maybe I'
ll tell you someday, but it was something truly awful. You know, the kind of thing that haunts you the rest of your life.”

  3

  “Here, this is it,” said Rick, seated in the passenger seat of the Pontiac. “Pull over.”

  He stared up at the house, a one-story bungalow nestled in the low hills on the edge of Santa Fe. She'd always been an early riser, and there were a handful of lights on this morning, which meant she was already up, probably getting ready for work. And probably alone. He knew she hadn't remarried, and if she was anything like her old self, Martha would still be a loner. She'd never had many friends, never much liked going out. Then again, he hadn't see her in nearly a decade.

  Rick took his leather-bound Bible from the dashboard, closed his eyes, and bent his head forward in silent prayer. He needed information. Had to have it. And he prayed to God that his trip from Colorado Springs would be fruitful, for a child's life was at stake. He was a tall man with thinning hair and snowy-white sideburns, his long face ashen, and he just wanted what was best for all. What had happened was ridiculous, absurd, and with the help of the Lord Jehovah he was going to put a stop to it. Help me right this terrible wrong, he begged silently. Help me punish those who have transgressed my family.

  He turned to the driver, Paul, a quiet, heavyset fellow with a mustache, a prominent member of The Congregation for almost five years now. When all this mess had begun, Paul, who'd worked for years installing security systems, had been more than happy to offer his help. Yes, agreed Paul. They needed to rescue Zeb and Ribka, they needed to bring them back into the fold of love.

  “Is it doable?” asked Rick, studying the house.

  Paul stared at the telephone wires leading to the low structure and said, “Of course it is.”

  “Good.” Rick added, “And she shouldn't be a problem either. If she's anything like her old self she's easily intimidated.”

  Paul shrugged and reached for his briefcase, from which he took a small white plastic box and his pistol. “You never know.”

  “Right. I'll take the carrot,” said Rick, slipping his Bible into the large pocket of his raincoat, “and you take the stick.”

  If things got nasty, then so be it. There was so much more at stake than this reclusive woman. And as the two men walked past a couple of tall cactuses and up the edge of her short drive, Rick checked up and down the street. It was too early, no one was out. No one had seen them thus far. He just prayed to the Lord Jehovah that they'd come to the right place, that he would get that which he so desperately needed.

  Rick stopped at the edge of the carport and nodded to Paul, who, with the small white box in one hand and the pistol in the other, trotted along the side of the house and disappeared into the darkness. Rick looked up the street, saw a half dozen houses just like this—earth-colored homes with flat roofs. He peered the other way, saw another half dozen of the same. But no one was about, he realized with pleasure, for after all these years he would still relish the opportunity to punish her.

  Less than five minutes later Paul reappeared.

  “Everything okay?” asked Rick, his voice low and noting that Paul no longer carried the small device.

  “Piece of cake. These one-story houses are never a problem.”

  Relieved that their first piece of business was taken care of, Rick silently led the way around the front of the garage and right up to the front door. Before Rick reached for the doorbell, though, he motioned to Paul to stand out of sight. The two of them would certainly be intimidating, whereas he alone might be able to get her to talk. He ran one hand back over his hair, straightened his shirt, and recalled how he had once loved her. She was, after all, the first to forgive his earthly sins, the first to embrace him with unqualified love, the first to show him the light of God. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the bell, and a moment later he heard a television silenced inside, some steps. Next the front light burst on.

  “Who's there?” she called from behind the locked door.

  “It's me, Martha. Rick.”

  A pause. “Who?”

  “Rick, your ex-husband.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  As if she had simply turned away from the door and was returning to her news show, there was nothing. Then a few long seconds later there was a fumbling of a lock, the twisting of a knob, and finally the dark wooden door, secured by a thin brass chain, eased back a few inches. Hesitantly she peered out, this handsome woman with the broad cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and the red lipstick smeared across her full lips.

  “Good morning. It's been a long time,” said Martha, wearing a turquoise sweatshirt and her blond hair pulled back behind her head. “I just wanted to see what you looked like after, what? Ten years?”

  “You look wonderful, my dear. Barely a day older.”

  “Well, it must be my worldly ways. Look at these bright colors I'm wearing,” she said, pulling at a sleeve of her sweatshirt. “And lipstick too, not to mention eyeliner. Oh, and I even color my hair now, because after all, there's no sense in letting my gray show. What do you think—isn't my fall from God becoming? Don't I look just positively wicked?”

  “Martha, please.”

  “Christ, I wish I could say you look great, but you don't. In fact, you look like shit. You're going bald, Rick. And gray too. Look at your sideburns—they're completely white. You know, you look twenty years older than when I last saw you.” She eyed him up and down. “Of course the weight you've put on doesn't help. How much? Twenty pounds? Thirty? Wow, you've really let yourself go.”

  “Martha, I—”

  “Goodbye, Rick. Sorry you came such a long way for such a short conversation, but I have to finish getting ready for work,” she said, pushing the door shut. “It's been nice glimpsing you. Hope I never see you again.”

  He rammed his hand out, caught the door. “Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Our son.”

  “Zeb?”

  “Yes, I do believe that's his name. Where is he?”

  She shrugged. “I haven't the faintest.”

  “Martha, please, no games.”

  “You can sure as hell bet he's not here, if that's what you're wondering.”

  Rick felt his spine tighten, and he glanced down at the ground, ran one foot slowly along the concrete. “You know he's kidnapped our granddaughter, don't you?”

  “Really? How very interesting. I didn't know taking a helpless young child out of the clutches of a religious cult was called that. I thought it came under the category of rescue.”

  “Martha, it's very serious. We're not only talking about the two most important people in my life, we're talking about the safety and health of a mere infant. I beg you with all my heart, if you love them as much as I do, then tell me what you know.” He paused. “After all, he's taken her out of Colorado. We could have the FBI get involved.”

  “Oh, my, what a good idea.” Martha smiled. “In fact, maybe I'll call them right now.”

  “Martha, I saved Zeb from drugs and Satan before. I can save him again.”

  “Knock off the bullshit, Rick. You might as well give up— he's never going back there. From what little I do know, I believe he was going to hide her somewhere. Somewhere you'd never find her.”

  “But he does have her, doesn't he?”

  “Frankly, my dear, I have no idea.”

  “Then who does?”

  “Maybe someone in Mexico, maybe one of his friends in California. Or Canada. He mentioned something about going up there.” She looked at him wryly, gathered her courage, and said, “But that's a good idea, now that you mention it. I'll call the FBI and then they'll investigate The Congregation. Maybe they'd even shut down your fucking church, burn down your little compound of quackery, and put all you goddamn nuts in jail where you and your fucking god belong. I hope to hell—”

  A huge mass began swirling to Rick's right and swept him aside. It was Paul, his fury erupting at the sound of her blasphemous words. And in an instant Pau
l and all his brute force were hurling against the front door. Under his sheer force the brass chain snapped in two and the door went hurling inward. Martha screamed as the door hit her in the face and threw her back onto the floor. Paul surged inside, zeroing in on her, aiming his pistol right at her forehead.

  “Don't, Paul!” shouted Rick, rushing in after him.

  “Go ahead, you fuckers!” screamed Martha, lying on her back, her nose bleeding. “Kill me! Isn't that what you wanted to do when I left? Go on, you goddamn Bible-thumping Jesus freaks, kill me! Now's your chance!”

  “Shut up, Martha!”

  “Eat shit, Rick!” She looked right up at Paul. “Don't listen to that bossy ass! He's always telling everyone what to do, how to act! Why do you think I ran away? I was looking for love and trust, a spiritual place, but that's not what I found. Your god is evil! Evil and awful! Go on, pull the trigger! If you kill me I'll meet the real Maker, and He's certainly not yours!”

  Seeing Paul steady his aim, Rick jumped in, grabbed him by the arm. “No!” He nudged Paul back, shielded Martha. “She still hasn't told us where he is.”

  “And I won't! I could give a shit what you do to me. I took your beatings before and I'll take them again. I'm not telling you a thing about my son!” She wiped her nose, grinned. “You know what, Rick? I was the one who told him to do it, to take her. I told him if he had any brains he'd get the hell out of there. Your church is the biggest garbage pile I've ever seen.”

  This bitch, Rick knew, was nothing if not resolute. He'd been married to her for almost eleven years when she'd broken with The Congregation and taken their young son and fled. He'd looked and looked, spending an entire six months driving around the country in search of them. Finally he'd hired an investigator, but that, too, proved fruitless. It was as if the two of them, Martha and the young Zebulun, had simply evaporated. He'd never stopped praying, however, and finally a miracle occurred: One day some three years ago his son Zeb just walked up the dirt road of The Congregation's compound.

  But now Zeb was gone once again, his family was breaking apart one more time, and Rick knew it was because of this woman lying before him. This was the second time she'd done this, taken his son from him. He wasn't going to let her succeed.