Tribe

by R. D. Zimmerman

  Across the hall he saw a pay phone. He'd almost called her before. And he wanted to again. He just hadn't expected to be, well, so lonely, and reaching into the pocket of his blue uniform, he felt a handful of quarters. He shrugged and leaned his dust mop against the wall, crossed to the phone, dialed the number, and deposited over a dollar in change. The line clicked, and then the phone on the other end started ringing. And ringing. Zeb clenched his eyes shut.

  “Shit.” Where could she be?

  After he'd run away to his father and stayed at The Congregation, his contact with his mother had been sparse, not much more than a letter per year. When he'd started thinking about leaving the cult, though, she'd been the first and only person he'd told; knowing that they were always watching, always listening—there was a persistent rumor that the phones were tapped—Zeb had wisely snuck off the compound and called her from a pay phone. Yes, she said, run as fast and as far as you can. Don't come to Santa Fe, because they now knew where she lived. And they will look. Just run, she said, and if there is a God they won't find you.

  He was about to hang up on the eighth ring when the phone was finally answered, and he said, “Mom?”

  “Oh, my God, Zeb,” replied Martha. “Where are you? Are you all right? How's the baby?”

  “We're fine, Mom. We're in Minneapolis.”

  “I've been so worried.”

  “Really, we're okay,” he insisted, not wanting to go into it all. “How about you? You don't sound so good.”

  “It's just been…well, things have been a little rough here.”

  “What's that mean? They haven't been there, have they?”

  “Don't worry, I'm fine,” said Martha, avoiding the answer. “Just be careful, okay?”

  “But—”

  “Zeb, I want to come up there.”

  “No, you don't need to.”

  “But you might need help. I want to be close.”

  “Aw, Mom,” moaned Zeb, now wishing he'd never called her. “It's really cold up here and there's a ton of snow. There's a huge storm going on right now. You wouldn't like it.”

  “Zeb, I'm coming up.”

  “But I don't have enough room for you. My place is really small.”

  “Then I'll stay at a Holiday Inn or something. There has to be one of those downtown.”

  “Listen, Mom, we'll talk later. I'm at work.”

  “Zeb, I'm coming. I—”

  “Mom, I love you. Gotta go. Bye.”

  He hung up and stood there shaking his head. Oh, brother. He leaned his head against the wall, banged it several times. Talk about dumb things, calling his mom. It would be just like her, too, to come up here. In fact, he'd be surprised if she didn't just show up.

  What a frigging mess. He was flat broke and he thought this would have been the perfect time to slip into that room and steal some of the expensive stuff. He just hadn't been around hospitals enough, hadn't known, hadn't realized how tightly things would be controlled. Not only were all the drugs locked in one room, they were locked in cages in a locked room.

  So how the hell was he going to get it? And if not tonight, then when?

  He should just leave here. Just drop this stupid dust mop, go back to his locker, get back into his jeans, and take off. After all, all he really wanted was to see Ribka, his baby girl.

  9

  Paul wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation. He stood in the deep snow just outside the kitchen window and so far he hadn't been able to locate her, the woman who owned the house. Perhaps she was upstairs resting. Or bathing. Perhaps this man, the one who was dancing and singing out there in the living room, had come over just to watch the baby for a bit. Or maybe he'd come over to watch the child while she went out. Wait, no. Her car was in the garage, so she was here. Then again, maybe she had gone somewhere. Perhaps she was just at a neighbor's or someone had picked her up.

  The unknown made him uneasy. The snow was making him cold. Unbelievable, he thought, looking at the light in the alley. The snow was coming down in thick sheets. This had to be a sign, he thought. Perhaps this was just like one of the great biblical sandstorms that had shielded God's worthy. Most certainly. And he was The Chosen, here to rescue the infant Ribka. Praise Jehovah, for it was He who had brought this storm, He who was laying down this snow like a protective cloak. Yes, Paul would take the child in his arms and flee, and his tracks would soon be buried by the huge flakes.

  Filled with an inspired sense of purpose—by their fruits ye shall know them, he thought—he moved back around the corner of the house. He looked down at a solitary basement window and realized just how he was going to accomplish this, his heavenly duty. No front or back door for him. No, he thought, bending over and tapping the glass. He'd just have to suck in his gut.

  Paul stroked his mustache with his right hand, looked around to be sure no one was watching. He backed around a bit, and then with one swift movement he mule-kicked a sharp hole in the storm window. Leaning over, he pulled aside as many shards as he could, then reached through and opened the latch. Tugging at the window, he felt it move. Excellent. His main concern had been that the windows were nailed shut. But they weren't, and once he had lifted the storm window he punched another hole in the inner window. Paul peered into the dark basement. A washing machine. Dryer. Bicycle. A pile of laundry on the floor.

  On the edge of the window frame he saw a small rectangular device, a magnetic contact, part of a security system. He tensed, quickly pulled his pistol from his pocket. And waited. He forced himself to be patient. But nothing happened, no alarm crooned. Very good. So the system wasn't activated.

  Now came the true test, he thought as he lowered himself to the ground. Whether or not he could actually fit through this small window might prove to be his biggest problem of the night.

  10

  Numb with shock, Todd stared at the front bumper of his Cherokee stuck deep in the snow. “Wow.”

  “That was close.”

  “No shit.”

  Janice said, “I can't believe you didn't smash into that car.”

  “Thank God there wasn't anyone up here on the sidewalk. I would've plowed right into them.” Todd turned to Janice. “Are you sure you're all right? Not even a bruise?”

  “Nothing.” As the snow blew all around her, the shivering Janice moaned, “Just cold.”

  “I'll check things out. Why don't you get back in?”

  “But…”

  “Janice, the engine's still on and the heater's going full blast. You're cold and I'm not.” Knowing exactly what was going through her head, Todd added, “Just let me take care of this.”

  “Okay, okay, you be the hunk.”

  “Right,” he countered, “and you be the babe and get back in the car before you freeze.”

  As she went around the other side of the Cherokee and climbed in, Todd walked slowly around his vehicle, shocked at how close they'd come to a major accident. Somehow he'd avoided sliding into the other vehicle, and yet that stupid other car, the Mazda, hadn't even stopped. Perhaps the driver hadn't realized how close he'd come to being smashed.

  Shaking his head, Todd examined the fenders. When he couldn't find a single nick, he bent over, studied the front tires. No apparent problems there, even though he'd flown over the curb at such a good clip. At worst he might need an alignment; at best he might only need a car wash.

  Behind the steering wheel a few moments later, he plunged the stick shift into reverse and said to Janice, “Well, let's see if the Butchmobile will live up to its name.”

  He gave it some gas and the vehicle tugged at the snow that was gripping the front bumper. Todd released the gas pedal and pressed on the clutch, thereby letting the Cherokee roll forward, then he pressed down again on the accelerator and the car pulled backward. He continued this rocking for another few seconds, and then in a burst the four-wheel-drive vehicle was free. Much too quickly, the Jeep shot across the sidewalk and dropped its rear tires onto the street. Todd braked, chec
ked for traffic, then backed onto the street.

  “So far so good,” he said as he put the car into first gear and drove off.

  “Just get me home,” said Janice, slumped against her door.

  Todd drove through Uptown, a busy shopping district now deserted, and all the way south to 36th Street, where he turned left at the cemetery. Michael was in there, buried in the Gracewood plot Todd had bought, his body now sealed in the ground by the frozen earth. It was still hard to imagine that he was gone, that Todd would never speak to him again, never hear his laugh, never hold him in his arms. He saw Michael's image: his dark brown hair, his mustache, his cute face always eager with a smile. Would those four years of their relationship, albeit closeted, prove to be the best of Todd's life? Perhaps. A pity he hadn't realized and appreciated it at the time. And it was no wonder he'd been taking it slow with Rawlins; if it did get truly serious, Todd didn't want to make any of the same mistakes.

  Todd drove in silence through the storm. Neither he nor Janice said another word as they continued through the snow and down the slick streets toward Minnehaha Creek. When they finally crossed the frozen stream and turned left, Janice's brightly lit house shone on the hill.

  “As much as I love Jeff,” began Janice, “I don't want to get into any of this with him. He's going to want to linger, but I don't want to talk about the baby until he's gone.”

  “Sure, whatever,” replied Todd, parking behind Jeff's snow-covered car. “Don't worry, everything's going to be fine.”

  Todd stared up at the large, arching windows and glimpsed a figure whooshing across the living room. Oh, brother. What was Jeff up to? A bank teller by day, the drag queen in him erupted when the sun went down and the music came up. And then, by God, you had to look out for a 230-pound guy in spike heels who thought he was the all-in-one Judy-Barbra-Tina. So what was he up to tonight? Or rather, who?

  Todd grabbed their boxed food from the rear seat and followed Janice over a snowbank and up her snowy front walk. By the time they reached the front door on the side of the house, they were both covered with downy flakes.

  As she took out her key Janice peered in a side window. “Seems pretty quiet to me.”

  “Yeah, I don't hear any music. Maybe the baby's asleep.”

  “Wouldn't that be great.” She unlocked the front door, stepped in, stomped her boots, and softly called, “Jeff?”

  With a grin Todd said, “I feel like Ward and June coming home from the club.”

  Paying him no attention, Janice moved toward the living room and again called, “Jeff, we're home. Hello?”

  There was no response, the house offering nothing except silence. For a moment Todd wondered if something was wrong. A shot of fear dousing his heart, he followed Janice, passing from the entry hall, stepping down one stair and into the large living room. And there sat Jeff, the baby Ribka cradled in his arms.

  “Shh!” he hissed. “She only just, just went to sleep.”

  Janice unbuttoned her wool coat, dropped it on a chair, and zeroed in on the baby. Hurrying across the living room as if she hadn't seen the child in months, she eased herself onto the couch next to Jeff and carefully lifted the baby from his arms.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” she whispered, cradling her. And then turning to Jeff, “Did you feed her? How about her diaper, did you change it?”

  “Yes and yes.” His voice hushed, Jeff added, “The baby Ribka was purr-feet. But why are you two home so early? I didn't expect you for at least another hour. Whatsamatta, you queers didn't have a fight, did you?”

  “Of course not,” said Todd as he set their food on a table. “The restaurant was just so crowded we couldn't talk.”

  “Oh, so does that mean you two have come home to gossip? About whom? I'm all ears.”

  Janice said, “Jeff—”

  “Really, no problemo. I can stay the whole night. In fact, I'm going to have to. I've got rear-wheel drive and there's no way I'll be able to drive in all this snow.” He mimicked his best Minnesota accent, his voice as nasal as possible. “Oh, for fun, a sleep-over.”

  Todd saw the look of despair on Janice's face. Yes, she needed to talk. But she wasn't going to divulge a thing while Jeff was here.

  Todd slipped on his gloves again, saying, “Come on, Jeff. Time to take the baby-sitter home.”

  Jeff opened his mouth, was about to protest, then took a look at Janice and replied, “Okay, okay. I get it when I'm not wanted. But just remember, I want a full report later.”

  “You're a doll,” said Janice.

  “Of course I am.” Then he puckered his lips and leaned toward Janice. “Kiss, kiss.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Todd buttoned up his coat and said to Janice, “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

  After all, Jeff lived less than a half mile away.

  11

  It was a cool, breezy night in Colorado, and Suzanne stood at the window of her darkened bedroom. Her father was out on the driveway, the hood of his car raised, his heavy body bent over the right front fender. Him and that car, his prized Cadillac, long and white and so big. Since he was the only person at The Congregation with a private car—there were a handful of other vehicles here on the compound, but they were all shared—she called it the Popemobile. But her daddy, God's very own Apostle on earth, sure as heck didn't like that, she thought with a devilish grin. Among other things on the compound there was to be no mention whatsoever of that false church and his unholiness.

  Standing inside and in the dark, she watched her father work in the floodlights out front, first twisting the oil filter, next measuring some fluid. She wanted to be out there too, but he'd ordered her to stay inside in case the phone rang with news of the baby. The baby, the baby, the baby. Her father had been using those two words to shackle her to the house not only for the last week, but also the last thirteen months, ever since she'd first gotten pregnant. Eat this, don't eat that. Now rest, Suzanne. Rest and pray to Jehovah for a healthy child. Well, she was sick of it. Yes, she wanted news of Ribka, but how long was she supposed to stay cooped up in here before she started bouncing off the walls?

  Still without turning on the lights, she dropped herself on the edge of her bed, stared up at the black ceiling. Her father had never trusted her, not really. Always keeping tabs on her, questioning her whereabouts, who she'd seen, what she'd done. Maybe if her mother were still alive things would be different; Suzanne cursed the day her mother had died of melanoma. Instead of a nice family, it was just she and her dad, and he was like the Gestapo, always watching her, getting furious—even jealous—if she attracted too much attention. She couldn't help it if all the guys liked her. Her dad said she attracted boys like a cat in heat. Well, maybe so. She was pretty, so what? And she had nice tits, full and round, or at least that's what all the guys said. The guys. She laughed. Her dad actually thought Zeb had been the first to crawl through her bedroom window. Oh, Daddy would be so, so angry about all the guys she'd known. Maybe one day when she wanted to make her father nice and mad she'd go ahead and tell him.

  And then she started to cry.

  Her round cheeks flushed red, her almondy eyes crinkled up. She wanted Zeb. She wanted Ribka with her dark curls. She wanted them both to come back and take her away too. How could Zeb have done it, gone and left her like this? Sure, both of their fathers had made them get married, but . . but why hadn't he at least told her that he was going to run away? Didn't he know she would've fled The Congregation too? It was just so…so incredibly boring here.

  She wiped the few tears from her cheeks, sat up, and glanced outside again. Her father was still out there, still monkeying with his stupid car. It doesn't make any difference, she thought. None of it does. And she stood up, left her room, crossed the hall, and entered her father's room. She didn't need to turn on the lights here either, for she knew just where he kept it, placed there after the government's attacks on others. Crossing to the far side of the bed, she opened up his bedside table, pulled open
the drawer, and there lay his gun, a heavy, silvery thing. She studied it in the faint light, reached for it once, then retracted her hands. She stood quite still for a moment and realized that, no, for once she was going to do what she wanted instead of what Daddy or God the Son or God the Father said. Or The Congregation. This was her decision. Or maybe it wasn't, she thought with an impish grin as she sat down on the edge of her father's bed. Sure, she was just going to put her faith to a little test and see what God had in store for her.

  Her hands quite calm, she lifted the pistol and a small box of bullets from the drawer, arranging them all on the bedspread beside her. Never keep a gun loaded, that's what her daddy always said, so she just had to find out how you opened this thing, the barrel. She pushed at a couple of levers, and finally it opened, the barrel flopping to the side. She held it up toward the window, peered through the chambers, and sure enough saw a series of holes in the dim light. Not loaded. So her daddy was a man of his words.

  Now for the test of faith.

  She opened up the small box of bullets and ran her fingertips over the smooth tips. Okay, okay, she thought, if there was a God, if He was watching over her, then everything would be all right. It would mean that He had a plan after all. Simple. She brushed aside her hair with one hand, then selected one bullet. Just one. Suzanne studied it, rolled it between her fingers. A bullet of truth, she thought, that's what it was. No, a piercing bullet of faith.

  Her hands working quickly, she picked up the pistol, slipped in the bullet, closed the gun, and then spun the barrel, which rolled with a gentle clicking sound. God the Father, God the Son, and God's Apostle on earth. She spun it three times. Next she held the pistol up to her right temple, pressing the cool barrel right against her skin.

  “Is there a plan?” she asked aloud, her eyes peering heavenward. “If so, am I part of it?”

  Her body rigid with tension, she pulled the trigger, which clicked with a sharp, hollow sound. Nothing else happened however. There was no shattering explosion. Suzanne sat there on the edge of the bed, surprised, almost disappointed. She was alive. So what did that mean? She was tempted to pull the trigger again, to see how much she could truly prod fate. Realizing she shouldn't press the matter, however, she stood up. She had her answer: The gun hadn't fired, she was alive, so there must be a plan for her life, she must have to live for some unknown reason. But, she thought, biting her bottom lip, she did have one more question.