Tribe

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “What, you're not going to go out there, are you?” demanded Janice.

  “Of course,” replied Rawlins.

  Todd said, “How else are we going to find him?”

  “But the note, the letter. We're not supposed to—”

  “Don't worry,” interjected Todd, looking squarely at her. “I'm going to make sure nothing happens to that baby.”

  “We're not going to do anything stupid,” added Rawlins. “You'll see, we'll just try to find him and then you can ask him some questions.”

  “What?” she protested. “You're not expecting me to go out there too, are you?”

  Rawlins glanced at Todd, then back at Janice. “Well, it would be helpful. You could identify him at least.”

  “No.” Janice was vigorously shaking her head. “I'm not going. I've…I've got to stay here by the phone.”

  Todd knew there would be no changing her mind, no way to talk her into going out to the hospital, at least not tonight. Yet neither he nor Rawlins had any idea what this Zeb looked like.

  His voice full of trepidation, Todd asked, “You don't have a picture of him, do you?”

  She nodded, wiped her nose, shed the blanket from her shoulders, and got up. After crossing the room, Janice took a color picture of a young man from her wallet.

  “It was taken a few years ago,” she explained. “He gave it to me when he first came up here, when we first met. He's older now, more mature-looking, and his hair is short, but…but…”

  Todd crossed to her, pulled the photo from her hands. It looked like a high school picture, a handsome boy poised in front of a blue background. Long brown hair, nice smile. Todd searched the face, tried to see a hint of his own reflection.

  Rawlins came up behind Todd, studied the picture, and volunteered, “Wow, cute kid.”

  “Yeah, well don't get any ideas, you're much too old for him,” snapped Todd as he placed the photo in his shirt pocket. “Come on, let's go.”

  “Call me,” implored Janice. “Tell me if you find him.”

  Todd stared at her, wondered how deeply Janice and he were actually connected. Then he went over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I'm sorry,” he said.

  She shrugged, pulled back a bit, and said, “You scared me.”

  “Yeah, well, I'm an ass.”

  “Just let me know as soon as you find out anything.”

  As they headed for the door Rawlins said, “If anyone calls, take notes. Write down exactly what they said, when they called—everything. Do you have call waiting?”

  “No.”

  “Then if any friends phone, just tell them you can't talk. And don't make any calls either. You want to make sure to keep the line open.”

  “Don't worry, I won't tie up the phone. And I'm sure as hell not going anywhere either,” stated Janice. “Just be careful. Be nice to Zeb too. In spite of whatever he's done, he's a good kid.”

  20

  From the windows of her living room, Janice watched Todd and Rawlins trudge through the snowy night and down to the street. She wondered if Todd had guessed, if he even suspected, but as far as she could tell he hadn't. The entire truth was just so bizarre that it probably wouldn't occur to him. She wondered what he'd do if he ever did find out. God, she was so tired of this secret, exhausted from working so hard to conceal it for so very long.

  They didn't take Rawlins's silver sedan, which was relatively free of snow, but instead brushed off Todd's Cherokee, Rawlins wiping the rear window with his gloved hand and Todd scraping nearly a half foot from the windshield and hood. She wanted them to be gone, to be on their way at once, for there was something she had to do. Oh, Lord, how had this gotten so incredibly screwed up?

  It seemed to take forever, but finally the two of them climbed into the large four-wheel-drive vehicle. The headlights burst on, and Janice stared after them as the Cherokee began to plow forward and slowly make its way into the middle of the street. As Todd drove on, Janice pressed closer to the window, watching in the light of a street lamp as he turned right at the first corner and at last disappeared into the wintry storm.

  Thank God they were gone, she thought, quickly turning away from the window. There was something she had to do, a call she had to make, right this very second.

  Not wasting a moment, she hurried across her living room to the staircase. Taking the stairs two at a time, she climbed to the second floor, then passed through the upstairs hall. She had the address somewhere. The phone number too. But where? Damn it all, where?

  Turning into the first room, she entered her study, a small room with beige walls and dark brown blinds on the windows. She went to her desk, a long white laminate table with stacks of papers and bills on one side, her black cordless phone with the short rubber antenna on the other. She yanked open the single drawer. Six months ago she'd gotten one of those electronic organizers, into which she'd entered all her addresses. Except one. She didn't know why. She remembered staring at the address and name, remembered that of all the numbers she had, this was the one she didn't want to lose. After all, what if she dropped the electronic organizer and it broke? What if she sat down next to a large magnet; might that not make it go haywire? Almost every other address could be replaced, either through friends or from her Rolodex at work. But not this one. Which was one of the primary reasons she'd kept her old worn address book.

  But if she'd been so blasted careful about keeping the little book, then why the hell couldn't she remember where she'd put it? Shit. This was all too typical of her, of the disorganized manner in which she kept things, and she swept aside pencils and pens, paper clips and stamps, her stapler, as well as the cordless phone. But no worn and cracked little black leather book. What the hell had she done with that stupid thing?

  Janice stopped, put her hand to her forehead. Wait a minute, she told herself. Where did she put things that didn't have a file or a place of their own? Of course. From the bookshelf she took a large blue bowl overflowing with everything from the extra garage door opener to a broken calculator she was sure was repairable to, finally, the book. She put the bowl on the middle of her paper-strewn desk, snatched out the little black book, and started thumbing through it.

  And sure enough, there it was, Pat's telephone number.

  Not hesitating a moment, she knocked an entire stack of papers onto the floor as she reached for the cordless phone. Without even thinking what she was going to say, she punched in the numbers. Only as it started to ring did she wonder if indeed Pat still lived in the same place, if in fact she'd be able to reach him. How many years had it been? They'd spoken by phone a couple of times since then, but she hadn't seen him since that year Zeb was born. Oh, God, if Todd thought he had some explaining to do, wait until he heard about this. And, yes, she realized. She had to tell him. She couldn't hold it back anymore. This final aspect of the truth was eating at her.

  After Greg died in that horrible accident, she knew what they were saying, all of them, about Pat. That was why she was nice to him. Heck, it was almost Christmas, you were supposed to be nice to others.

  So they had coffee at a little restaurant in downtown Evans-ton.

  “I can't wait to get to France—and I can't believe I have to wait until the end of January.” Seated in a cold, plastic chair, Janice brushed aside her long, straight hair. “I'm supposed to go to my parents' in Phoenix over Christmas, but I'm sure as hell not looking forward to it. It's just so boring down there.”

  Pat's face suddenly brightened, and he reached out and grabbed Janice by the hand. “I know, let's take a road trip! I've got a car; we can just take off and get the hell out of here. We can do whatever we want! Hey, I even have friends in Colorado we could stay with!”

  That was how they eventually ended up in bed, Janice and Pat.

  The trip was a lark, a way to escape their foreboding lives. Now, two days out from Northwestern, they were in some dumpy motel room with only one sagging double bed. And no TV. That was all they could af
ford. It was freezing too; Phoenix, not to mention the south of France, was beginning to sound better and better. To make matters still worse, Pat had bought a bottle of tequila, of which he'd drunk half, and they were lying on the bed together—Janice in her flannel nightgown and heavy socks, Pat in a T-shirt and jeans—because there weren't even any chairs in the room.

  Actually, she knew why she'd been nice to Pat. Of course she had an ulterior motive: She needed to talk to someone. Someone safe, nonjudgmental. Someone in the same boat. She wanted to tell him about herself, that she liked women. Or that maybe she did. She didn't know, wasn't sure what she felt. Was he confused like that?

  Finally she asked the question that she hoped would lead to the larger conversation, the big picture. “So, Pat, are you gay?”

  Suddenly his drunken breath was in her face and his hand was on her breast. “What do you think?”

  She grabbed him by the wrist. “Pat…”

  “Well, do you?”

  “I just want to talk. I thought it would be good. Actually, I don't care what you are.

  “Well, I'm not,” he said, twisting his hand free and then grabbing at her nightgown and rubbing her left tit. “I'm really not.”

  “Pat, stop it.”

  “Why?”

  “Come on, cut it out.”

  “But…” And then he was raising himself up, crawling on top of her. “You know, you're really sexy.”

  She started pushing him away. “Pat, don't.”

  “Why? Don't you think I can do it with a woman?” He kissed her on the neck, his lips all sloppy and wet. “I . . . I…”

  “Frankly, I don't care if you can do it with a tree.”

  “Well, maybe I can't manage that one.” He giggled and reached down to her crotch, then started pulling up her nightgown. “But you, on the other hand, are unbelievable.”

  “Don't!”

  “Just try and stop me.”

  “Pat!”

  “Yeah, you want it, don't you.”

  “Get the fuck off me!”

  “Yeah, fuck…fuck…”

  Janice started bucking and twisting, the fear coursing through her as he hiked her gown up over her knees, up her thighs. Shit, this couldn't be happening. Pat was supposed to be like her, he was supposed to be safe. And just as she realized how drunk he was, she realized how much stronger he was than her.

  “Stop or I'm going to scream!”

  He lunged for the tequila bottle, and then Janice felt a shower of burning booze as he dumped the bottle all over her face. She clenched her eyes shut, started to shout, but then he poured the rest of the booze into her mouth, at least a quarter bottle.

  “Drink up, little girl!” he laughed.

  She gasped for air, inhaled, and her body screamed as the tequila whooshed into her lungs like liquid fire. Christ, she couldn't breathe! She couldn't make a sound! Please, Lord, she begged, don't let me die here!

  He slapped her once, twice. Maybe more. And when she opened her eyes she saw that he'd ripped off his own jeans and his dick was hard and arched.

  “I'm going to fuck you, Janice,” he said, his voice deep and slurred. “You know why? You know why I'm going to fuck you? Because my cock goes everywhere. Just last week your boyfriend, your Todd, was sucking on this cock—that's right, don't look so shocked, he's the faggot, not me. My cock was in his mouth, and now I'm going to put it right in your pussy.”

  It was as if he'd taken an electrical cord and shocked her. Todd? Todd and Pat together? She just lay there, the tequila still burning within her body, Pat's words searing her mind. And he did it. He fucked her. In the end, Janice was just so freaked out that she lay there as passive as a pillow.

  When he was done, she crawled out from underneath him and stumbled into the bathroom, where she locked the door. She curled up in the bathtub and cried, and then in the middle of the night she got up, snuck out into the room where Pat was snoring. She took all his money, all of his credit cards, and walked across town to the bus station, where she caught a Greyhound at 5:03 a.m. She arrived in Phoenix two days later.

  When an answering machine picked up after the fourth ring and announced that she'd reached a particular business office, she recognized the deep voice. Okay, she said to herself, don't be afraid. It's okay. Just sound strong, sound calm. Standing up and starting to pace in the small room, Janice told herself to be brief, to the point.

  When the signal came for her to leave a message, Janice put one hand to her forehead, closed her eyes, and said, “Hi, this is Janice Gray calling for Pat. Please tell him there's a problem and that we need to talk.”

  She left her phone number, then hung up. Clutching the cordless phone against her breast and wishing it to ring that very instant with a return call, she headed down to the kitchen, where she heated a mug of water in the microwave. When it was hot she dropped in a tea bag and sat down at her small breakfast table, the marble one with the black iron base.

  Now all she had to do was wait.

  21

  “I can't believe it,” said Rawlins once Todd had finished telling him the brunt of the story.

  “You can't? What about me?” Todd hung tightly on to the steering wheel as he drove south on the whitened Xerxes Avenue. “It's just too weird, finding out in a matter of a few seconds not only that I might have a son—in his twenties, no less—but a granddaughter too.”

  “It's a strange world.”

  “No shit.”

  A huge gust of wind and snow belted the car, which caused the entire vehicle to heave to the side. Todd steered back to the right, and he had no idea whether he should be elated or heartbroken. Then again, if Janice didn't even know, how could he?

  He heard some chuckling to the side, glanced over, saw Rawlins leaning against the car door, a gloved hand to his mouth.

  Todd demanded, “What the hell are you laughing about?”

  “I don't know if I would've started dating you if I'd known you were a grandfather.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Gramps—that's what I'm going to start calling you.”

  “Why do I suddenly feel very old?”

  “Responsibility does that to a person.”

  Not quite five minutes later Todd turned off Xerxes Avenue and proceeded to the rear of Edina Hospital, where he parked in a three-story ramp. Both of them pulled up their collars and then ran through the snow and wind to the hospital entrance. Once inside, the electric doors closed behind them, sealing out the storm, and the two of them brushed themselves off, stomped their feet, and glanced about. Not a soul was to be seen. Even the guard's desk was vacant, a desk lamp on, but no one sitting there.

  “God, this place is like a morgue,” said Todd, checking out the halls and empty waiting areas. “Now what?”

  Rawlins shrugged. “As my Russian grandmother used to say, ‘Your tongue will lead you to Moscow.' ”

  “Meaning?”

  “We start asking questions and supposedly we'll find out how to get there.”

  “Well, I highly doubt the personnel department is going to be open at this time of night.”

  “No, but there's a receptionist right over there. Where's the picture of the young hunk?”

  “Don't talk about him like that,” said Todd.

  He reached inside his coat, pulled the photograph from his shirt pocket, and stood there staring at it. Okay, so the kid was good-looking. Supposedly bright and pleasant too. But then, as Todd studied the high school picture of the kid that might or might not be his son, he had a terrible realization. Had he known for sure at the time that Janice was pregnant with his kid, he wouldn't have encouraged her to do as she did, to put Zeb up for adoption. Rather, he would have encouraged her, been very persistent, and somehow, he was sure, persuaded her, to have an abortion.

  Suddenly the photograph was yanked out of his hands.

  “Hey, Todd, come on,” called Rawlins, pulling Todd back to the moment. “Let's see if anyone recognizes the kid.”

 
; It was warm back here in the hospital laundry room. And it was safe. Settled deep in bags of sheets as if they were nothing more than a hill of beanbags, Zeb cradled his baby in his arms and started to doze off. Ribka had the medication she needed, she'd just eaten a full bottle of formula, she even had a clean diaper, which was more, much more than he'd ever hoped for tonight. And, of course, they had a warm place to sleep, all thanks to Brenda, the nurse, who'd fortunately understood his dilemma, or at least as much as he'd been able to explain. Then again, how could you describe The Congregation and have it make sense to anyone who hadn't been there, living on the compound, working in the bakery?

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought to himself with a grin, for it felt so incredibly great just to think it let alone say it.

  Whispering so as not to wake the baby, he said, “Fuuuuuuckkkk.”

  Those morons at The Congregation would only say “Ghastly” or “Worldly.” Worldly? What the hell did that mean? How stupid. He was so sick of their Bible babble, so sick of them creeping into every part of his life, demanding that he think one way, their way, and always looking at him suspiciously because, after all, he was a “fringer,” someone who wasn't really one of them.

  He felt old, not only because here he was, his own baby asleep in his arms, but because everything was beginning to make sense. He finally understood why his mother had left The Congregation over ten years ago. After her closest friend in the group, Louise, had died of skin cancer, Zeb's own mother had lost her faith completely. It had been treatable, Zeb's mom had explained that night as she stuffed him in one of the cars and drove to the Colorado Springs bus depot. Louise didn't die because of a lack of faith. She hadn't given over to Satan, she didn't have the mark of the beast. Plus she'd even been rebaptized when she'd joined The Congregation, making that a nonissue. No, none of those had been a problem. Louise believed, Louise trusted, Louise stood on The Promises. And yet she'd died, even as The Elders had gathered and placed a drop of blessed oil upon her forehead. She'd died not for lack of faith, but because of the ignorance of The Congregation.