Tribe

by R. D. Zimmerman

  Pat was talking. Todd turned and looked at him, this pale, aging figure who'd spoken of demonic spirits and sexual rehabilitation.

  “Todd,” Pat was saying, “I want to ask you if you'll tell Janice to back off.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to do this. You know, of course, what's going on.”

  There could be no dancing around any of the issues, and Todd asked, “You're referring to Zeb and his daughter?”

  “Precisely. It's a very serious problem, and I need you to convince Janice to drop the matter.”

  “What?”

  “This may sound crass or overly blunt—I just don't know how else to put it,” began Pat, “but Janice gave up Zeb over two decades ago. She got rid of him, Todd. She shed him and any and all decisions regarding his life. It was all legally done, so to put it simply, his problems today do not concern her.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Please, just listen to me. Zeb is my son, and his daughter is my granddaughter. This is a family issue—and whether Janice likes it or not, she's not part of the family.”

  Todd took a deep breath, realized how all too easily he could have ended up like him, like this Patrick, and said, “Pat—or Patrick—first of all, Janice is Zeb's birth mother, and if he comes to her for help then I'm sure she's going to do everything and anything in her power to help him. Second of all, Janice is no dummy and she never has been. She's amazingly sharp and she's amazingly moral. By that I mean she's always done what she felt was right, and neither I nor anyone else has ever convinced her otherwise.”

  “Please, Todd, we're talking about the life of a baby.”

  “We most certainly are.”

  “But you don't understand—”

  “I'm afraid I do.”

  “No, you don't.” Pat clenched his fists, turned back to the balcony door, stood there as the arrows of winter sun pierced him. “How you and Janice live is wrong. As I've already said, it's a sin against the Lord. But once we were friends, the three of us, and that's why I'm here today, to tell you that Janice should forget about all this because it's dangerous, because I can't protect her.”

  “Is that a warning of some sort?”

  “Yes, I'm telling you there will be trouble for all if Janice interferes.”

  “And what about me? What if I do something?”

  “Todd, please. There are some very powerful people involved in this. Very committed. And there's only so much I can do to hold them back, per se.”

  “And I'm telling you that's bullshit.”

  Pat turned and looked at him. “What?”

  “You came here because you wanted to see me.”

  “Oh, please, don't be ridiculous.”

  Todd watched as Pat stiffened, and Todd knew he was right. By the subtle, hidden glances, Todd had guessed the truth.

  “You came here to check me out.” Todd hesitated, then said, “Don't think I haven't noticed how you've been looking at me.”

  “How dare you!”

  “Don't worry, I'm not calling you a faggot. At first I didn't understand, but now I think I do.”

  “Is your life that ghastly, is sex all you think about?”

  “Patrick, you're not listening—I'm not calling you queer.”

  “God have mercy on you, you sodomite!” Patrick started for the door. “Even though you've lost your values I came here out of concern for Janice and you.”

  “Bullshit. You came here out of concern for something else.”

  “And what might that be?”

  Todd was shivering, his entire body shaking, but he barely felt the cold. Holy shit, he thought as his breath steamed into the wintry night air, what was going to happen now? Greg had seen everything, he was going to tell everyone! Standing behind his fraternity, his entire life went shooting through his imagination. Homo. Everyone was going to call him a homo.

  It caught his attention as if it were a single giant snowflake falling from the sky through the dark night. But of course it was on fire. That's why he noticed it. The glow. Bright and orange. His eyes automatically focused on it and watched as the mysterious object slipped through the air to the ground. A cigarette, he realized. Big and thick. A hand-rolled cigarette that hit the snowy ground with a faint hiss.

  The next moment a desperate noise struck his ears, and he leaned back, slumped against the cold, dark, brick building, and at first thought it was a siren. It was a voice, though, and then he thought someone was doing a football cheer. Something like that. Then he wondered if someone was just goofing around, all stressed out before final exams. Todd glanced toward Sherman Avenue, looked around. But the courtyard was empty. Empty and black and cold.

  He heard the desperate sound again, realized it was a scream, and looked straight up.

  The fire escape hovered right above Todd. All this iron grating, black and bolted to the back of the fraternity. It climbed all the way to the top of the building, back and forth and back and forth, a landing on each floor. Todd could barely see anything, but looking straight up he saw something moving on one of the platforms way, way up there. Shit, what was Greg still doing outside Pat's window?

  Panic surged through him, and Todd ran away from the building for a better look. Someone was up there, someone was screaming. And…

  “Oh, fuck!” muttered Todd.

  Someone was hanging off the fire escape, dangling there, flapping around like a flag. He was hanging by one hand, but it was immediately clear he couldn't hold on. Too cold, too icy. And a split second later the figure fell, screaming and tumbling all the way down, all the way to the ground, where it ended with a thud. And frigid silence.

  Todd waited a moment and said, “Somewhere in the back of your mind you've been worrying that I figured it out.”

  “What are you suggesting now?”

  “That you're afraid I know what really happened that night Greg was killed.” Todd waited a couple of seconds. “And maybe I do.”

  Pat started for the door. “I'm leaving. I've said what I wanted to. Perhaps someday you'll repent for your homosexuality.”

  As the other man brushed past him Todd said, “There was a second person out on that fire escape, wasn't there?”

  “What? What worldly things are you talking about?”

  Todd watched Pat's every step, every flinch, studied him as his hand froze on the doorknob. For a long moment there was silence between the two men. So, thought Todd, he was absolutely right.

  “I don't know how I could have been so stupid, why it didn't occur to me before,” continued Todd. “But when I was beneath the fire escape I looked up and saw someone moving right above me, someone stepping around on the grating. Then I moved away from the building and someone was already hanging by his hand. That couldn't have been one and the same person. I mean, I heard the screaming before that— which, after all, is why I looked up—and the person, Greg, was screaming because he was hanging by his hands and about to fall.” So now he knew for sure, thought Todd. “Greg didn't slip that night on the fire escape, did he? Someone pushed him, right? And if it wasn't you—”

  “My window was stuck!”

  “Well, if that's really true, then you saw it all, you know who did it, you know who pushed him. And all this time you've been protecting someone.” Todd added, “Who was it, Pat? The other guy you were screwing at the frat house?”

  Unable to bear the situation, Pat ripped open the door, and his voice boomed like a preacher as he shouted, “I'm sorry you don't realize the danger you're in!”

  29

  On her knees before the wooden chair, her hands clasped in front of her, Suzanne bowed her head in the dim light of the prayer closet. Oh, please, God the Father, show me the way. Lead me to the best decision. The correct one. My baby's gone, I'm worried about my husband, and here I kneel, begging for Your mercy, Your understanding, Your wisdom. Show me the divine path. I've been Your obedient disciple. I'll always be Your humble slave. Just give me a heavenly sign, show me what to do. G
uide me in Your divine way.

  Ever since her father had left earlier this morning for a meeting of The Elders, Suzanne had been in the tiny room, a space not more than three by four feet. She'd been in here— the dim bulb burning, the door shut—praying for insight, begging for help, hoping the right decision would come to her. If she was going to do it at all, now was the time. Her knees burned with pain, but she wasn't going to get up, she wasn't going to leave this holelike room until she knew, until she'd been given an answer. And it had better come soon, because what did she have, another twenty minutes before her father returned? He'd already been gone almost two hours.

  She moved her right knee across the wooden floor, felt a splinter slide into her skin. “Ouch!”

  And then she slumped to the side and fell against the wall. Raising her leg, she picked at the tiny sliver of wood, pulled it free.

  But that was it, she realized. The signal she'd been looking for. The divine sign. God had chosen to prick her with a little piece of wood. He'd pierced her skin, even drawn blood, to break her concentration. Then He'd allowed her to pull the sliver free from her body. So she was meant to pull herself free from this place, right? Well, wasn't that what God the Father was trying to tell her?

  Of course.

  She pushed herself up, barely able to stand on her numb legs. As she shook her limbs and tried to get the blood flowing, she knew what she had to do. Opening the door, she flicked off the light and stepped out of that stuffy little room into the bright light. She hesitated, listened, but heard no sign of her father. So she was right. God had been sending her a message; He had pricked her with that sliver to wake her up, to tell her this was her chance, the only one. Given the way her father was watching her, she certainly wasn't going to get another opportunity as good as this, at least not for the next few days.

  Happy she'd been given such a definitive answer to her prayers, Suzanne crossed the small hall and entered her father's bedroom, where she walked around to the bedside table. For a second she feared it might not be there, but when she opened the drawer there it was, the shiny black pistol. Suzanne ran one hand through her thick blond hair, stared down at the weapon. What choice did she have?

  She snatched up the gun and grabbed the small box of bullets. Clutching them to her breasts, she ran out of her father's room and into her own, where she threw open her closet door. First she pulled out a big blue sweater—dark blue, of course, because The Congregation frowned on bright colors— which she spread flat on her bed. Next she placed the gun and bullets right in the middle of it, then carefully pulled up the sleeves and bottom and neck of the sweater. A tidy little bundle, she thought, smiling, the gun and bullets wrapped snugly inside. Next she dove back into the closet and pulled out an extra pair of shoes and a small canvas duffel bag. This should work, she thought. Her dad had done the same thing last year, packing away a gun when he went up to visit those people in Idaho.

  “You know, I think someday the government's going to come after us,” he'd explained more than once to his little girl. “They could lay siege upon us, you realize, for after all, God's true church was prophesied to be tortured. And if you need to, you run, Suzanne. Take some money and take a gun—we'll meet up later, just like our emergency plan says. But if you get on an airplane, be sure, baby doll, that you don't take the gun on board the plane. No, they'll catch you if you do that. Instead, you put the gun in your luggage and check the bag. That way they won't discover you got a way to defend yourself.”

  So now she dumped in some shoes and more clothes. And that was it. A full bag, which she zipped up.

  Money. The duffel draped over her right shoulder, Suzanne raced down the hall and into the kitchen. From the narrow spice cabinet just to the left of the stove, she took a large coffee can. No one at The Congregation had credit cards— they were far too worldly, and Suzanne had seen one only a couple of times in her entire life—and when she popped off the lid of the can, she found the whole thing stuffed with money, thousands and thousands of dollars crammed in there. She reached in, peeled off eight or nine one-hundred-dollar bills, thought better of it, and left that money on the shelf and took the entire can for herself. There was no sense running short; she'd need plenty for the ticket, and the three of them would probably go through the rest pretty quickly. Besides, her dad could always just dip into the coffers of The Congregation and get more. In fact, she thought, snatching the short pile of hundreds, he didn't even need that.

  The last thing she took was the sheet of paper with the names and the telephone numbers her father had written down. If she were caught at this point she'd be in deep, deep trouble. She had a vision of her dad walking in and figuring out what she was doing—he'd rip open the bag, hurl the money against the floor, scream, maybe even wave the gun around. And lock her in the prayer closet. She just had to get to the airport.

  She snatched her dad's car keys from a hook by the door and grabbed a jacket. She paused by a window, peered out over the compound. The bakery looked quiet, so did the meeting hall and the family dormitories. Okay, so her dad was still in his meeting down there and everyone else was making dough, literally so. As if she were scurrying through the rain, Suzanne bowed her blond head and darted outside to the car, her father's prized white Cadillac. Jumping in, she jammed the keys into the ignition, stomped on the gas, and the engine came to life like a tiger. Okay, okay, she told herself. Don't be too nervous. She just had to get the car in reverse, back out of here, and—

  Suddenly she was shooting backward, right out of their drive and onto the paved country road. She stomped on the brakes, brought the car to a screeching halt, then moved the gearshift to drive. Almost instantly she was flying down the road, whooshing away.

  “Wow!” Suzanne screamed with delight.

  She swerved over to the right side of the road, saw the speedometer quickly climbing. Great, she thought, she'd be at the airport in Denver in no time, whereupon she'd catch the very first plane. With any luck, she realized, she'd be in Minneapolis in a matter of a few hours.

  30

  “Oh, great.”

  That big blue snowplow had done a fine job of cleaning the alley, but it had plowed the snow right up against Janice's garage door. When she pressed the button and the garage door rumbled upward, the first thing she saw was this white wall about two feet high. She knew she'd never be able to smash her Honda Prelude through it, so she grabbed a shovel. As if she were frantically digging through an avalanche in search of some buried soul, she worked as quickly as she could. Zeb had the baby—thank God—but they were in trouble. They needed her. She had to be there now. Huffing, Janice carved out a narrow path for her car, hurling the already crusty snow aside. By the time she'd shoveled from the very edge of her garage to the cleared alley, a distance of only three or four feet, her brow was blistered with sweat and her heart was racing. What if Zeb didn't wait? What if he gave up on her?

  Her body trembling, Janice finally climbed into her small car. She jammed in the keys, revved up the engine, then put the car in reverse and gunned it. She blasted out of the garage like a bullet, then shot down the narrow alley.

  Zeb had said he was in trouble, but who knew what that meant? Given the recent events, Janice feared everything and anything, particularly that thug. But Zeb was okay, right? The baby too? Isn't that what Zeb had said on the phone? In her mind she replayed the conversation, tried to remember each and every word, tried to fish out any kind of truth. Good Lord, she drove as if she were insane, her red car swerving and sliding on the slippery streets. She just had to get to that stupid gas station. There weren't that many cars out, but everyone was merely creeping along. At the corner of 50th and Bryant the traffic came to a snarled halt and she leaned on the horn.

  “Move it!”

  Almost twenty-five minutes after Zeb had called, Janice drove up France Avenue and finally spotted the large red sign of the gas station near 44 Street. Please let him still be there, she chanted silently. Please let them both b
e all right. What if something was the matter with Ribka? What if she needed her medication? Maybe Zeb should have called 911 directly. She turned off the street much too quickly and managed to steer her car toward a towering outdoor display, the car sliding to a stop only inches from the display. Next Janice was throwing open the door, jumping out. Zeb came charging out of the gas station's small building, cradling a bundle inside the big parka.

  “Is Ribka okay?” asked Janice as she rushed toward him.

  “Yeah.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Come on, we can't stand out here.”

  “Sure, sure. But…”

  There was everything to say, but only one thing to do. She didn't merely embrace Zeb, she clutched him and Ribka to her. Bit her lip. Swallowed. And tried not to burst into tears.

  “Just…just believe me,” said Janice quietly. “I didn't give her to him. He had a gun.”

  “I know. It's one of the guys from The Congregation. He just came after me again.”

  Janice pulled at the top of Zeb's coat, peered in through the opening, and saw Ribka cradled warmly inside. Zeb, however, wouldn't linger, and he nudged Janice back and started toward the car. Flooded with relief, Janice couldn't move for a moment, but then she dashed toward the car, climbed in, started it up. As she sped away from the gas station Zeb kept staring out the back, trying to ascertain if they were being followed.

  “I don't get how they've been tailing me,” said Zeb, searching behind them. “I mean, how did Paul find me this morning? And last night these two guys showed up at the hospital and chased me.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Janice. “This isn't making sense. I think we have a bit to sort out.”