Tribe

by R. D. Zimmerman

  Rick leaned down to her, lifted his right fist up to his left shoulder, then swung down, striking Martha on the chin as hard as he could, shouting, “God have mercy on you!”

  Martha cried out and wormed her way backward. Blood now gushed from her bottom lip as well as her nose, and she clutched her face with her right hand.

  “You're filled with the devil! You're desperately wicked!” Rick turned to Paul and shouted, “Watch her!”

  He left them, stormed through the small living room, found a hall, and charged to the rear of the house. The first door proved to be a bathroom. The next a bedroom. He ducked in, saw her bed, her clothes, her makeup. And he tore through it all, flinging her clothes out of the closet, kicking her shoes aside, pulling her sweaters from a shelf. Then he turned to her small dressing table, and with one great holler he took his arm and wiped her cosmetics and brushes, her mirror and creams from the table and all over the floor. He couldn't believe it all, so many colors, so many vain items. And so many different kinds of fabrics—cottons combined with polyesters, wools stitched with elastic bands. Nothing pure. Nothing simple. Spinning around, he grabbed the salmon-colored sheets—they should be pure white!—from her double bed, ripped them loose, and then tore them in half. Next he dumped over her small bedside table, sending a clock radio, lamp, and a couple of books crashing onto the floor.

  His righteous anger hotter than ever, he rushed out of the room, across the hall, into another small bedroom. He froze. There was a single bed on one side, some baseball posters on the wall. Of course this had been where Zeb had grown up. These were his boyhood things. Certainly he'd put together that plastic model of a plane hanging from the ceiling. Of course he'd written his high school reports on that little typewriter. Rick hurled open the closet door, saw books, a few clothes, some boxes, a baseball glove and bat. Dear Jehovah. All those years Zeb had been so close, right here in Santa Fe, and Rick hadn't known it. And then he wondered if this was where his son had first come with the baby. Perhaps. The thought drove him crazy with rage, and Rick grabbed the bat and smashed it all, the model, the typewriter, the radio, the lamp. When all of it lay in pieces on the floor, he stopped, his breathing fast and heavy.

  But still he didn't have what he came for.

  He dropped the baseball bat and charged out. Returning to the living room, he found Paul still aiming his gun directly at Martha, who was now on her couch, her head leaned back. Seated next to a small basket that contained the remote controls for the television and VCR, she pressed the corner of a small throw blanket to her nose in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

  Rick pointed a finger right at her and in a voice like thunder from the mountain shouted, “Where is my son?”

  In response her right hand shot out, the middle finger pointing high from her fist. “Up your tight ass!”

  And Rick yelled, “Lord have mercy on you!”

  “Likewise, I'm sure!”

  He spun to his left, bursting into the kitchen, a small space, mostly white, a little table at the far end. His eyes darting around, he took it all in: the blender, the sink, the microwave. A steaming pot of coffee. Lastly he hit upon the small stack of mail on the far edge of the counter and next to the phone. He dove into the envelopes, his fingers desperately tearing through the electrical bill, some Christmas cards, a Visa bill, as well as—

  Wait, he thought. His hands shaking, he thumbed back through it all, returning to one of the cards. He saw the postmark, noted the address on the back. Why did this look familiar? It was something Zeb himself had once mentioned, wasn't it? And then he ripped open the envelope, which contained a brief note as well as two photographs, one of a woman, another of a house. Of course, Rick realized. Why hadn't he thought to look there?

  Out of nowhere a siren started screaming. Dear Lord, realized Rick, it was the burglar alarm.

  He stuffed the envelope and its contents into his pocket, and by the time Rick rushed back to the living room Paul was upon Martha, batting a remote control out of her hands. All Martha did, however, was laugh.

  “He's not so smart, is he!” she shouted almost gleefully to Rick. “I told him I was going to turn on the TV, but instead I took the remote to my alarm system. I hit the panic button, you assholes—the police are on the way!”

  Rick strode directly toward her, raised his fist, and as Paul held her, struck Martha on the chin. A fresh spray of blood flew across the room, and hearing the crack of her jaw and the pitch of her scream, Rick was glad. She deserved all this pain and more. Unfortunately there just wasn't time.

  Grabbing Paul by the arm, Rick shouted, “Come on, let's get out of here!”

  “But—”

  “Move it!”

  As they charged out of the house Rick paused at the front door, glanced back, saw the battered Martha slumped on the couch and laughing hysterically. Or was she crying? Her blond hair was matted, her clothing wet with blood. Pathetic. Demonic. How had he ever loved her?

  Never mind, he thought, turning and racing through the dull morning light toward the car. There was indeed a God. His God. And He was great, for He'd answered Rick's prayers yet again. Praise the Almighty Lord. It was He who had shown the postmark to Rick. He who was leading Rick to his fallen son. Praise God. Praise God. Praise God.

  The two men rushed to the car, climbed in, and sped away. Two blocks later, just like any law-abiding citizens, they pulled to the side of the street and let the police car zoom by.

  Watching it disappear in the rearview mirror, Paul asked, “Where to now?”

  “Where?” replied Rick smugly as he patted his pocket. “Minneapolis, of course.”

  4

  As Todd waited for Janice to return to the table at Florentine's, a trendy Italian restaurant on Hennepin Avenue, he stared out the large plate-glass window at the raging storm. The temperature had indeed jumped upward this afternoon, warming all the way to a balmy twenty above, the first time the temperature had topped zero all week. As also promised, the snow was falling with wintry gusto. Surely, thought Todd, sipping his red wine and watching as a whirlwind of snow came charging up the street, they were going to get more than the promised twelve inches. Maybe even fifteen. Yet while traffic on the whitened Hennepin was down noticeably, this restaurant was packed with yuppies wearing Moon-Boots and puffy, awkward coats and sweaters as thick as doormats. Rather than a quiet, candlelit haven, Florentine's was wild tonight, the pastas steaming, the wine flowing and flowing, people partying as the proverbial ship went down.

  This was a great place to spend a deep winter night, but Todd realized he shouldn't have taken Janice here, not tonight. Much too noisy. Much too fun. Janice had wanted to talk, needed to most desperately. This thing about a client dropping a baby in her lap had clearly thrown her for a loop. In all the years since college Todd had never known Janice to get tripped up like this, to muddy the boundaries of her personal life with other people's dirty little problems. Then again, maybe the crisis was all about babies; perhaps it tapped into her despair at not having kids, which she had mentioned with increasing frequency in the last few years.

  Well, he supposed, that would make sense, although he couldn't really sympathize. Having been married for a half dozen years, he could have a teenaged son or daughter by now, a concept he found frightening. Way back when, Trish and he had fortunately put off the kid thing. She'd been in med school. He'd been obsessed with his career. They'd been too busy. So when the marriage ended it wasn't very complicated—not even a cat to divide—and Todd continued to be thankful for that.

  Todd checked his watch, wondered what was taking Janice so long. They hadn't been here more than ten minutes when she'd slipped off to call home and check on Jeff Barnes, their friend and infamous drag queen, who was also tonight's babysitter. Now turning around in his seat, Todd looked toward the rear of the restaurant and couldn't spot Janice, but did notice a few heads turning his way. So at least some people still recognized him, he thought, even though it had been months and
months since he'd left Channel 7. And while for the first month or two after Michael's death Todd had dreaded going out in public, it felt okay tonight; now that he was out as gay he was no longer worried about what people were thinking.

  Suddenly he saw Janice cutting through the tiny, crowded restaurant, and he admired her beauty all over again. Tall and slender, a narrow face that was dynamic and eye-catching, she was always full of energy. Tonight, though, the smile that usually paved her way through life was noticeably absent.

  “Janice, you look so sad.” “I am.”

  “Don't be.”

  Todd held her tight as they danced slowly to a Carly Simon song in the basement of Janice's sorority at Northwestern University. It was late and most of the other kids had drifted away, but Todd and Janice lingered as if they didn't want to let go of this night or perhaps their time in college. In a way, they both saw the future and they both sensed that this was the end of their relationship. Not only did Christmas break begin tomorrow, but after that Janice was taking off for a semester in Europe. Southern France to be exact, where she would study up on her French as well as drink in the sun and the wine. And then Greece, an entire summer of Mediterranean sun and topless beaches.

  “I'm going to miss you,” said Todd.

  “Yeah, I'm going to miss you too.”

  As they moved slowly to the song he ran his hand through her rich, silky hair and kissed the side of her head. Even though he sensed that their relationship had run its course, he knew this winter would be lonely without her. For a variety of reasons they weren't right together, the two of them, yet Todd felt deeply attached to Janice, as if they were mysteriously linked. And holding her now he felt calm for the first time since Greg was killed last week. Still shaken by the incident, Todd clutched Janice more tightly, tried to block out the image of Greg dangling from the fire escape. Just exactly who and what had he seen up there?

  Janice kissed him on the neck and said, “Debbie left today.”

  Todd knew what that meant. Debbie was Janice's roommate. Which in turn meant that Janice had the room to herself for the night.

  “Would you like to come up?” she asked with a sly look in her eye. “We can sneak up the back stairs.”

  He pulled back and looked into her eyes, took a deep, nervous breath, and replied, “Sure.''

  And as they turned, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist, Todd wondered exactly what she had in mind. They'd kissed a lot, they'd hugged and caressed and come close to doing it, but had somehow always fallen away from the actual act of intercourse. So would this final night together be it, the climax, per se, of their time together?

  As she sat down Todd asked, “How's the little tyke?”

  “Don't call her that.”

  “Call her what?”

  “Dyke.”

  “I didn't. I said ‘tyke.' With a T.”

  “Oh.”

  “So how is she?”

  “Fine.” She sat down, took a sip of wine. “I'm not so good at this motherhood stuff, after all. I just worry all the time. You know, is Ribka eating enough, is her diaper wet, is she warm…”

  “Don't worry, Jeff's not going to let anything happen to her.”

  “Yeah, well, that old queen better be watching her instead of playing around with my cosmetics. At least he's too fat to fit into any of my dresses, so he won't be messing with any of that stuff.”

  “Janice,” began Todd, surprised to hear her talking so disparagingly, “what the hell's with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You've just been so uptight ever since this baby's arrived. Listen, you've taken five days off to be home with someone else's kid. Don't you think it's time you do a reality check and get back to work? You must have tons to do.”

  “Tons and tons and tons.”

  “So what are you waiting for?”

  “Todd, it's just not that simple.”

  He watched as she turned away, blotted her eyes, and asked, “Janice, what's this all about?”

  She shrugged. “I've done some stupid things in my life.”

  “Funny, I was just saying something like that this morning.”

  “No, I mean really stupid.”

  “Trust me, I know what you mean.”

  “God, I need to talk.” She smiled sadly at him. “I just can't handle this. It's too much. Too big.”

  He reached across the table, took her hand in his. “Hey, doll, you're one of the most together people I've ever met.”

  “Thanks, but…but…” Janice started to say something, stopped, then asked, “I wish I had kids, don't you?”

  “You know, I really hate that question. It's just so loaded with technicalities.”

  “I mean, we should have had kids, the two of us together.”

  “My, there's a complicated thought for you.” He glanced out the window. “Don't take it personally, Janice, but those two or three months we dated in college were some of the most awkward times of my life.”

  “Gee, thanks, butch.”

  “If I remember, you were the one who dumped me, went to Europe for a semester, and came back the following fall a so-called avowed lesbian.”

  “Oh, please, don't remind me.” Her words hesitant, she added, “Oh, by the way—and no offense meant—there were a couple of other guys in there. After you, I mean. I guess I never told you that.”

  “No, actually you didn't.”

  He glanced again out the window, losing himself in thought, for whatever Janice had or hadn't done with whom or when, she'd certainly come to terms with her sexuality years earlier than he. Decades, actually. Todd, on the other hand, had done everything possible to avoid the truth and in turn complicate his life. As a matter of fact he was wishing he'd never gone into such a high-profile career as television. Appearance. Image. What any and everyone thought. He now saw how television had simply perpetuated his deep-seated fears. Each time he stood before the camera some little part of him was wondering what people would really think of him if they knew the truth.

  When he turned back he saw that Janice was clutching her white dinner napkin to her eyes and crying.

  “Janice,” Todd said softly as he squeezed her hand, “what's the matter?”

  “Sorry, I'm having a meltdown.”

  “I kind of guessed that.”

  “Can we go?”

  “No,” he chided gently, “not until you tell me what this is all about.”

  “I will.” She sniffled, eyed the noisy restaurant. “But I don't want to talk about it here.”

  “Okay, I'll get the waiter to wrap our order to go.”

  She nodded, blew her nose.

  Todd stared at her and said, “But you promise me you're going to tell me everything?”

  “Promise.” She wiped her eyes. “Oh, Todd, there's something I've never told you, something that's been haunting me for years and years, and now I have a very real problem.”

  5

  In his hotel room not far from the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, Rick dropped himself onto the edge of his bed and stared at the phone. This was exhausting, all this gallivanting around the country, but for the first time he felt hope. Absolutely. The Lord was leading him to little Ribka, and soon he'd have his family back together and they could return to The Congregation, that safe and isolated island in this sea of madness. Oh, thought Rick, shaking his head, but this was a Godless nation, one full of worldly lies and rejected knowledge, idolaters and fornicators, and the sooner Zeb, Ribka, and he were back within the confines of the one true church, the better. There was safety there. True wisdom. And love.

  Rick knew too well what it was like out here in this wicked world. Lost. That was what he'd been as a young man until some of his college friends and others from the Midwest invited him to join The Congregation. He'd been lost and on the verge of being swallowed up, just as was now happening to poor Zeb. So many years ago Rick had had a slovenly, Laodicean attitude, had wanted to give his life entirely to
sin. But then, he thought remembering those terrible times, he'd turned his life around. He might have been born in sin, but long ago he had recaptured the true values and become a soldier in God's army, a believer who would always stand firmly on the promises. And if he could make right what was so wrong way back then, Zeb could well do the same now.

  At least, thought Rick as he picked up the phone and dialed, he had some good news to report. Ribka, he was confident, would be all right. They were sure to find her. The blanket she'd been wrapped in, made from cotton grown right at The Congregation's compound and woven by the women there, would shield her from evil. After all, the blanket had been anointed by all of The Elders.

  The phone rang, and a voice on the other end answered, saying, “Praise Jehovah.”

  “Yes, praise Him.” Addressing God's Apostle and the leader of The Congregation, Rick said, “Good afternoon, Henry, it's me.”

  “Where are you? Minneapolis?”

  “Yes, we arrived this afternoon.”

  They'd flown out of Albuquerque, having paid over a thousand dollars for their full-fare, one-way tickets. But money was the least of Rick's worries, for he'd been given more than enough from the coffers of The Congregation. All that matters, Henry had said, is Ribka. She has to be found, he had proclaimed, before Satan wraps his clever hands around her as well. Bring her back, that's all that matters.

  “Paul and I are here,” continued Rick, speaking into the receiver, “and I'm fairly confident the baby is too.”

  “Praise Jehovah!” The deep voice on the other end of the long-distance call turned away from the receiver and bellowed, “Honey! Honey, praise Jehovah, they've found your little baby girl!”

  “No, wait, not so fast,” Rick said loudly. “Henry? Henry, listen to me. Henry, can you hear me?”

  “Heavens, yes. How is she? How is my little—”

  “I said I'm pretty sure the baby's here. I'm almost positive I know where she is. But we don't have her actually with us yet.”