He was somewhere around 54th Street when a small patch of frost on his rear window melted away and he could see the road behind him. Staring into the mirror, he saw a pair of headlights approaching quickly from behind, and suddenly he felt like a tiny animal about to be pounced upon by an eagle.
“Oh, no,” he muttered.
He couldn't tell if it was a car or a truck or even a cop, but whoever it was was driving unusually fast and gaining on him, the lights growing brighter by the moment. What had The Congregation done, bugged Zeb's car? How else were they able to follow him like this?
Zeb saw a street sign and automatically turned right. He just couldn't continue along like this, out in the open, so easily seen, and he steered the car from the plowed surface of France Avenue onto a small street where the snow was at least a foot deep. All at once Zeb felt the car slide to the left of the side road. He spun the steering wheel, gave the car gas—wasn't that what you were supposed to do on a slippery surface?— but the vehicle did just the opposite of what he wanted. Struggling to maintain control, Zeb spun the wheel the other way, felt the car slowing. No, this couldn't happen. He couldn't get stuck so late on such a snowy night. He had a child to take care of. Eyeing a pair of tire tracks in the middle of the road, he stomped the gas pedal all the way to the floor and tried as desperately as he could to maneuver his auto to the packed-down snow. Using all his strength, he steered right, then left, next right again in an attempt to maintain control of the fish-tailing car as it made its haphazard way down the street.
“Crap!” he shouted.
The car was rapidly sliding toward a parked sedan. He braked. What were you supposed to do, pump the brakes? Zeb had never seen snow like this, let alone driven in it, and as he turned way to the left the car oozed to the side, missing the parked snow-covered car by inches. Oh, God. He slid past an alley, and now Zeb's own car was nearly sideways. He frantically straightened the wheel, found himself sliding through the intersection of the next street. As quickly as he could, he turned the wheel again. Nothing. He pumped the brakes. Virtually nothing. Shit, this was like an amusement-park ride.
Finally, with a gentle thump, the car came to a stop.
Zeb looked around, realized he was over to one side of the intersection, right next to a stop sign. Okay, just give it a little gas. He pressed down, tried to sense even the slightest movement, but heard only the tired groan of the engine. With more firmness, he leaned on the accelerator. The car didn't budge an inch.
Shit.
No doubt about it, he was stuck and he wasn't going anywhere, at least not tonight. Forcing the door open and climbing out, he looked back toward France Avenue for any sign of those guys. There was no one turning this way, though, so maybe there wasn't anyone tailing him. That was a relief, but now what?
“Do you live near here?”
Zeb flinched, spun around, and looked over the top of his car. Through the falling snow he saw a man in a tan down parka and a dark blue wool cap, who was standing on the sidewalk, snow shovel in hand.
“What?” replied Zeb.
“I hope you live close by, because I don't think you're going anywhere tonight.” The man, tall and slim with bright cheeks, pushed his wire-framed glasses up his nose, grinned and shrugged. “You just sort of have to accept that winter's bigger than all of us.”
The snow already thick on his head and shoulders, Zeb didn't know what to say, let alone do. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Ever fearful, he turned and glanced through the storm toward France. Still no one. But now, looking at his car, he could see what the stranger with the snow shovel was talking about, for the automobile was buried all around, the snow reaching up and over the front headlights as well as the rear bumper. At the back of the car the exhaust was steaming upward through a crack in the snow like a smoldering volcano. Even if he dug for a couple of hours, Zeb realized, he probably wouldn't be able to get himself out.
To complicate things just a bit more, Ribka let out a huge wail.
“I'm here, I'm here!” called Zeb softly, diving headfirst into the open door and awkwardly seating himself behind the wheel.
First he turned off the ignition, pocketing the keys, and then he reached across to his daughter, whose face was red and puckered. Bundled in her white blanket, she was halfway through a scream and almost didn't appear to be breathing until a clump of snow fell from Zeb's head onto her cheek. All at once she tore into a loud, piercing shriek. Unbuckling her from her car seat, Zeb lifted her into his arms, held her, cooed to her, patted her on the back. Her crying, however, only seemed to grow more panicky.
“I'm here, it's okay!” desperately pleaded Zeb.
What was wrong with her, what did she want? Was she cold? Did she want food? A clean diaper? He patted and bounced her, yet she cried louder, in turn causing Zeb to grow more desperate with each moment. Oh, God in heaven, this wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to be stuck out in some blizzard, and his baby daughter wasn't supposed to be so miserable. Was this Zeb's punishment? Was God punishing him for taking his daughter and leaving The Congregation by hurting Ribka?
“You need to get your baby inside,” called a voice through the half-open driver's door.
Zeb flinched, hung on to Ribka, and looked up to see the stranger, the guy in the down coat. “What?”
“It's too cold to stay out here with a baby. You need to get her someplace warm. Do you live nearby?”
“No,” said Zeb, shaking his head slightly and looking pathetically desperate. “I was on my way to Fiftieth and Nicollet.”
“You'll never make it, not tonight anyway. Why don't you get your things and come with me?”
“Well…”
“It's okay. My name's Mark. I'm the minister at this church. I've got plenty of room.”
Zeb looked out his frosty windshield, and saw what he hadn't seen before, a small stucco and wooden church occupying the corner. He shifted Ribka in his arms, kissed her forehead. What choice did he have? It was either sit out here and freeze or accept this stranger's offer.
“Thanks. I'm Zeb.” Over the baby's wailing, he added, “And this is my daughter, Ribka.”
“Come on, let's get you out of this storm.”
Not wasting a moment, Zeb reached down to the floor in front of the passenger seat and gathered her bottle, the medication, a couple of diapers. There wasn't much, only the things that Brenda had given him at the hospital.
“Here, let me help you,” said Mark, reaching in and taking the loose items. “It was a good thing I was out here trying to get a jump on the shoveling, which, I must add, has been quite the losing battle.”
Pressing his screaming baby close to his chest and trying to shield her from the weather, Zeb climbed out of the car and waded through the snow and around the back of his car. He followed Mark through the gusting snow, over a snowbank, onto the partially shoveled but now drifting sidewalk, and not up to the wooden church, but to a small beige house immediately next door.
“This is the parish house,” explained Mark, holding open the porch door and ushering in Zeb.
As Ribka cried on and on, they stepped into a small entry at one side of the living room and Zeb looked around, saw two couches, lots of chairs, a black upright piano. His gut clutched. He recognized the signs, the accoutrements of a church. They'd had a room not unlike this at The Congregation, where people had gathered for prayer and song. At once he worried what he was falling into and made a mental note that in no way could he mention The Congregation. The last thing he wanted was for this minister to rat on him. For the night, though, at least they'd be warm. He had no other choice.
“Crisis averted, Ribka,” he said, kissing the baby who continued to cry.
The minister shed his down coat and wool cap, revealing a thin man with red cheeks, a warm smile, gold wire-rim glasses, and thinning blond hair. Immediately he reached for the baby.
“Here, let me hold her while you take your coat off.” Mark looked down at the
baby in surprise. “She's quite young, isn't she?”
“A little over four months.”
“It's okay, everything's fine, little girl,” he said, rocking her gently and then looking up at Zeb. “And what, asks the fatherly minister reproachfully, were you doing out with a child this young in a storm this bad?”
Zeb looked down and replied, “She's sick. I had to go to the hospital to get her some medication.”
“Well, if there's a good reason I suppose that's it. But where, I might ask, is the mother?”
“She's…she's…” Well, he thought, it really wasn't a lie. “Um, she's at her father's.”
“Oh, so you're being the consummate dad. Bravo.” The baby started to howl louder than ever, and Mark said, “A lot of good I'm doing.”
“I think she just needs to eat.” Zeb lifted a can of formula out of the pocket of his parka. “Can I heat this up?”
“Absolutely, but why don't you let me do that?” he said, handing the baby to Zeb. “There's a tape recorder and a lullaby tape over on the shelf there. It's a great tape, one of our members brought it over. It's got the voices of babies cooing, and it works like a charm; someone used it just last week.”
As Mark disappeared into the kitchen, Zeb, cradling the baby in one arm, fumbled to get the tape into the small machine. Even when he succeeded in getting the tape going, however, Ribka cried on and on, her sobs becoming more desperate, more intense. Nothing quieted her at all until a couple of frantic minutes later Mark reappeared with the warmed formula, which he handed to Zeb. Bottle in hand, Zeb then sat down in a rocking chair and started feeding his daughter. And within moments all was blessedly quiet.
“Finally,” said Zeb, looking up at Mark.
“Yes, indeed, that's better.”
As Zeb fed Ribka, the minister called his neighbor, a young mother, who brought over a portable crib and some baby blankets, which they set up in the ground-floor guest room. The double bed for Zeb was already made, and just over an hour after getting so horribly stuck, Zeb found himself bidding good night to first the neighbor and then Mark.
“Thank you very much,” Zeb said as he stood in the doorway to his room. “I don't know what we would've done without your help.”
“Certainly.” Mark hesitated. “Pardon my asking, but isn't there anyone you'd like to call just to tell them you're okay?”
“Uh…such as?”
“The baby's mother, who might also be your—”
“Wife. My wife.” Zeb rubbed his chin, for after being at The Congregation for three years he'd come to dislike these kind of inquisitions. “Sure, I should call her, but she's at her dad's. And…and that's out of town.”
Mark studied him a moment. “You're not in any kind of trouble, are you?”
“Oh, no. Not at all.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“No, not really.”
“Well, if I may be so bold, you should probably call your wife and just check in. Perhaps she's heard about the storm.”
“But it's long distance.”
“That's okay. The church will never know,” he said with a wink. “Just don't make it too long. You're a stranger, but I'm good on character calls, and I know I can trust you on that one. Just use the phone in your room. I'll be upstairs. Holler up if you need anything. Hope your daughter sleeps through the night.”
“Yeah, me too.” Zeb nodded. “Thanks again.”
“Wait a minute.” Mark ducked back into the living room and returned with the small tape recorder. “Here, the lullaby tape is still in there. You can give it a try if she wakes up in the night.”
“Okay, but I hope she sleeps. I'm exhausted.”
Zeb retreated into the small blue room, dropping both the tape recorder and himself on the edge of his bed. A brass lamp shone on the bedside table, and he stared down at his daughter. What a mess. At least, though, she was all right. Tonight she was crying simply because she was hungry, which hadn't been the case at all before he'd left Colorado. Then Ribka had been sick, shrieking and shrieking in pain, and nothing, not milk and particularly not that stupid anointed oil of The Elders—it really wasn't anything more than cooking oil, and not even olive oil at that—had been able to soothe her.
So tonight was okay, they were inside and warm. But he should at least call Brenda at the hospital and let her know he wouldn't be making it tonight. He couldn't even do that, however, because of all things Zeb didn't know Brenda's last name. And he couldn't call Brenda's roommate to let her know what had happened either, because he didn't have Brenda's home phone number.
This was so confusing, so hard. Maybe he shouldn't have left The Congregation. At least there all he had to do was get up at four in the morning and show up at the bakery and knead, knead, knead. All the decisions were made, all the meals cooked. All the day care provided. Now here he was out on his own, twenty-one years old, a single dad without a job or good education. Seated on the bed, his head slumped forward into both his hands, he wondered if he could do it, take care of himself as well as his baby. He'd been so worried about Ribka's health before leaving The Congregation that he hadn't even stopped to think how incredibly hard this would be, life in the big world. He wondered if his mom was just going to show up in Minneapolis as she'd threatened. He wouldn't put it past her, and that might not be so bad. He could use the help.
He felt as if he were at the bottom of a dark well, and before he could even think to stop himself his hand was reaching for the phone, an old rotary model that sat on the wooden bedside table. He hadn't called there that often, really, but he knew the number, which flowed from his head and down his hand.
Seconds later it was ringing and the old bastard himself picked it up, his gruff voice saying, “Praise Jehovah.”
“Suzanne.” He added, “Please.”
The surprise was evident in Harry's voice. “Is that you, Zeb?”
At first Zeb didn't say anything. He couldn't. His whole stomach tightened. No, he never wanted to see him again.
“Let me speak to Suzanne.”
“It is you, isn't it? Come back to us, Zeb. You and little Ribka are part of our family. I love you, we all do, and we want what's best for you.” Harry paused and added, “Son, you must resist Satan, because Satan is wily. He's tricky, he is, and once he has you he'll hurt you, I guarantee, and ruin everything you love, including that beautiful baby of yours.”
A voice in the background started shouting, “Is that him? Is that him? Give me the phone!”
“Suzanne, just stop it!”
“No, I want to talk to Zeb!”
“Suzanne, I—”
“Give me the phone!”
Zeb sat upright, listening long distance as father and daughter battled over the phone, and it brought it all back to him, the life there, the constraints. The rigidity, not to mention how sick the baby had been. Yes, he'd done the right thing by leaving.
Huffing, her voice finally came on the line. “Zeb? Zeb, is that you?”
“Hi.”
Hearing her voice, he didn't know what he felt. Or maybe he did. Maybe the lack of feeling was all that he needed to know about their relationship.
“How's my baby?” she demanded. “Is she all right?”
“She's fine now. I got her some medicine and she's all better.”
“How's her crying?”
“She's not crying anymore, Suzanne. I mean, she cries sometimes, but she's not crying because she's sick anymore. She's all better.”
“You gotta bring her back, Zeb. I miss her. I miss you. You gotta come home to us.”
“I'm sorry, I just can't.”
“But, Zeb—”
“Suzanne, no. She'd have died unless she got medication.”
“You've been blinded! You've been swallowed up! You've been associating with non-Christians!” She started sobbing. “Zeb, it's not too late. Come home! You can become a believer again!”
But it was too late, far too late, for Ribka's pained cr
ying had long ago caused him to lose faith, at least their faith anyway. He started shaking his head too, for he realized that she'd never be able to understand and that he'd been right in not telling Suzanne of his plan to escape The Congregation. He couldn't imagine her coping anywhere else but under the confines of The Congregation and the heavy command of her father.
“Don't worry, Ribka's okay. She'll be fine,” said Zeb. “I'd give my life for her.”
With that he dropped the phone in the cradle and gave a great big sigh of relief. Sure, he realized, he'd been meaning to call home to let Suzanne know the baby was all right, but he'd called specifically tonight in a moment of despair and self-doubt. A moment that was gone. Thank God he'd left. Praise Jesus and all that stuff that he'd had the brains to escape.
Leaning over the edge of the portable crib, Zeb whispered, “Don't worry, Ribka, everything's going to be okay. We'll see what tomorrow brings.”
Wave after wave of sobs shook Suzanne. Seated on the couch, she pulled her legs up, pressing her knees against her chest, then wrapping her arms around her shins so that she was this little ball of misery. Oh, God, she thought silently as the tears spilled out of her. She wanted Ribka. She wanted Zeb. She wanted to be anywhere but here.
“Hush, little girl,” said her father, sitting down next to her and putting one of his big arms around her. “Everything's going to be okay.”
“But…but .. .”
She stared at that old fat face of his, saw that syrupy smile, felt him pulling her into his embrace. Gross. Of all the fathers on the earth, why was she stuck with him? Why? And why out here on the compound, the most boring place in the entire universe? She wanted to be with Zeb and her baby in some nice little suburb with a TV and movies and restaurants, restaurants with table service. They could still go to church. They could work for Christians, visit with Christians. They could lead godly lives. Oh, she wanted a car that she could just hop into and go anywhere. A car with a radio, no less!
Tribe Page 14