Tribe (13 page)

“It might not be from the baby,” he said. “She might be all right. It could be his, after all.” Feeling her tremble with cold and fear, he pulled her closer. “Maybe he cut himself when we were struggling. Maybe I gave him a bloody nose, something like that.”

He looked up the street, through the sheets of thick snow. Somewhere in the back of his mind Todd had believed the guy would still be here, that his car would be stuck or something. But clearly that wasn't the case.

“Shit,” he muttered as he shook his head, realizing there was nothing they could do, not right there in the middle of that snowy street anyway. “Come on, we've got to get you back to the house before you freeze to death.”

“But—!”

“We've got to call the police.”

She stood motionless in the snow, wouldn't budge, her chin trembling from cold and fear, and meekly said, “Don't you understand?”

Todd's gut tightened. “Understand?”

“The…the baby.”

He brushed some snow off his face and said, “What do you mean?”

“I've just screwed up everything,” she muttered, standing there as if she were in the middle of her living room instead of the middle of a raging winter storm.

Taking her by the arm, he said, “Janice, we've got to get you inside. Come on, we'll call—”

“You don't understand!” she shouted, ripping away from him and pushing toward a snowbank. “That baby's my…my granddaughter!”

The wind gusted around Todd, the frigid air nipped at him. He turned, looked at the corner streetlight, saw the snow still falling in heavy sheets.

“Your…your what?”

“I had a child, Todd. A boy. Ribka is my son's daughter.”

The storm vanished around him, his feet not cold, his brow not chilled with flakes. She said she'd slept with other guys, didn't she? After they'd dated in college there were others, she claimed, perhaps a whole bunch. So what if she hadn't been the consummate dyke? It was only natural to be out there exploring the world, testing the waters, discovering what she really wanted. What the hell, he himself had sought a beautiful, intelligent woman and gotten married.

“I…I can't believe this,” Janice said, turning away, strolling through the snow. “I've just done everything wrong, made such stupid mistakes.”

Todd flashed back to that night at Northwestern right before Christmas break. Just how connected was he to all this?

They'd
been in bed for, what, maybe two Carly Simon songs when Todd felt it, the stirring. Oh, shit, it was working. It was happening. He was getting hard. As he lay next to Janice in her room in the sorority, all the trials of the last week vanished and he felt suddenly and unbelievably happy. This was what was supposed to happen, how things were supposed to go, wasn't it?

He started kissing her, tasting her lips, her sweetness, as never before, and before he knew it he was on top of her. He stared into her eyes, kissed her chin, her breasts, nibbling gently on one nipple, then the other. It was all rather instinctual, really. He was on top, she was opening herself to him. And then his penis was inside her, moving smoothly, warmly, easily. So this, he thought, is what it feels like: nice. At first he merely drank it in, savoring every second, but then as the
intensity built so did his purpose. Unbelievable, he thought. He was actually in bed with a woman. They were fucking. He'd actually been able to get an erection, and now he was inside her and everything was going fine, even great.

So, he thought with a grin upon his face as he worked himself in and out of her and toward that ultimate goal, this could mean only one thing, couldn't it: that he wasn't gay after all.

He
remembered the stress, the pleasure, the joy and relief that it worked, he could do it, could screw a woman. And he also remembered that the next semester Janice had disappeared, supposedly on a semester-long program in Europe, after which she'd come back claiming she was a dyke.

Suddenly he was shaking, not from the cold and the snow that was all around him, but from within. Something was coming into perspective, a truth was forcing itself to the surface.

With the storm blustering all around him, in a hushed voice Todd said, “So…you have a son.” And then he pushed himself to ask, “Tell me, Janice, is he
our
son?”

“Todd, I've just done everything wrong.”

“Well, is he?”

“I've got so much to explain.”

“Janice!”

“It's so complicated.”

“Damn it all, Janice!”

“Todd, I've got to talk to him. It's not so—”

“Tell me, Janice, is he my son, too, or not?”

She stood in the middle of the street, the snow up to her knees and covering and clinging to her hair, her shoulders. She started to say something, then clamped her eyes shut. Wrapping her arms around her body, she squeezed herself tightly. Or was Todd wrong, was she not trying to hold something in but squeeze it out?

Her voice strained, Janice finally said, “Todd, I'm sorry. I should have told you a long time ago. I…I wanted to, but…but…” She shook her head. “The truth is, I…I don't know.”

Fully clothed, Rick sat
on his hotel bed, the pillows cushioned against the wooden headboard for support, his Bible cracked open. Staring down at the pages before him, he saw passages and entire verses that he'd underlined, as well as his own comments and interpretations that he'd written in the margins. But tonight he hadn't been able to read a word in over thirty minutes. Instead of visualizing the miracles of Jehovah, in his mind's eye Rick was visualizing all the horrendous possibilities.

Where in the name of heaven was Paul and what could possibly be taking him so long?

Maybe they'd done this all wrong. Maybe, Rick wondered, he shouldn't have allowed Paul to go off on his own. Paul was supposed to just check out the house and, if he thought it safe, do his little business with the telephone lines. All that shouldn't take so very long, yet here Paul had been gone for almost four hours. Four hours! Rick shook his head. He should have called by now if there were any problems. If Paul got to the house and thought the situation was different—if he detected that the child wasn't there, if he spotted Zeb himself, if the authorities were around—Paul was supposed to slip away and call Rick immediately. But he hadn't phoned, which led Rick to only one possible conclusion: There'd been trouble. Rick knew it, they should have equipped Paul with a cellular phone, which would have allowed him to call Rick at even the hint of a problem. Always security-conscious, however, Paul wouldn't allow it; wireless phones weren't secure, he insisted, a conversation could be tapped far too easily.

Dear Jehovah, he prayed, please don't let the police be involved. That would only complicate things to a horrendous degree, not only for his granddaughter but also for The Congregation. What if the local police or the FBI stepped in and began to investigate things? The publicity would be awful, lawyers would come out of the woodwork, the issue would probably go to court. Little Ribka could easily be taken from all of them and placed in a foster home, which would be the worst possible thing for his family.

Or was Paul simply detained by the roads?

Oh, Lord. It was the lesser of two evils, but Paul could easily be in some ditch. Or he could easily have been side-swiped on these slippery roads and taken to a hospital.

Rick slammed shut his Bible, jumped off the bed, and went to the window. Pulling aside the curtain, he peered into the parking lot. A blanket of white covered all the cars, antennas poking out here and there. No movement. Glancing at the lampposts, he saw thick clouds of snow billowing in the light. Pressing closer to the window, he saw the highway. The traffic was much lighter than before, the cars progressing slowly. But they were moving. And there were two plows, huge orange trucks that were clearing and salting the roads. Maybe there was hope yet that Paul would return safely.

His stomach growled, for on top of everything he was famished. He hadn't eaten since lunch; he should've gone down to the restaurant when Paul first left. An hour after that Rick should've ordered room service. Now, though, Rick couldn't do either. He certainly couldn't leave the room, not even for a minute. And he most definitely didn't want to tie up the phone. What if Paul called? What if he had but one quarter?

“Lord watch over them,” he muttered, turning away from the window.

He walked across the room, running his hand along the top of the dresser, then up and across the television set. He couldn't live up here in this northern city. It wasn't just the snow. Nor the cold. It was the lack of faith. An hour ago he'd turned on the TV, but hadn't been able to find even a single minister. That was a sign, of course, of just how lost these souls were up on this northern prairie—they were so blind to their woes that they weren't even reaching out—but there wasn't much Rick could do about it. God's true church was prophesied to be small and persecuted. And The Congregation was just that, small, with slightly over twenty families and not even a hundred members total, and ever fearful as well that government forces would descend upon them and wipe them out. So not only did The Congregation not have the millions and millions of dollars it would take to start something like one of those cable Bible shows, such aggressive proselytizing wasn't part of their mission. No, the destiny of The Congregation was to be small and inward, focused solely on Jehovah and His true mission for them.

Rick walked into the bathroom, flicked a switch, and recoiled from the blinding light. Then he stood there, staring at himself. Gray pants. White shirt untucked, the top three buttons opened. The red-and-blue-striped tie long gone. And the face. He stared at himself. Martha was right. He looked awful. So tired. His hair had started to gray just three years ago, and already his sideburns were a bright white. And the top? Well, never mind about that. His front hairline had receded several inches. Actually, it was pretty thin all the way back.

Okay, so he didn't look the greatest. Martha was right; no wonder some people assumed he was over fifty. Of course, the extra weight didn't help either. He pinched himself at the waist. There was a good twenty-five pounds extra there. Hard to believe, he thought, staring at himself. Somewhere inside this figure was the skinny kid with the eager smile. But enough of that. As written in Proverbs 31, favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain.

Then again, he thought, hitting the light switch and plunging the bathroom into darkness, those long gone, frivolous days were the stupid days. He'd wasted so much time, did such heinous things, until he'd found the Lord our Father, and now he had so much to work for, so much to accomplish. If he was looking older it was because he was pushing himself, reaching, striving. The power of Jehovah, the word of God the Son, his family, The Congregation: These were his duties. He was a leader, a valued one at that. All of which was more than the vanity of Martha. She'd been so weak, so fragile. No wonder she'd fled. No spine, no vision. No devotion. He, on the other hand, was strong, determined. With the word of God the Father and the work of God the Son, he had been saved. Yes, he had to be focused.

He looked directly at himself in the mirror and muttered, “‘A double minded man is unstable in all his ways,' James chapter one, verse eight.”

Heading back to the bed and his Bible, Rick glanced at his watch. This was absolutely ghastly. Where in the world was Paul?

Seating himself, he cracked open his Bible and shook his head. This couldn't be happening. His stomach hurt, but it was worry that was eating him now, not hunger. Was Paul stuck in the snow? Stuck in jail?

A heavy hand pounded on the door.

In response, Rick spun around and called, “Paul?”

He leapt off the bed and charged across the room. As he started to twist the lock, he suddenly stopped. The authorities?

“Paul, is that you?”

“Yeah,” came the mumbled reply.

Rick ripped open the door, only to find the heavy figure slumped against the doorjamb, one hand pressed to his ear.

Snow was melting on his head, his shoulders, and Rick grabbed Paul by the arm.

“My God in heaven, what happened?” he demanded, and then looked up and down the hallway. “No one followed you here, did they?”

Paul shook his head and then lowered his hand, exposing a broad, raw gash over his ear and across his cheek. His hair was twisted and matted with dark blood, and he tried to take a step but stumbled.

“What happened?” exclaimed Rick, steadying the other man. “Was it the car? Were you in an accident?”

“No.”

As quickly as he could, Rick slammed shut the door, bolted it tightly, and demanded, “Did something happen at the house?”

Paul started to talk, but his words dissolved into a mumbled mess. Rick led him to the bed, where he seated him. Studying the injured man, Rick appraised the bleeding, swollen cuts, then hurried into the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the sink. Grabbing one of the white hotel towels, he soaked it, wrung it out, and returned to Paul.

Rick begged, “Tell me nothing's happened to Ribka. Tell me our little baby is okay.”

“I…I…”

“Is she okay?”