Rememberers

by C. Edward Baldwin

  Yep, that sounded pretty good. Of course, he'd likely have to beat out the night's other big winner, Massachusetts Senator Joseph Frank. Last week, the junior senator, after having been rushed safely out of the UCB Center the week before, had risen significantly in the polls. It was a clear signal that the Democrats were winning public discourse on the fight against terrorism, be it foreign or domestic. But the pipsqueak and his Democratic cronies knew full well that tough talk on terrorism didn't equate to being tough on terrorism. Sure, they'd been able to pin the latest terrorist act on the current commander-in-chief, but it wouldn't be long before the wet-behind-the-ears politician said and did the wrong thing. And when he did, Washington intended to be there to twist the proverbial knife into Frank's sanctimonious back.

  Charlotte, in its inaugural years, had once been dubbed “the City of Churches.” A nickname it thoroughly enjoyed and had fully embraced through the years. There were over seven hundred places of worship within the city's borders, including everything from Catholic, to Presbyterian, to Baptist, and everything in between, including people who abhorred labels, preferring instead to simply worship their maker with simple, likeminded folk. It was a place where religion was bred openly and accepted by most as an essential and authoritative part of life. When preachers talked here, people usually listened. And what preachers talked about, almost uniformly, in the Sundays following the UCB Center bombing was the rising “ugliness” in people. They railed about how civil behavior and good manners were an endangered species. They complained about the random acts of violence, the short-tempers, and the unchecked fits of rage. Immoral behavior, they preached, was on a violently dangerous uptick, sending a general godlessness widespread over the city like a contagion.

  Reverend E. B. Turner of First Baptist Church, the largest African-American church in the county, had personally witnessed a small fender bender turn into all out fisticuffs. He'd been traveling behind a silver Buick Century that had been closely following a Honda Odyssey. The Odyssey stopped short at a traffic light, which had shifted rather abruptly from yellow to red. The Buick had been unable to stop completely, causing it to lightly tap the Honda's rear bumper. This minor transgression enraged the driver of the Honda, a middle-aged mother of four, to no end. She stormed out of her vehicle and went stomping over to the Buick, banging on the driver side front door. It took the driver of the Buick, an old lady of about seventy years or so, exactly two seconds to emerge from her car, hopping mad and swinging punches. A patrol car happened upon the scene at that exact moment. But its presence only intensified the situation as the officer was immediately antagonistic toward both drivers, threatening to arrest them. Minutes later, a second officer arrived, but he wasn't much better than the first as he merely sat down on the hood of his car, laughing at the escalating spectacle. It was only after the arrival of a third patrolman that the tension started to compress. The officer, seemingly not surprised at the sight of two of his colleagues acting unprofessionally or two women tossing expletives and punches at each other over a minor traffic accident, soon got the situation under control and had almost done so without having to make any arrests. That was until the old lady tore into the first officer's arm like a pissed off rattler, literally losing her teeth in his muscled bicep.

  And on and on it went throughout the city, with small incidents being blown incredibly out of proportion. And it didn't stop there. Priests discussed amongst themselves how a decrease in confessions had coincided with a significant increase in the number of people bearing witness to the transgressions of their loved ones and neighbors. People were being ratted out for excessive drinking, philandering, and all sorts of sins against God. One of Father Moynihan's parishioners had come in, confessing the sins of her eleven year old daughter who'd suddenly taken to actively trying to seduce her sixth grade teacher. The erstwhile innocent and sexually naive child had started acting like a harlot, the transformation having literally occurred overnight. One day she was shyly passing notes to her girlfriend, asking how to get cute Peter Townsend to notice her, and the next day she was hiking up her skirt, showing more leg and suddenly hot for teacher. Her mother, clearly clueless as to why or how this had happened, asked the priest plaintively if her daughter was possessed.

  Father Moynihan had no immediate answers for her. Sometimes parents were the last to know about the ills of their children. As far as he knew, the child could have long been a young harlot in the making. Father Moynihan's head wasn't buried in the sand. He clearly understood that young didn't necessarily equate to innocence. He would have to interview the young girl, her parents, and the teacher before rendering his take on the situation. Still, he had to admit, something strange was in the air. Strange things were happening all over.

  At Presbyterian United Church, Reverend Clifford Martin didn't need to conduct any interviews. He was ready to render his verdict to his congregation. “The demons that we've allowed to fester all these years have finally come home to roost,” he thundered. “The demons of alcohol, of drugs, of premarital sex, of sparing the rod and spoiling the child, of not tithing, of not church attending, of lying, stealing, cheating, backbiting—it's all coming to a head right now, right before our very eyes. The battle for your very souls is being raged right now. Can I get a witness!”

  His technical misunderstanding of the demons currently threatening the Charlotte metro area notwithstanding, Reverend Martin was actually on to something; although he'd no earthly idea how true his words really were. In fact, only a handful of people in the free world knew exactly what the citizens of Charlotte and ultimately the rest of mankind were up against. And two of those knowledgeable people were sitting in a booth in a diner in the small college town of Bengate some forty miles away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A half-eaten chicken sandwich languished in front of Swag as he sat silently watching Kallie, who sat across from him in the booth, her own sandwich untouched in the middle of the table. She was reading from a book opened atop the table in front of her. It was the third time she read the passage, though this time she did so out loud, but softly. “The demons were continually drawn to her and ultimately their own demise. With unrelenting power, the goddess destroyed one after the other, crushing some with her bare hands, stomping many with her feet, and gnashing countless others with her teeth.” She finished the passage and looked up at Swag; but she was unsure of what she should say or even think about the passage. Reading it three times had brought her no new revelations. Surely, Reverend Swag wasn't suggesting that she could crush, stomp, and gnash those creatures she'd seen fall from the sky. She wasn't a goddess. She was Kallie Hunt, college student, albeit one with a unique remembering ability. But unique ability notwithstanding, she was still only a college student and not yet qualified to land a job paying a decent living wage.

  Swag stared deeply into her eyes. “You are she.”

  Kallie's eyebrows furrowed. “I'm who?”

  “You are the reincarnation of the Goddess Kali (he pronounced it Kah Lee) and Eve, the first woman.”

  Kallie shook her head slowly. Okay, now he was truly mad. An insane man sat across from her. “I'm Kallie Hunt, college student. Just plain ole Kal…”

  “The spelling and pronunciation of the name are a bit different. But the Goddess Kali and the college student Kallie Hunt are one and the same. Her spirit lives in you.”

  “I don't feel like a goddess. I feel like a college student. I can remember things, sure. But I'm not special otherwise. I'm just Kallie.”

  “All God's creatures are special,” Swag said in a dead tone. “But your role here is different. You are who you are.”

  Her mind flooded with questions and she rushed them all at him. “But how would you know this? Why wouldn't I feel it? Why can't I remember it? What does…?”

  He held up a hand, silencing her. “I know it's confusing. And I can't say I have all the answers. Why in this time-cycle I know and you don't is something I can't answer. All I can say is
God moves in mysterious ways. Maybe he has a plan. Maybe there's just madness,” his voice trailed off as he momentarily broke eye contact with her. When he faced her again, his expression was stoic, determined. “You saw the demons.”

  He was right. She had seen the demons. And he'd known that she would. And he'd known about her remembering ability. It seemed he knew more about her than she knew about herself. It seemed pointless debating him on whether or not she was a goddess. Still, she didn't feel like a goddess. She certainly didn't feel powerful enough to kill demons. She was no Buffy. In her mind's eye, she could still see them. Strange misshapen creatures that looked like variegated innards draped over jigsaw puzzle pieces. No, on this point, he had to be mistaken. Before that stance could fully plant itself, she asked herself, What if he isn't mistaken? She decided to play devil's advocate. “What if I was this Kali person? How could I defeat them? I don't even know where they are?”

  He looked around at the other tables and spotted something on one of them. He went to retrieve it and then brought it back to their booth. It was a newspaper. He moved the book she was reading to the side and then unfolded the newspaper, spreading its front page before her. He pointed to a story beneath the fold. Its headline read: Violent Crimes Surge in Weeks Following Attack. Without giving her a chance to read the accompanying article, he opened the metro section on top of the front page. He indicated two articles: Teacher charged with taking indecent liberties with 11 year old girl. Several Women Report Being Groped on Public Buses. “Demons are spirits, evil, unclean spirits,” he said.

  “You're saying that the demons that fell out of the sky landed in the bodies of these people?”

  “They didn't just land in people,” Swag said. “Demons only need a body. Some may have landed in animals—dogs, cats, snakes, or any other living thing.”

  Kallie slumped back in her chair. “So, they could be anywhere.”

  “They can be and are,” Swag said. He moved the book back in front of her and indicated the first sentence of the passage she'd already read three times.

  She read the sentence out loud. “The demons were continually drawn to her and ultimately, to their own demise.”

  “They can sense your presence. They know that you can defeat them. They won't rest until you're destroyed. They'll come to you.”

  A lump formed in her throat. “They'll come to me?”

  “Yes, they will eventually; but there is a way to speed up the process.”

  “I'm not sure I'd want to,” she said absently.

  Swag ignored the comment. “But we must hurry or they'll scatter away from this region.”

  “So, we get them to come to me. And then what?”

  He picked up the remains of his sandwich and chomped off a huge piece of it. “You'll kill them all,” he said chewing. He smiled roguishly, wiping a spot of ketchup from the right corner of his lips.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Friday, November 13

  Professor Adam Sampson's home for the past eleven years was a modestly sized ranch that sat left of center in a cul-de-sac in a tree-crowded subdivision called Restive Willows. The neighborhood was the virtual midpoint of the imaginary line connecting Bengate's campus with Downtown Charlotte. The homes were big enough for young, family-oriented professionals, yet small enough for rising seniors who were empty-nesters either by nature or choice and still had an affinity for grass. The solidly priced houses had survived a recent housing bubble and were routinely coveted by families with household incomes running north of six figures, and who didn't mind being lorded over by a homeowners association known for issuing heavy-handed fines to any resident even remotely affronting the neighborhood's ambiance and appearance.

  Sampson's home for the most part was exactly how one would imagine a house with a single, meticulous occupant and no children in its past or present to be. The walls and carpet were unblemished. The solid oak furniture and hardwood floors were unmarked and varnished to perfection. The air was garden-fresh and floral-scented. The sweet, flowery air, of course, wasn't exactly due to the lack of young ones on the premises. Sampson, a professed green thumb since adolescence, had squeezed plants and flowers into just about every inch of livable space. Tall ponytail palms lined either side of the foyer, leading to the living room where five-foot desert roses prominently guarded its four corners. There were several geraniums and golden barrel cactuses scattered throughout the place. And he'd placed snake and ghost plants on every windowsill. By his admission and design, his indoors could very easily pass for the outdoors.

  He loved his plants and he took great care in nurturing them. Each day, he watered and fed them and talked incessantly to them. Sampson was a confirmed bachelor or, more precisely, a male old maid. And the plants were to him like cats were to some of his female counterparts. He thought his plants were significantly less of a bother than their feline contemporaries and, of course, plants had no need of litter boxes.

  Standing over a potted ox tongue, Sampson finally heard the water dripping onto the floor. He looked down and saw that he'd overwatered the plant. Flowing water like a busted dam crept up the plant's pot and streamed down it sides. Dismayed, he put down the watering can and hurried into the kitchen to fetch a dry cloth.

  After drying the floor beneath and around the plant, he assessed the damage. The dirt had muddied, but otherwise the plant was no worse for the wear. He added another layer of dirt to the pot, tamping it down with his hands. He placed the ox tongue back amongst the others and stood back. He wiped his hands on his apron and looked around the room at all his plants. Tonight, it was taking him longer than usual to water them. He labored in the act. He lingered for long spells over them, talking more to himself than to them. He overwatered some plants while skipping watering others altogether. His mind was not on them. His mind was on his body. He couldn't figure out what was happening to him. Why his body and mind were all of a sudden betraying him. In particular he thought, as he once again felt a growing erection stirred by the resurfaced mental image of the lovely coed who'd brushed against him earlier today, why now? Why after fifty-three years of life, had he, Adam Sampson, finally discovered girls? He mechanically picked up the watering can and then froze in place, casting a long lustful glare at one of the desert roses.

  Growing up, it was widely assumed by everyone who knew him, including his father who himself was a self-proclaimed ladies' man, that Adam Sampson was gay-in-waiting. Wasn't it quite obvious? Any boy with a weird fascination with foliage and no interest whatsoever in girls had to be homosexual. It was probably written in a book somewhere. His father had originally held out hope that young Adam's disinterest in the fairer sex was due to some kind of prepubescent delay. Sometimes, it took boys a little longer to appreciate the opposite sex. Even the self-proclaimed ladies' man had one time preferred playing with dirt and frogs to girls. Yes, the boy's uncanny love of flowers was a bit disturbing. But hey, flowers would eventually help get the chicks. So there was even hope in that. But when Adam's teen years came and went without girls even remotely entering the equation, his father's gaydar began to detect the faint pings of homosexuality. And then when young Adam's college years followed the same course as his high school years, the pings became louder, bleeping off the freaking scanner! It was abundantly clear. Adam Sampson was not ever going to be into girls. It was time to face facts. No interest in girls meant an interest in boys. It was a simple equation.

  Except that it wasn't.

  A few years after college, Adam Sampson discovered something else on the road to his “outing.” He had no interest in boys either! He had no interest in hanky-panky whatsoever, not with girls, boys, things, not even himself. It was only after graduating college as a twenty-two year old virgin with no plans or desire to rectify the apparently unacceptable social condition had he fully accepted the idea of no sex. But it took a little longer for him to finally put a name to his affliction. The term was asexual. And it wasn't an affliction at all. He wasn't sick. He was p
erfectly normal in his abnormality. There were others like him. They simply weren't sexually attracted to either males or females. He, like them, was an asexual! Not hetero, or homo, simply, a…sexual.

  The first few years after his self-discovery were still quite lonely. He'd had no idea how much sex dominated most people's thought processes. And, of course, no one believed that he wasn't sexually attracted to anyone or anything. Most people still believed he was gay. But with the advent of the internet, he was finally able to chat with and meet others like him. Statistics put their percentage at about one percent of the population. Maybe a small number when compared to the number of straights and gays in the world, but it meant he wasn't alone. He connected with quite a few people who shared his lack of sexual desire and he eventually became part of a support group. They met monthly, discussing everything under the sun. Some had had sex and hadn't liked it. Others hadn't even bothered trying it. Things like the Sexual Revolution and AIDS scare had come and gone, and no one in Adam Sampson's little corner of the world had batted an eye. After talking for months with his newfound friends, he discovered something—none of them missed the joys and ills of sex.

  But this past week all of that began to change for Adam Sampson. On Tuesday, he'd felt an awakening in his body that had been dormant since his birth. And since that day, his mind had been all about girls—cleavage, and thighs, and legs, and buttocks. Of short skirts and what lay hidden beneath them. Of what low hanging blouses and tight sweaters concealed. Of what lay nestled within form-fitting jeans and skintight pants. All day his mind rattled off things he'd like to do to this girl or that girl. On Wednesday in class, he'd finally gotten the gist of an old Eddie Murphy joke when he found out that at the ripe old age of fifty-three, he himself had no penis-control. Watching Ruth Coward, who sat at the front of his ten o'clock lecture, his body suddenly decided to acknowledge her taste in clothes. She'd been wearing one of those low-hanging blouses and just the thought of her supple breasts pushing against that silk fabric had brought his member to full attention. It had been an utterly embarrassing situation. He had to do the whole lecture camouflaged behind his desk.