The First Male

by Lee Hayes

  “He can’t outrun no pit bull.”

  “I bet you ten dollars that you can’t climb this fence and get that ball before the dogs get you.”

  “Don’t do it, Simon. Those dogs will kill you,” Corey said.

  “I knew he wouldn’t do it. I knew you wasn’t nothing but a scared little sissy.”

  “I ain’t scared,” Simon said, even though his heart was pounding. “Let me see the ten dollars.” Edwin reached into his pocket and pulled out the money. Simon reached for it, but Edwin snatched it back quickly.

  “Uh-uh. You get it when you make it back—if you make it back.” The group of kids, with the exception of Corey, all laughed. Simon hated to be made to feel small, so he took the challenge. He walked up to the high metal fence and looked for the dogs.

  “Where they at?”

  “Don’t do it, Simon. Don’t,” Corey pleaded.

  “The dogs are usually under the shed over there,” Edwin said as he pointed to a structure at least a hundred yards away. Simon looked at the shed and then at the distance to the truck. The truck seemed so much closer. All he had to do was climb the fence, run over to the truck, grab the ball and run back. He could do it. He knew he could.

  He swallowed hard and set about scaling the fence.

  As soon as his feet hit the ground on the other side of the fence, he took off running toward the truck. Almost instantly, he heard the terrifying barking of dogs. The barking was so loud that it sounded like there were twenty dogs instead of only three.

  He put all the energy he had into running. At some point, he couldn’t even hear the sound of the boys or of the barking dogs over the sound of his beating heart. He wasn’t even sure if his eyes were open, but he ran like he was guided by a force unknown to him. As he ran, he realized he had made a dreadful mistake. He thought about what it would feel like to be torn apart by those rabid dogs. Fear fueled his legs and as soon as he reached the other side of the truck, he looked for the ball with his wide eyes. He didn’t see it. He looked ten feet in front of him and saw it partially hidden by tall, uncut grass that was swaying nonchalantly in the sweltering summer breeze. Swiftly, he raced over to the ball and grabbed it. The barking was so much closer now; so close that Simon knew that he would not be able to make it to the fence. His chest tightened and he struggled to breathe.

  Quickly, he thought about options. He tried to open the door of the truck, but it wouldn’t budge. He thought about jumping into the bed of the truck, but it was so low that the dogs could easily jump in. Any second now, the dogs would round the corner and be upon him in a flash. He saw the end of his young life.

  “Run, Simon, run!” he heard voices call out, even though the truck blocked his view of the boys.

  But Simon didn’t run. He couldn’t. His legs were frozen stiff.

  Then, he saw the first dog on the side of the building racing toward him with fury and hate in his eyes. Then, he saw the other two. The pack reunited and was out for blood. Simon’s blood. Instinctively, Simon stumbled back a few steps. He tripped over a piece of wood and hit the ground. His arm was cut by a piece of glass from a beer bottle, but that was the least of his concerns.

  Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid, a voice in his head said.

  Lying on his back on the ground, he saw the dogs not more than ten feet from him. He felt a jolt in his body again; the same kind of jolt he had felt when he was in the car with the Clintons. In that instant, he thought the word no in his head and closed his eyes, fully preparing to be mauled to death. He imagined the first set of teeth locking on to one of his limbs while the other attacked his face or neck. He knew his death would far exceed painful. He heard their heavy and rapid steps pounding the dusty ground.

  “Simon!” Corey’s voice rang hollow in his ears. Corey would not be able to help him. No one could.

  Then, Simon felt a tongue licking his wound. And one licking his face. And one licking the hand on his other arm. He opened his eyes.

  The vicious animals, who only seconds ago, were about to tear him apart, now licked him playfully. Simon sat up, unsure of what was going on. He could hear the boys yelling frantically, but he knew they couldn’t see him.

  Sit.

  All three dogs sat without hesitation.

  Simon stood up and patted them as if he was their owner. They loved his playful touch.

  “Are you okay, Simon?” Corey shouted.

  Simon stepped from beyond the truck with the three dogs in tow. They playfully ran around him and around each other. When Simon stepped out from the truck, he saw the look of shock on the faces of the boys. They were utterly astounded to see the dogs playing with Simon.

  Don’t bark at or hurt my friends anymore. Except for Edwin. You can bark at him; don’t hurt him.

  Simon threw the ball to Corey casually and climbed the fence.

  “Where’s my ten dollars?” he said, when he was safely on the other side.

  Brooke stared at him like he was spinning a tall tale. “Are you trying to tell me that you controlled the dogs with your mind?” Simon didn’t want to answer. When he recalled the story, his voice never wavered. Not once. She knew exactly what he was saying. “This is freakin’ me out.” She walked over to the television, reached behind it and pulled out the bottle of vodka she had hidden from Simon a few nights ago. “I think we both need a drink right about now.”

  After she poured two shots, which they quickly drank, Simon went into his bedroom and dumped the contents of the trash can onto the floor. He sifted through all kind of trash until he found the small note that he had balled up and discarded.

  “Here, look at this,” he said to Brooke as he unwrinkled the note.

  She looked at the note. “What is this?”

  “I don’t know. It’s something I must’ve written when I was asleep.”

  “What is A. Thibodeaux? Is that a person, a name?”

  “At first I didn’t know what it was, but now I think it’s the name of the old woman I’ve been seeing.”

  “What does the ‘A’ stand for?”

  “It could be anything. Alice? Agnes? Angela? I don’t know, but I know I need to find her.”

  “If she is a ghost, how on earth are you going to find her?”

  “See, that’s the thing. I don’t think she’s a ghost. At first I did, but now I think she’s something else. I have a strong feeling that’s she’s alive and that she needs something from me, maybe my help.”

  “This sounds so crazy,” she said.

  “I know it does, but it’s something I have to do.”

  “Let’s Google the name and see what we come up with.” Brooke pulled the laptop out of her bag and powered it up. As they waited, Simon thought about all the extraordinary physical and mental changes he had been going through. He didn’t know what he was to become or what the final change would be, but he knew the old woman knew. She held the answers to his secrets.

  “Okay, here we go,” Brooke said when the search engine loaded on her screen. She typed in the letters “A. Thibodeaux” and got several hits. There was a male doctor in Richmond, a speech therapist in Lafayette. They continued scrolling entries, clicking on several of them, but they all led to nowhere.

  “This is pointless,” Simon said after they had exhausted the possibilities.

  “You know, they say if Google can’t find it, then it doesn’t exist,” she said, trying to offer some levity to the situation. Simon wasn’t amused.

  “What am I gonna do?”

  “Wait, I have an idea,” she said with enthusiasm. “Nah, never mind.”

  “Brooke, don’t do that. What?”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to suggest this, but a friend of my mother’s claims to be a psychic.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “If you think what’s happening to you is . . . supernatural, maybe she can tell you what.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “My mother used to swear by her. Look, you w
ant to believe that all this stuff is happening to you, that you’re reading minds, making birds fall dead out of the sky, controlling wild dogs with your mind, but you doubt someone could be a psychic?”

  He thought about her words. “What time do we leave?”

  “Let me call and get directions.”

  “Is this freakin’ you out?”

  “What?”

  “Me; all this weird stuff?”

  She moved over and placed an affectionate kiss on his lips. “Baby, this is New Orleans. We were built on voodoo and weird stuff. Trust me, I can handle it.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Simon and Brooke stood on the front porch of the stately antebellum home on the north side of town. A strong breeze whipped through the air, forcing the couple to adjust their jackets to block the sudden wind. The sun had already started its early descent, leaving a trail of burnt orange in the sky. Darkness slowly crept across the land.

  The pre-Civil War era home was set on a large, corner lot at the busy crossroads of Cypress and Rampart Streets; the house, with its imposing presence, commanded attention in the rapidly decaying urban neighborhood. Six thick, intimidating, white pillars ran the length from the porch to the roof of the two-story structure. White paint had begun to peel and chip from its walls in various places, like burned skin peeling away from decaying flesh. The house had sustained obvious hurricane damage, but still managed to maintain some dignity from its glory days. A huge tree, hunched over and knotted from age, shrouded part of the house in shadows; its gnarled limbs reached out in every direction. The wind blew again and the house moaned as if it felt a deep, lingering ache in a place hidden far from view.

  “So, this is it?” Simon asked, as he looked at a row of dead rose bushes that lined the brick walkway. Without much thought, Simon reached down and plucked a brittle leaf from the plant and crumbled it in his hand, letting the wind scatter the pieces across the dried lawn.

  “Yeah, this is it.”

  “I don’t like this place,” he stated plainly. His dislike of the former plantation was visceral. “I don’t know about this.” He sighed heavily as another strong breeze sprayed fallen leaves across the porch.

  “Well, we’re here now,” she said as she rubbed his arm in a reassuring way. “We might as well ring the bell and go in. We need answers, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure they’ll come from here.”

  “What do we have to lose?”

  “My sanity.” Simon studied the house again. It filled him with a sense of uneasiness, and nerves at the bottom of his stomach tightened, preparing him for what lay ahead.

  “If you don’t want to go in, we can get in the car and leave. Whatever you want to do is fine with me.”

  Simon paused. “This house has secrets; lots of secrets.” He didn’t pay much attention to the concerned look on her face, but he noticed it, even when she tried to mask it with a smile. She was nervous, too. He could feel it.

  “Do you want to leave?”

  “Yeah, let’s get outta here.”

  Just as Simon and Brooke turned to leave, the front door of the house opened.

  “Y’all not just gon’ leave, are you?” They turned around and were greeted by a beautiful coffee-colored woman dressed in a bright pink dress that contrasted with the winter weather outside. Her jet-black curly hair hung just below her shoulders and her wide, inviting smile immediately put them at ease. A green scarf that matched the green sash tied around her petite waist was draped around her neck.

  “Uhhh, we didn’t want to be a bother,” Simon said.

  “It’s no bother. I knew you were coming,” she said with a wink and a smile. “Y’all come on in.” She pulled the door open wider, motioned for them to enter and stepped to the side. Simon and Brooke looked at each other and tacitly agreed to enter. They stepped gingerly into the huge foyer of the grand house and instantly felt underdressed for the occasion. The inside of the house was constructed mainly of dark wood, which gave the space a natural feeling of formality.

  “Brooke, your mother told me you’d be stopping by. It’s so good to see you. You’ve turned into such a lady.” She pulled Brooke into her body and hugged her tightly, in a way that contradicted their insubstantial relationship. “You must be Simon,” she said after she released Brooke from her embrace. Simon extended his hand to her for a shake. “I’m Clara,” she said, “and dah-ling, I’m a hugger.” She continued without missing a beat, completely ignoring his outstretched hand. She pulled him into her body and held him tightly. Simon was slightly unnerved by such an ostentatious display of affection, but he didn’t protest. He remembered times as child when he would have given his right arm for an affectionate hug.

  “I’m so glad y’all came by.” Her thick Louisiana accent spun, but did not rest, in Simon’s ears; instead, her voice infused the dull room with life and vitality.

  “Well, ma’am,” he began.

  “Ma’am? No need to be so formal. You can call me Ms. Clara.”

  “Okay . . . Ms. Clara. I’m not really sure why we’re here.”

  “It’s okay, Sugar. We’ll get to that. In the meantime, how about some tea to warm your bones?”

  “Tea would be nice,” Brooke said quickly.

  “Wonderful.”

  As if on cue, a tall, thin woman with graying blonde hair, dressed in a black-and-white uniform, emerged from a room to the side.

  “Donna, would you be a dear and take their jackets? Then, please take them into the solarium and get them some tea,” she said sweetly. “I’ll join you in a few moments. Something upstairs requires my attention,” she said, returning her attention to Simon and Brooke.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Richardson.” Clara smiled and moved around the group. She strutted down the long hallway, her high-heels clicking hard against the freshly polished wooden floor, and walked up the staircase on the right, disappearing as she ascended. As she walked, Simon noticed her and found himself drawn to her by the confident way her hips shifted from side-to-side, like a well-seasoned woman who celebrated the power of her curves. Clara was all woman—legs, hips and breasts. Her body was shapely and sturdy, full of delectable lines and sensual curves; she was the kind of woman who wouldn’t crumple easily under the pressure of his weight.

  Simon snapped out of his daze when Donna took their coats, hung them in a closet near the door and led them down the hallway to the back of the house, to the solarium. The intimidating room was decorated with antique nineteenth-century furniture and made Simon feel as if he had stepped back in time, about two hundred years. Slave trinkets and totems were spread throughout the room, and Simon took notice of a shelf against the wall that was stacked with historical memorabilia.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable. Mrs. Richardson will be back shortly.”

  “Thank you,” Brooke said as they walked fully into the room. Donna smiled, turned and exited the room. Simon waited a few seconds to make sure she was out of earshot before he spoke.

  “This house is creepy.”

  “I think it’s lovely—very Old World. It has a certain charm.”

  “Yeah, it has all the charm of a slave plantation. I’m just waiting for Miz Scarlett’s prissy ass to pop in.” They laughed perfunctorily as Simon continued his methodic inspection of the room. “And what about Clara?”

  “What about her?”

  “She doesn’t give you the creeps?” Simon’s emotions swirled inside him suddenly, making it hard to understand exactly what he was feeling. He felt a growing longing for Clara’s body, even though she was more than twice his age. He could almost feel the touch of her skin on his skin and the feel of her pouty lips on his mouth; inexplicably, he was both repulsed and aroused by the thought. Maybe she had already worked some voodoo on him, he thought. Far stranger things had already happened.

  Brooke chuckled. “Not at all. She’s exactly how I remember, very sweet, very beautiful, very touchy-feely—very Southern. I haven’t seen her in years, but she looks exactl
y the same.”

  “I think she’s fake.”

  “You think she’s had work done?” Brooke asked in astonishment. That would be a juicy piece of town gossip that she would certainly share with her mother.

  “That’s not what I mean. There’s something strange about her, about this house. I’m not sure what, though.”

  Brooke moved over to the sofa and took a seat, crossing her legs at the ankles.

  Simon noticed the elaborate décor of the solarium. He rotated his body slowly, in a full circle, to make sure that he took full stock of the room. Even though the room had huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the dark decorations gave it a gloomy undertone; even the vintage furniture was of dubious intent.

  On a small shelf against the wall were little figurines in the shape of a large woman with very black skin, wearing an apron around her waist and a handkerchief tied tightly around her head, coupled with statues of an equally dark-skinned male with hugely exaggerated lips and big, round white eyes. The disturbing images from a time bygone added to the tension that was already balling in the pit of his stomach.

  Hung on the wall by a huge rusted nail was a pair of gray shackles, most likely used to secure slaves. Simon eyed the metal clamps with disdain and empathy. Until his recent run-in with the street thugs who tried to rob him, he had never understood the darkness or cruelty that ruled man’s heart. Until that night, when he dispatched three men with a callous kind of joy, he never understood evil. Now, he was beginning to understand a lesson he didn’t want to know. Evil resided within him. That night, he felt something so malevolent within his own soul that he frightened himself. He felt like a wicked marionette controlled by an even more sinister puppet-master.

  “Here is your tea,” Donna said, as she entered the room and placed a silver serving tray with two cups and a teapot on the center table near the couch.

  “What kind of tea is it?” Brooke asked. Donna smiled and folded her hands in front of her.

  “It’s a special blend that Mrs. Richardson makes herself. Don’t worry, you’ll love it. Is there anything else you need?”