The First Male (18 page)

When they arrived in the small city, Simon felt a jolt, as if he had been suddenly energized by some unknown force. As they drove through downtown, Simon soaked up every sight and sound. Something about this place felt familiar, like he had been there before. When he saw Houma's lovely Court Square, he had a startling sense of déjà vu.

The Clintons, his foster family, drove another half-hour outside of town to reach the farmhouse of Mr. Clinton's brother, Herbert. As they arrived, Simon's stomach growled when he smelled the down-home cooking and barbeque. He had never been to a barbeque before, but his foster brother, Corey, had told him all about it, and Simon had high expectations of the event.

As soon as the car stopped, Corey raced out of the vehicle and toward his cousins who he saw on the side of the house, tossing a football back and forth. Simon looked at Mr. and Mrs. Clinton and they nodded, giving him permission to join Corey. For the first time in a long time, he felt as if he belonged, even if this wasn't his real family.

When he joined the boys playing football, he quickly mesmerized and annoyed them with his amazing athletic ability. He outran, outjumped and out-touchdowned all of them. He blazed by them with such speed, one cousin starting calling him “the blur.” They looked at him with admiration, awe, and envy.

Edwin, who was the oldest at thirteen, was built like a seventeen-year-old and he looked at Simon with resentful eyes; he was used to getting the praise for his athletic prowess. Edwin, serving as quarterback, purposely threw a ball so hard that it flew over the fence, well into the yard of Mr. Grimes, their cantankerous old neighbor who despised kids, laughter, and anything that resembled happiness. The ball flew to the other side of the rusted truck that sat in the middle of his yard.

“Dang, how we gon' get the ball?” Simon asked.

“Yeah, Edwin. Why'd you do that?” Corey added.

“It was an accident,” Edwin said.

“Well, I ain't gonna get it. You know Mr. Grimes got them dogs.”

“Dogs?” Simon asked.

“Yeah, he got three mean-ass pit bulls. Them thangs will chase ya and kill ya if you look at them,” another cousin said. “Look at my leg.” He pointed to a long scar on his shin. “The white one bit me two years ago—almost killed me. Luckily, Mr. Grimes was there to get the dog off me.”

Edwin smiled wickedly. “Why don't you get it,
Blur
? You faster than them old junkyard dogs, ain't ya?”

“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 want 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.”

C
HAPTER
13

S
imon 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.