by Glen Kenner
I love U City. Wish I could afford to live here.
It's almost noon and Delmar Blvd is busy. The still hot September weather brings out the college kids and locals who either don't need to work or work from home. They all seem to be consultants of some type.
I’m outside my favorite Indian place, sitting at a small patio table and finishing up a bowl of laal maas. This place prepares the mutton in the thickest, spiciest, darkest red curry I’ve ever had. I love to mop up the last of it with naan after eating all of the meat. I sit back in my chair and take a long drink to finish off the Kalyani Black Label and count to three. Before I’m done counting, Sarthak appears in the doorway and nearly runs to my table, whisks away my bowl and leaves the check. He’s been doing this to me a few times a month for over twenty years. I don’t think he has ever once looked at or spoken to me. Best damn waiter I’ve ever had.
I put down a twenty under my empty beer bottle and start heading back to my truck. It’s well over 90 outside but even with the spicy curry in my belly, I’m not sweating. If you can’t handle humid mid 90s in September, don’t live in St Louis.
The traffic on Delmar is backing up and the sidewalks are packed with the business lunch crowd. My pickup is three blocks down on the other side of the street in one of the free parking lots behind the shops and restaurants. I get to the corner of North Skinker and start to cross with everyone else when I hear a buzz. But I don’t recognize anyone in the crowd that’s starting to cross within five feet. Besides, the only other First in St Louis that I know of is Maurice. And nobody can miss Maurice in a crowd. Huh. I stay put, apologize to everyone that’s bumping into me because they’re moving to cross. I look like an idiot tourist that’s never seen a crosswalk. Everyone gets across, the light turns, traffic starts back up and it’s just me standing here. Listening to that buzz. What the hell? And now the buzz is moving up and down in pitch. And then it starts to jump around. Oh fuck. I know what this is. As I recognize the piercing sound, my adrenaline kicks in. I spin around looking for a girl. Should be in her late teens, maybe twenty. I see the profile of a black girl with shoulder-length braids sitting at one of the crowded tables at the corner of the pastry shop behind me. It must be her.
Fifteen feet away. Fifteen mother fucking feet away and I can hear her buzz. Shit. That’s bad.
A couple huge steps and I’m next to her. I need her to trust me and quickly so that I can get her somewhere where there won’t be any witnesses.
-Hey, how’re you doing?
She looks up, half confused, half in pain. I see a grimace and then quickly a forced smile. A big, beautiful smile to match her beautiful face. I hate when they’re this attractive. It means they’re more likely to be missed. But I’ve never seen them smile before, not once the pain has started. This one is strong. But she won’t be strong enough.
-Oh, I thought you were someone else. Sorry. But hey, none of my business, and I know you’re smiling and all, but you don’t look so great.
She looks down and then back up at me, still with that smile on her lips.
-If that’s your go-to line, you need to work on it.
Her accent isn’t quite Midwestern. Certainly not native St Louisan. Texas? She makes to turn away from me but I give a small polite shove with my body to the middle-aged guy sitting down in front of me and squeeze down next to him and onto the seat next to the girl. The guy grunts a bit but says nothing. St Louisans are a lot of things, but we’re rarely rude.
-No, no. I just thought… Sorry. Are you ok? Seriously, you look a bit sick.
The smile drops away and she closes her eyes for a slow second.
-I guess it’s that obvious. I was at home studying and felt weird. First time ever feeling like this. I walked out here thinking the sunlight would help. I’m feeling worse, though. I’m… Wow. I really am feeling a lot worse.
I get up and put my hand under her elbow. The buzz she’s giving off is getting crazy erratic. She’s got 15 minutes. Tops. Fuck fuck fuck.
-My name’s John. Do you live close? I’ll walk you to your apartment, ok? Nothing else. I’m not a freak or an asshole. I just don’t want you to faint and get hurt. Ok? Let’s get you out of this heat. Which way to your apartment?
She doesn’t say anything or even point, just gets up and starts to lean to the right, so I take that as a cue and keeping my grip on her left elbow, we start walking. That’s when she offers her right hand for a shake and I hear her whisper my name. John. Then one more time, like she’s trying to memorize it through the painful fog in her head. We get to the intersection and the traffic is moving at a steady pace. No time to wait. I keep moving without slowing down and we step down and onto Delmar. My body is between hers and the oncoming cars. She’ll be alright. I mean, she’s not going to be alright 30 minutes from now, but it won’t be because she got hit by a car. That I know. The next car slams on its breaks as we cross in front. The car behind it does the same and then the next car and so on. The honking starts. St Louisans aren’t rude but it’s only fair that you get to honk like hell when two people just stroll right out in front of oncoming traffic.
We make it across Delmar and onto North Skinker, down another few blocks and then left onto a street of nice homes. She’s leaning again, now toward an older house that’s been renovated into apartments, the kind that has two decent-sized two bedrooms and one bath on the first floor and two more on the second floor. We make it up the walkway and she’s barely lifting her feet. Up to the outside door.
-Your code?
She doesn’t answer but heavily rests her hand on the security access box and then types in five digits. The door buzzes and I pull it open with my left hand. I help her up the step to enter the foyer and she turns and whispers that her name is Sarah. And then she closes the door behind her.
Fuck fuck fuck.
My truck is six blocks back but luckily on this side of Delmar. I’m two blocks from the strip itself and it’s too hot out for anyone doing yard work, so just like the other night I open up and take off. I get halfway there when the street curves and heads north but I keep going straight. Over a hedge, through a parking lot, jump up and straight-arm pole-fault myself over a six foot fence, down and through the gated parking lot and then over the other side of the fence and into the parking lot where my truck is just 20 feet away.
It’s a ‘67 F150 that I use for my handyman business and there’s limited space in the cab behind the seats. I only keep a few tools that would otherwise get stolen if I left them in the bed. No fucking ax - damnit - but I do keep a 50 year old sledge hammer with a 20 pound head that has broken a lot of brick and concrete over the decades. I grab it, close the door, lock it out of habit, which slows me down and pisses me off at myself, turn and run right the fuck back the way I came. Running is faster than driving, even with the sledge hammer, though I try to keep it down perpendicular to my right leg. I usually pass for a young darkly-tanned white guy, and maybe I am white, I don’t the fuck know. I do know that I don’t get the same second looks that a young black guy would get out in the ‘burbs, but even a white guy running with a huge ass sledge hammer through a nice neighborhood in St Louis is going to cause some people to take notice.
At Sarah’s apartment door, I type in the code that I watched her enter. Close the door behind me and look around. Just like I thought. A door to the left of me, a door to the right and stairs going up to the same setup. I listen at the door on the left. Ear right up to the door. Nothing. Door to the right. A tv. Shit. It’s a soap opera. Huh. Then I hear what sounds like a microwave going off. Somebody’s lunch is ready, but it’s not her’s. No way did she turn on the tv and start heating up some leftovers for lunch. I take the steps three at a time. Door on the left, ear right on the door. There it is. The buzz is jumping faster than before. The door is locked but I grab the knob and do a quick short push that breaks the wooden frame and opens the door. I quickly step inside and close it behind me.
She’s on the floor five feet awa
y.
The curtains are drawn and the lights are still off. I find the hallway switch on the wall and flip it on. That probably hurts her eyes but I’ve got to be able to see better. And I can’t open the curtains and let the outside world watch what might happen in the next 10 minutes. She’s on her stomach with her head turned toward the wall. I can’t see her face very well without getting right over her. Hmm. Her keys are on the floor, a foot inside the apartment. She got her blouse off. It’s lying a foot from her keys. She must have already been burning up when she got inside. Looks like she was trying to get her jeans off when either she collapsed or maybe simply tripped and didn’t have the strength to get up. Either way, her jeans are down around her shins with one foot still showing and the other buried inside her pants leg. This would look bad if someone walked in right now. A young, very pretty woman, lying face down in her bra and underwear, clothes off or almost so, and a guy standing next to her with a sledge hammer. And with a busted door, someone could walk in any second. A friend. A boyfriend. The neighbor across the hall could have heard something and wonder why the door looks broken. And any of them could have a gun. Shit, odds are all of them would have a gun.
I stand next to her waiting for whatever happens next.
Two or three minutes later the convulsions start. This is it. She’s got maybe five minutes left. Her legs start first. Kicking once and then again. And then several times in a row as her arms start to move. She turns her head facing me. Her eyelids are open but her eyes are rolled up into the sockets and then they roll back down. Her pupils start to dilate and return, over and over, each eye doing so independently of the other. No telling what she’s seeing, if anything. And then all the movements start again but faster. Now she’s on her side, her back arching and that’s when she lets out the first scream. Fuck. I knew it was coming, but that was loud in this small apartment. Her body is in full seizure mode, clinched as all of her muscles constrict at once, her arms and legs still somehow moving and hitting and kicking the floor and knocking holes in the wall and then she screams again and again and starts crying, sobbing, between screams, the veins in neck so pumped full of blood that I think I can see them pulsate. She must have bitten her tongue or maybe her lip. Blood comes out and runs down her cheek and then splatters the wall. Now her nose is bleeding and then there’s more blood, this time darker and thicker, choked up from her stomach. It too splatters up the wall and onto the ceiling. And then she suddenly slows down and goes quiet.
The whole ordeal was shorter than I expected, but more intense, like it was all built up and had to rush out. There’s a small kick. Then another. Then nothing. She’s on her back, head back with her neck stretched and contorted enough to look like she’s in pain just lying there. And she is, I’m sure. But it’s quickly fading as all of her organs shut down.
I step over her, one foot on either side, and bring the sledgehammer up over my head and slowly, carefully lower it. I take a step back to adjust, my feet now on either side of her knees, and put the sledgehammer out again. Handle plus the length of my arms puts the 20 pound head in the middle of her forehead. I move my feet forward two inches so that the head of the sledgehammer is perfectly lined up to cave in her skull. I pull back the sledgehammer hold it up over my head and wait. 15 seconds. 30 seconds. 45. A minute. Looking good. A minute and a half. I’m breathing easier. Two minutes. One more and I’ll step away.
And then her eyes open.
I bring down the sledgehammer in an arc with all my strength. I won’t get another full-strength hit if I miss. My eyes are locked on hers but her hand comes up in a blur and grabs the sledgehammer at the base of the handle. She stops the arc of the hammer completely.
-John?
Her eyes are still on mine and her voice is clear but soft. Barely above a whisper.
-Yeah?
-Are you trying to kill me?
-It’s complicated.
She closes her eyes, lets out a breath and lets the sledgehammer slowly down until it’s resting on the floor next to her head. I have absolutely no fucking idea what just happened.
She’s asleep. I bend down and pick her up and cradle her in my arms. Step on the loose leg of her jeans and twist my body at the waist and her jeans slide off. Still a bad time for someone to come walking through her front door. I find her bedroom, lie her down, pull back the cover and sheet and put her in bed. Her room is dark but I can tell it’s clean. There’s a dresser with picture frames and a small desk and a chair with more pillows and a few stuffed animals. Typical room, I guess. She seems deep in sleep so I go back out into the hallway and pick up her shirt and jeans. Her phone is in the back pocket. It’s an iPhone, one of the big ones. I have a Nokia that I bought in a pawn shop for five bucks. The guy said it was a classic.
I fold her blood-splattered clothes and lay them at the bottom of her bed. Then I go to the kitchen and pour her a glass of water and wet down a dish towel with cold water. The fridge is pretty bare. No meat. She might be a vegetarian. She’ll adjust. On the fridge is a memo pad with a pen and I write down my name and my cell number. Take it and the glass of water and wet towel back to the bedroom and put them on the nightstand. I wipe the blood from her face and then fold the towel over itself a few times and lay it on her forehead. Just then she opens her eyes.
-John?
Her voice is much stronger now. Normal, probably.
-Yeah?
-Am I in my bed?
-Yeah. You sure are.
-Do I have clothes on?
I let out a little laugh but she doesn’t.
-Yeah, you do. I mean, some. Yeah. Hey, I got you a glass of water, ok? And here’s your cell phone, too. I wrote my number down for you to call me if you need me. You’re probably going to want to sleep for a while. And I kinda broke your door when I came in. I’m sorry about that. But I’m an expert broken door fixer.
I try laughing a little but she doesn’t follow along.
-I’ve got my tools in my truck. I’m just going to pop out to get them and grab some wood for the door frame and some putty and paint for your wall and I think I’ll pick you up a couple better locks. You really need better security around here, ya know? And-
-John. It’s ok. Don’t worry. And I’m ok. Maybe come back tomorrow?
-Oh, yeah. Sure. I’ll do that. I’ll bring everything then.
-And John? Just knock next time.
I laugh and finally she does too.
-Seriously, Sarah…
I use her name for the first time and it rolls off my tongue so easily.
-...call me if you need anything. Anytime tonight is ok. See you tomorrow.
But I don’t leave right away.
Instead I sit in her living room in the middle of the couch, lights out, the sledgehammer head on the floor and the handle between my legs. I have to figure this out. Sarah. I wish she had a different name. Sarah is definitely a she and she definitely just survived First Death. And that’s not supposed to happen. Not without her changing into something completely different. Which she didn’t. Or at least hasn’t yet. I don’t know. There are no rules about this stuff. We are all just victims of Mother Nature’s whims and being a First or anything else is just one of those whims. Some people live to be a hundred and some die in the crib. Some have brown eyes and others are born with no eyes at all. But Sarah is a new whim of Mother Nature’s.
I get up and move around the living room. Pretty normal, I think, just like her bedroom. A picture frame of Sarah a bit younger with a younger brother, her dad and mom. Must be a stepmom. Firsts don’t have moms. That makes her brother her stepbrother. Wonder if that caused any family issues? They look happy enough in the picture. A bookcase against the far wall has some knick-knacks, more picture frames of Sarah as a cheerleader, Sarah running track, Sarah in a football uniform, pads and all, another of her brother in front of a birthday cake. One big candle in the shape of a number four. And another of the family at a baseball game, in the stands posing, using a selfie
stick. The scoreboard shows the Rangers and the Padres. Arlington, Texas and San Diego. On vacation or from one of those cities? Just then I remember her keys in the foyer and I walk over and pick them up. No car key. She must be from out of state. It’s hard to live in St Louis without a car. Turning back to the bookcase I see a few thick law books. Looks like she’s a law school student. Huh. Either she hit First Death at the oldest age I’ve ever heard of - twenty-two? twenty-three? - or she skipped a few grades in school.
I sit back down on the couch, sledgehammer back in the same spot. Close my eyes. Deep breaths. Sarah is a female First. Not supposed to happen. Or she’s a Second and she hasn’t turned yet. Happens, rarely, but hours later? Never heard of that.
What to do, what to do. Something is bumping around in the back of my brain and I don’t know what it is. A few more deep breaths and I let myself drift off.
I wake up. Eyes still shut.
Listening. Listening.
Nothing.
Open my eyes to the living room just as it was before. I keep my head still but glance toward the small kitchen. Empty. No glass sitting on the counter. Nothing different. It’s darker outside, almost sundown. I slowly stand, hands still on the sledgehammer, and walk to the open bedroom doorway. The glass of water hasn’t been touched. She’s still asleep.
Sarah. Why does her name have to be Sarah?
I leave the apartment after putting the sledgehammer in the foyer closet. Precautions, I tell myself. Just in case.
We all gotta do what we gotta do.
Outside her apartment building I check the time. Almost 7:45. I’ll pick up the wood and new lock and other stuff and then head home. Maybe check with Precious, see if the rednecks came back. And I could circle the block in the dark a few times, look for that chubby-ass spy. If he’s working for Kingsley, they both will be sorry. My phone rings.
-Sarah?
