The First Male (25 page)

They had driven through Baton Rouge, Opelousas, Alexandria, Monroe, and Natchitoches and now were cruising down I-20 in Marshall, Texas. Much to Simon's surprise, for most of the trip,
Franklin was quiet, which was not his usual demeanor. At work, Franklin's mouth would rattle so often that Simon seriously thought about buying a muzzle for him. But not this time. His silence was eerie. He didn't speak much and certainly didn't complain about anything. He didn't complain about the lack of direction. He didn't complain when they drove down a back road in Shreveport that ended up taking them in a circle. He didn't complain when Simon stopped for coffee a couple of times along the highway. In fact, he had been unusually silent since they left Clara's. He had only spent a few moments singing to the latest pop song on the radio or perfecting the vocals on his newest song, which left a gaping hole of silence in the car where conversation should have been. When he did speak, his sentences were curt; usually about directions or necessities, such as food or gas. The few times Simon tried to engage Franklin in real conversation about his passion—his music—he only offered a few words, an incontrovertible sign that he wasn't ready to chat. Simon had to respect that. After all he had heard and been exposed to, Franklin clearly needed time to process. After they left Clara's, Simon told Franklin everything that had happened to him. Everything—even about ingesting blood. Now, Franklin's whole reality seemed to be shifting. Simon only hoped Franklin would come back to him and not be so freaked out that he could never look at him again. Simon longed for one of Franklin's sarcastic comments or tongue lashings over what Franklin often referred to as his “questionable” taste in music. More than that, he needed to tell his friend that he wasn't a freak. He needed Franklin to tell him that everything was going to be all right.

As they rode down the highway, Simon grabbed his cell phone and checked it to see if Brooke had called or sent a text. She had done neither. Almost more than anything, even more than wanting
Franklin to talk, he wanted to call her or send her a message, but she needed her space. He'd be lucky if she ever spoke to him again. Like Franklin, she needed space to absorb everything. It wasn't every day that a live snake crawled out of your boyfriend's mouth.

Simon drove down the Frankston Highway, fifteen miles south of the East Texas town of Tyler, and followed the signs toward Lake Palestine. He had been driving for almost twelve hours, taking a few breaks here and there, and he was tired and needed to rest. Franklin was passed out in the back seat, snoring occasionally. Simon figured he'd park by the lake and get some rest, hoping the lapping sounds of the water would relax him enough to get some sleep so that they could take up the journey in the morning. It seemed odd to him to be so tired when it was not even eight o'clock, but with the night he had just had, it didn't surprise him.

He pulled into the resort compound as darkness fell and he followed the signs with arrows pointing toward “lodging.” Using his phone, he had already made a reservation for a room with two twin-sized beds. The seventy dollars he spent on the room would be well worth the cost. At first, he contemplated finding a quiet spot and sleeping in the car all night, but ruled against that when he Googled the cost of the room, and it was well within his limited budget.

When he made the reservations, he conveniently ignored the two pleading texts from Brooke asking him to call her. She had also left a voicemail message that Simon replayed repeatedly, only to hear the sound of her voice. The worry that filled her voice touched him deeply, reminding him of the love he held for her. A part of him desperately wanted to return the call, but he
couldn't—he wouldn't—at least not until he had answers and could assure her that she was in no danger from him. He would never forgive himself if she came to harm at his hands.

Franklin grabbed his bag and a few other items from the trunk of the car, and, once they checked into the room, he quickly sprawled out across the bed.

“All that shit y'all were talking . . . I don't believe,” he finally said. Simon was sitting on the edge of the bed unlacing his shoes. He looked up at Franklin, happy to hear the sound of his voice. “And, I'm sorry for being such a drag on the drive. I got a lot of shit going on in my head. Plus, I was tired as fuck. I barely slept last night. But, I still don't believe y'all.”

“It's cool, man. I know this is unbelievable.”

Franklin sat up on the edge of the bed and faced Simon. “Really though, what you think is going on with you? I still think you got hold to some bad crack, or something, and now you trippin'. I ain't seen you do nothin' crazy.”

Simon chuckled. “Wait around. I'm sure that'll change.”

“Whatever, dude. You tryna freak me out.”

“Why the hell would I do that? You felt what happened at Clara's.”

“That could've been a big-ass truck going by or a minor earthquake. Stranger things have happened. Why don't you do something now? Make the room shake.”

Simon was growing frustrated with Franklin's badgering. He wanted his friend to believe him and thought that he did. Simon was tired and didn't feel like going through a big show to prove something that should've already been proven.

“It doesn't work like that. I can't control it. It just . . . happens.”

“Bullshit. I ought to take my ass back to New Orleans 'cause all of this is bullshit. You know it and I know it.”

“Fine. Believe what you want. I'm tired and I need to get some sleep. Your ass slept in the car. I didn't.”

“Look, man,” Franklin said with a heavy tone, “I'm your friend. Why don't you tell me what's really going on? Who you runnin' from? What you do?”

“I ain't running from nobody. I'm running
to
someone—Addie.”

“Right. This mysterious woman who's been communicating with you in dreams.” Franklin rolled his eyes. “Bullshit.”

“You know what? You don't have to believe me. Like I said, I'm tired and I need to get some sleep.”

“It ain't time to sleep. It's time for some answers. I mean, you practically break down my door last night and drag me all around the states of Louisiana and Texas, and now you want to sleep. Fuck that.” Franklin jumped to his feet. His deep voice thumped across the room, fueled by his agitation.

“What the fuck do you want from me, Franklin? I've told you everything I know—everything.”

“You've told me shit.”

“Why can't you accept what I told you, huh? Why do you always have to be so damned argumentative?”

“'Cause this shit you tellin' me don't make sense. You been watchin' too much damn Harry Potter.”

Simon shook his head from side-to-side. “This is pointless.”

“If you can do all that you said you can do, why don't you fuckin' try, instead of sittin' there tryin' to convince me that you're some dark lord.”

“I never said that.”

“What you said was some bullshit. B-U-L-L-S-H-I-T. Now, I want the real story. I've gone along with all this shit for as long as I can. What's going on?”

“You heard Clara. You were there.”

“I don't give a fuck about Clara or what she said. I don't know that bitch.”

“Would you watch your mouth?”

“Or what? You gonna spit a snake out yo' mouth or make the earth move? Or, maybe you gon' pick me up by my collar and throw me across the parking lot. Come on then, Superman. I'm waiting.” Franklin stood near the door with his arms outstretched, wiggling his fingers as if to say
bring it
.

Simon was taken aback by Franklin's level of anger. His voice quivered when he spoke, and his eyes had tightened into little slits. He puffed out his little chest like he was ready to do battle, but to what end, Simon didn't know. He wasn't going to fight Franklin nor was he going to argue with him anymore. It had already taken too much out of him, and he could feel his head beginning to hurt again, which was never a good sign for him.

“We can talk about this in the morning. I'm going to bed.” Simon kicked his shoes under the bed and climbed under the covers. “Would you mind turning off the light,” he said as he rolled over.

“Yeah, whatever.”

When Franklin woke up at 2:38 in the morning, the room was quiet and dark, except for a slice of light cutting in from the room's door, which was cracked slightly open. Cold air seeping in from outside chilled the room, and Franklin could see his breath in the air when he exhaled. He sat up and looked at Simon's bed, which was empty. The covers were tossed about, and one of the pillows was on the floor. The necklace Clara had given him was on the nightstand and an eerie silence blanketed the room. Even though it was early morning and he knew that most people
were sleeping, the night still felt unsettled, like there was more to come. He called out Simon's name, but no answer came. He looked around the room and saw Simon's shoes in the exact place he had left them, but Simon was nowhere to be seen. He got up and moved to the door, closing it. The bathroom door was pulled shut and the light in the room was out. Slowly and cautiously, he moved over to it, carefully tiptoeing across the faded carpet as if he expected tiny pieces of broken glass to be embedded in the fibers.

“Simon?” he called out again, a question in his voice. He lightly knocked on the bathroom door, but there was no response. He placed his hand on the knob and slowly turned. It was unlocked. Finally, he pushed open the door and turned on the light. The room was empty and quiet. He breathed a sigh of relief. He half-expected to see Simon unconscious on the floor.

He reached over the table and turned on a light switch. Everything about the room was in place, except there was a half-empty bottle of vodka on the table a few inches from the lamp. He looked around the room for a note, for something to indicate where Simon was. He turned his attention to the nightstand and saw Simon's cell phone. Simon wouldn't travel far without that. Then, he noticed his jacket lying across the back of the chair in the corner. His shoes. His jacket. His cell phone. Yet, no Simon.

Franklin walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. Across the parking lot and near the water he could see a figure sitting on a bench at the water's edge. He looked deeper into the night to ascertain who it might be and was reasonably confident that it was Simon. The shape of the head and the posture seemed to match Simon. Franklin threw on his jeans, a shirt, and his shoes and grabbed his jacket.

The cold air slapped him hard across the face when he stepped
outside of the room. He looked around and didn't see or hear anyone else, nor did he see light coming from the other row of rooms that faced the lake. As he hurried across the parking lot, loose gravel crunching beneath his feet, he wondered what the hell Simon was doing outside in the cold. It must've been thirty degrees.

“Simon,” Franklin said with care, as he rounded the bench where Simon sat. “You okay?” Simon didn't respond; instead, he lifted a plastic cup to his lips, a cup that no doubt contained vodka. He was alone on the bench, wearing a thin white T-shirt and a pair of jeans, with no socks or shoes. Moonlight glistened off the cool water, partially illuminating Simon's stone-cold face. “Where are your shoes?” Franklin asked, putting his hand on Simon's shoulder. “Dude, you're wet. Wassup?”

“Hey, Franklin,” he said in a light voice. “I was out here thinking, resting. You know.”

“All I know is that you gon' catch yo' death of cold, if you don't get yo' ass back in the room and put on some dry clothes. It's cold as fuck out here.”

“I'm fine. Really. Except my body is tingling.” Simon looked up and Franklin noticed the distant look in his eyes. His eyes were red and his gaze detached. Franklin took a seat next to him.

“That tingling is probably hypothermia setting in.”

“Nah, that's not it. I'm not cold. In fact, I'm burning up.” Simon took Franklin's hand and placed it on his forehead. “I'm wet because I'm sweating.”