saint impalus

He walks through the concrete maze of tenements and Chinese food restaurants, rain falling everywhere but where he is, through some statistical anomaly. His hair is black, long, and clean, and to look at his face, he could just as easily be twenty or forty-five years old.

Saint Impalus walks through the security door to an eight-floor stack of cardboard condominiums. The elevator door is already open and someone has pushed the button for the sixth floor. His eyes are shaded by his wide-brimmed black hat.

An old woman sits in a stained armchair in 641, eating rice cakes off a TV tray. Her blue muumuu, thick glasses, and puffy white hair are all badges of her clique, but Saint Impalus doesn’t need these signifiers to understand the connotations of the situation. Wind blows her front door open, slamming it into the wall so hard that two glass curio jars fall off a shelf.

He takes off his black cape and drapes it over her like a blanket. He switches off the television and takes a few dishes into the kitchen, washing them and putting them away. Saint Impalus doesn’t have to give the room a last once-over to make sure everything is in order. Everything is in order.

The old woman hasn’t breathed in twenty minutes. He takes his cape off her and wraps himself in it again, the wind blowing the door shut behind him.

***

In the street, homeless are gathering around a corpse like it’s a trashcan fire. The rain has stopped, and steam rises off the street as if a giant, crouched in a ball in the sewer, is smoking a huge cigar and its smoke is curling through the hatches and vents into the world above.

A skinny man with flap-soled tennis shoes is checking the pockets of the deceased, finding change, finding a wallet, finding a cell phone, finding a pack of matches. A woman in sweat pants jumps on the skinny man, and the two are playing tug-of-war with the wallet. Saint Impalus’ shadow covers them both, and they drop the wallet, each one retreating a few steps to curl into a fetal position and shiver.

Saint Impalus runs the palm of his hand over the dead man’s face, shutting the bloodshot eyes. Down the street, a fire truck runs a red light, with sirens blaring and lights a-blazing.

***

On Chestnut Lane, a row of houses outside the city, sunflower-shaped wind spinners spin so fast the lawn is in danger of taking off. A mother crouches beside a child’s bed, her head resting in the basket of her right arm. The mother shakes with sobs next to the dying girl, whose calm is almost eerie.

Saint Impalus walks in through the front door, left ajar when the dog burst through it just a minute before to mutilate a rabbit. His feet neither touch nor leave the surface of the hall carpet. The mother’s mouth is gaping, her eyes wide, but the daughter gives a smile and clasps her hand. He takes off his cape, getting ready to spread it over the girl, but the mother goes into a frenzy, flailing her arms at his face, pounding his chest, sending a knee between his legs.

He falls to the ground. Saint Impalus is stunned. The mother grabs the chair from under the desk and brings it down onto his head once, twice, three times, splinters flying as what was once a chair becomes a loose conflagration of wood splints.

The mother looks upon the mess she’s made and starts shrieking and shaking. She flies from the room in the direction of the kitchen phone. The little girl rises from her bed and sees the cape still clutched in Saint Impalus’ outstretched hand. She wrests it free and shrouds him with it.

Outside, the wind stops.

 

(c) j baugher 2006