Page 27 of One Last Regret

"Tough shit. He can stand in the back, too."

“He’s notwithme. I’m looking for him.”

“That’s your problem. We got here early.”

I try to push past her, but her husband—a fat, greasy hippopotamus of a man—shoves me backwards and stands in front of me, parking his enormous backside in between me and the doors to the auditorium. His wife gives me a smug look and puts her arm in between the hippo’s arm and his flank.

My hands tremble with rage. Amelia’s weeping has shifted from terror to despair. How can people be so selfish? How can they act this way and then go home at night, look themselves in the mirror, wake up the next day and nothatethemselves?

You’re one to talk.

That is Annie’s voice, taunting me. A memory flashes through my mind of our final argument when Annie accuses me of being just as cruel and spiteful as our mother.You were smiling, like this.

She gives me a grin that reminds me of Satan’s host then, and I lose control. I don’t remember the fight after that, but I do know that she leaves that night, and I never see her again.

Annie,I reply silently,I’m looking for a missing twelve-year-old boy. A child. If you’re doing something to keep him from me, please think of his family. Think of his sister and stop standing in my way.

I won’t attempt to justify the superstition that prompts this action. I’ll only say that after I think that, I see my opportunity.

A fight breaks out in front of me between the hippopotamus and a thinner but much more muscular man. The fight seems to be about—of course—cutting in line. The hippo slaps the muscular man, who immediately throws a powerful right cross that drops the bigger man. The wife shrieks, and the crowd—now alerted to something far more exciting than whatever’s happening behind the auditorium doors—parts to allow the two combatants room to fight.

I pull Amelia along the outskirts of the crowd and head to the door. Behind me, I hear shouts of encouragement as the muscular man makes the mistake of dropping on top of his opponent, allowing the heavier man to roll him onto his back where it’s far from likely he’ll be able to get up.

I open the auditorium doors, pushing with all my might to make some room. The crowd in the auditorium is nearly as thick as the crowd outside, although thankfully I don’t run into any rude people here.

The stage is occupied by a typical jazz outfit. Eight people wearing black suits with white shirts and bowties—even the women are dressed this way—playing the fullarray of instruments: Piano, saxophone, trumpet, trombone, drums, guitar, double bass and clarinet, deliver a lively tune. Meanwhile, a female singer wearing about as little as possible without being arrested—and in New Orleans on Mardi Gras that is almost nothing—croons over the instruments, ignoring the catcalls of the men who have crowded near the stage.

Gabriel has given me no sign that he would care about the nearly nude woman on the stage, but this music is no doubt the mesmerizing sound to which he was referring. It’s notVie Apres a la Mort, but it’s sprightly tone falls somewhere in between the jaunty second movement and the taunting third movement of that piece.

I make my way slowly toward the stage. The crowd is too captivated by the music to care that I’m “cutting.”

Amelia has stopped crying. She stares in fascination at the stage. It seems she’s just as mesmerized by the music as her brother.

I open my mouth to call Gabriel’s name when a loud whine of feedback courses through the auditorium. The crowd shrieks, and the performers stop, stunned by the sudden whine. The singer casts an irritated look at the sound booth, and the sound engineer lifts his hands to indicate he has no idea what’s happened.

Then a new song starts.

The soft, romantic beginning ofVie Apres a la Mortconfuses the crowd. The singer looks back at the band, and when she sees they’re not playing, she asks into the microphone. “Can we get a sound check, please?”

The sound engineer lifts his hands higher, then begins fiddling with his soundboard.

Then the final movement, the one filled with rage and hate, begins abruptly. The effect is jarring, especially because it coincides with a significant increase in volume. Those nearestthe stage cry out and cover their ears. The performers react similarly, and the sound engineer throws his hands into the air again, wondering why he can’t change or stop anything that’s happening.

I look for Gabriel. The piece has the same effect on me now that it has earlier, but I push through it. If this piece is playing, it’s a sure bet that Gabriel has something to do with it.

The crowd begins to panic and flee the auditorium. The volume increases until I can feel it pounding in my skull. I feel a touch of nausea, but I push through that too. Poor Amelia is not so lucky. She bends over, and I pull her hair back just before she vomits.

I call Gabriel’s name, but I can’t hear my own voice, so there’s no point. I look for him, and when I see a silhouette standing at the back of the stage, I pull Amelia on top of it and rush toward the back. The performers have all fled, and when I reach the back, I see no sign of Gabriel or of anyone else.

Fear begins to return to me. Could I have been wrong? Could Gabriel have gone somewhere else? Could he have come here but been hurt before he could make it? Could someone have taken him?

The music stops abruptly, bathing the room in silence. I blink, stunned by the sudden change. My ears echo with the final discordant notes, and it’s not until Amelia calls, “Gabriel!” that I snap out of it.

I turn around and see Amelia rushing toward the piano. Gabriel sits on the bench, pale and staring. TheVie Apres a la Mortsits in front of him. I don’t remember taking that out of my bag.

I open my bag, and sure enough, the piece isn’t there. Gabriel must have taken it from me when he left. Yes, that must be it.

Amelia throws her arms around Gabriel, weeping and sobbing her apology. Gabriel sits still, his eyes locked on thepiece. I step forward and pull it from his gaze. My first instinct is to tear it to pieces, but it’s not my property, so I shove it into my bag instead and say, “Come on, children. Let’s go home.”

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