34. Gerard #2
At the snacks, Gerard surveyed the offerings. Nearby, Sergeant Adye and an Ipinger talked loudly about island gossip, which pulled Gerard from his thoughts and piqued his interest.
“The DNA on the discarded bandages came back from the mainland without a match, but the sunglasses had the words UNIVERSITY COLLEGE OF MEDICINE & HEALTH SCIENCES printed on the right arm. The name had faded a bit, so I hadn’t noticed at first. Turns out, that’s the school Regina’s old tenant used to attend,” said Sergeant Adye.
“So you think he’s been hidin’ out on Iping this whole time?” the unfamiliar man asked. Gerard made slow work of filling his plate so as not to look too obvious. His breathing grew short and labored.
“That’s what my gut’s tellin’ me.” They both chewed loudly, visibly considering this.
“So we gon’ call for another search?” the man asked as if he were prepared to whip a pitchfork out of his back pocket if necessary.
Sergeant Adye answered noncommittally. “Sheriff says there’s no use in spookin’ the community on a holiday, especially when we don’t got much to go off of. Chances are—if the guy knows what’s good for him—he’ll stay clear away from here, but if he comes lookin’ for trouble…”
“You’re on the case,” said the man, proudly pointing to the badge pinned on Sergeant Adye’s right pec.
“Exactly,” he said before he walked back to the main entrance.
Trying to remain calm and to not draw any attention, Gerard slipped over to the coat check and retrieved his bag.
Down a shadowy corridor, he jiggled every handle in search of a private spot. Inside a closet, beside an astringent-smelling mop bucket and a wall of single-ply toilet paper, he dug the walkie-talkie out of his bag. “Louise, are you there? Over.”
He grew impatient. “Louise, it’s Thelma. Pick up! Over.”
Every second left waiting was another sword of uncertainty plunged through his chest. “Louise, if you’re there, I need you to listen. I know I left the mask and the cloak, and I’m sure you’re still set on not coming, so it’s fine, but you really should not come here. It’s not safe for you. Over.”
No response.
“Seriously, the police found some evidence that suggests you’re still on the island. If you come here, they’ll realize and they’ll … I don’t know what they’ll do, but you should not—I repeat not—come here. Over.”
Unable to stand the heat of the stifling janitor’s closet much longer, Gerard turned off the walkie-talkie and shoved it back in his bag. The only way to keep Emory safe was to run back to the apartment before the performance and warn him.
Too bad as he rushed past the party where the trick-or-treating got underway—kids parading in a slow circle around the room to various stations with their baskets or pillowcases outstretched—Regina cornered him with a speed unbefitting of her age.
“There you are, James. We’ve been looking for you. Come along.”
His brain snubbed him of a reasonable excuse for why he needed to leave right that very second. He groaned with worry.
Regina corralled the choir into a nearby unlocked classroom for a vocal warm-up. Gerard reminded himself again that Emory seemed set on not attending the masquerade. Panicking would solve nothing.
The classroom they entered was small, with only a handful of desks, given there weren’t that many children on the island.
The tan walls were cluttered with vibrant motivational and instructional posters intermingling with student art projects.
In the air, there was the slight tang of eraser shavings, washable markers, and glue.
It made Gerard nostalgic for childhood simplicity.
Had childhood ever been simple for him?
Given his later-in-life autism diagnosis, he wondered if his school experience might’ve been different had they known about his neurodivergence back then. Maybe some teachers would’ve been more understanding of his sensory and processing issues that he didn’t know how to communicate.
“James, are you going to join us?” Regina asked. Everyone around him trilled their lips to get on their breath. He got up to speed, attempting to exhale all distractions.
Once the show got underway, Angie left the group to join Kellen up onstage, where they bantered as the emcees.
Children sat on colorful rubber mats on the worn maple floor in their costumes—everything from video game characters to superheroes to monsters.
Their parents left their candy stations and stood behind the horde of children, holding up cameras, ready to document the evening.
Gerard contemplated what it would’ve been like to grow up and start a family on this island, so shut off from the mainland. The kids here seemed as happy as kids any other place. The adults here had spirited hometown pride unlike most towns he’d visited or passed through on tours.
As the school’s dance team of three performed a number to “Thriller,” Gerard scoured for signs of Emory.
His hopes were conflicted. Most of him wanted Emory to stay away from this event and not fall into a trap.
The lesser part of him wished Emory would show up as a calming presence, be the face (albeit masked) in the crowd that he could connect with while singing his solo. An anchor for him.
More and more, that’s what took up his chest. An anchoring. Both to Emory and to this place. Both of which he knew, no matter how tight the sailor’s knots had become, he’d have to untether soon.
Earlier than expected, rain slammed down on the roof of the school, adding new rhythms to the step routine onstage. Somebody with foresight ran to shut the main doors. The building was small, and if the wind blew the wrong way, the whole entrance carpet would’ve soaked through.
When the choir was up, Regina introduced Gerard, and one of the tenors carried a chair out for him while Angie adjusted the microphone stand to his seated height.
The spotlight was softer than the expensive ones the road crew manned in arenas across the world, so while he still had to adjust, the experience was easier to manage.
The choir took their positions behind him with their music folders opened.
For a change, the support at his back was palpable.
Singing was all about breathing, and breathing was the basis of meditation.
As he sang, he sank into a state of flow the way he might sink into a Jacuzzi tub in a hotel suite after a grueling show.
He could practically smell his favorite lavender-scented bubbles and the flickering mahogany candle he loved.
Against the glare of the lights, the audience was a mass of faceless bodies, so he couldn’t search for Emory in the crowd, but that was okay because he was learning how to be his own calming presence.