Page 13

“I’m sorry!” Amelia cried. “I’m so sorry, Mary! You were right! This isn’t for kids. This is scary and stupid and dangerous, and I lost Gabriel, and I’m sorry!”

I am angry right now, but none of my anger is toward Amelia. I feel terrible that I ever thought it was her fault in any way. This was my mistake. I’m a fifty-two-year-old woman who knew better, and…

And the time for self-recrimination has not arrived. “Hush, Amelia. This wasn’t your fault. Where did you last see Gabriel?”

“He… we… we were together at the performance, and then he asked me if I heard something, and I was like, what, and he said, that, do you hear it, and I said you mean the dancers, and he said, no, that, it’s like Grandpa’s jazz piece, the Vie Apres a la Mort , and I said, no, and he said he had to find the music, so he left, and I ran after him but I lost him and I couldn’t find him, and… and…”

She gives me that explanation in a single breath, then bursts into tears again. Strangely enough, my panic has subsided. I’m terrified, of course, but if I show it, then Amelia will completely lose her control, so for her sake, I keep myself under control.

“Where was he headed when you saw him last?”

She points up the street. “That way.”

I follow her gesture and realize that I recognize the street we’re on. In the distance, I can see the lights of the Midnight Melody. The club is hosting a Mardi Gras performance, and I have a feeling that the music Gabriel heard came from there.

I grab Amelia’s hand and say, “Come with me.”

She allows me to lead her out into the crowd, which has now grown stifling. People are packed into the street so tightly that if the crowd were not moving in the direction I want to travel, I would be forced the other way. Bodies soaked in sweat, beer, food and vomit press and rub against us. Not all of them are fully clothed. None of them seem to notice us or anyone else. During the brief instances my eyes move over their faces, their eyes appear glazed and out of focus. They laugh and cheer and leer, but their expressions are dead. Their souls are not their own, not tonight.

I pull Amelia in front of me and place both arms around her, protecting her as much as I can from the press. I let my eyes roam around the crowd as we move toward the club, just in case I see Gabriel. Twice, Amelia stumbles, the second time nearly pulling us both down with her. The crowd continues to move, and had I not managed to keep my feet, I am certain we would both have been trod to death.

If Gabriel has fallen…

No, I can’t think like that. He could still be alive. I have to hope he’s still alive.

In front of the club, the moving crowd on the street collides with a stationary crowd gathered outside of the club. Hundreds throng the door, and my glimpse inside the window tells me that there are thousands inside. Dozens of security try in vain to keep the throng organized. Perhaps the Midnight Melody is struggling as much as Etienne believes, but they are certainly making their money tonight.

Slowly but surely, Amelia and I reach the door. A burly man in a t-shirt with white block lettering that reads SECURITY stops us. “There’s a cover charge of twenty-five dollars,” he informs us.

“I’m looking for her brother,” I tell him.

“Please!” Amelia adds. “He’s missing!”

The guard appears utterly unmoved by her tears. “Twenty-five dollars.”

“This is Amelia Lacroix,” I tell him sternly. “The missing young man is Gabriel Lacroix. They are Josephine Lacroix’s grandchildren.”

“Mmhmm. Ma’am, I need you to step to the side so I can—”

“So help me, God,” I shriek, “If you don’t let me in this building right now, I will tell Josephine herself that you are responsible for her grandson’s death! Do you want to take that chance? Are you that sure I’m lying so I can take a twelve-year-old girl into a Mardi Gras performance?”

The guard looks at Amelia, who is still weeping. He looks back at me and frowns. He mutters, “Ain’t my fault these kids are out here.”

He steps aside, though, and Amelia and I enter the club. The crowd is even more tightly packed inside than outside, and to make matters worse, when I push through the crowd, people angrily tell me to stop cutting.

“We got here early,” a woman about my age wearing a revealing outfit that likely didn’t even look good on her thirty years ago snaps. “You can deal with it and stand in the back.”

“I’m looking for a missing boy,” I tell her.

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

“He’s not with me. 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 not hate themselves?

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 full array 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 not Vie 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 of Vie Apres a la Mort confuses 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 nearest the 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. The Vie Apres a la Mort sits 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 the piece. 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.”

"Did you hear it?" Gabriel asks. His voice is hollow. Empty. "It was here. The music. Everywhere. Could you feel it?"

A chill runs through me. I don’t respond to him. Instead, I take his hand and Amelia’s and lead them out the back of the Midnight Melody.