Sometimes when he was shopping or at a restaurant or at one of his parents’ many doctor’s appointments, he would get the sensation. That was what he’d come to call it: the sensation. And not in that old-York-Peppermint-Pattie-ad-campaign kind of way. This sensation was neither exhilarating nor refreshing. This was a prickly dread crawling across the expanse of his skin.
Sure enough, he would look up and find someone—man or woman, it didn’t matter—looking at him but pretending not to. Their eyes, just before they averted them, asking the same old unspoken questions: Is it him? Could it be? Surely he’s not still in Wynotte.
It happened that morning as he stood in line at Booker’s Hardware to purchase a large sheet of steel wool to use in his latest sculpture. The cashier, an older gentleman, kept glancing at him over the top of his reader glasses, then returning his gaze to the register. When Gordon handed over his card for him to swipe, he watched as the man checked the name on the card, then looked at him one more time. In a blink his gaze had gone from curious to venomous. It was that fast.
Each time this happened, Gordon had to suppress the urge to speak up and affirm that yes, it was him, and no, he did not still live in that little house he’d lived in at the time of Davy Malcor’s disappearance, but yes, he still lived in the small town he’d grown up in. He wanted to say he was still there because he had no reason to leave; he’d done nothing wrong. But he also wanted to explain that, while he’d love to have left long ago, he could not leave his parents, who needed his help. After all they’d gone through because of him, it was the least he could do. It was because of him that their health was failing, his fault they were now pariahs in a town his family had called home for generations.
He knew people stared at his parents, too, that they probably knew the sensation as well as he did. If anyone could understand, they would. But they didn’t talk about any of it, ever. His parents were of the don’t-ask-don’t-tell mindset. No crying over spilt milk and all that. Better to move forward, do the best they could, and tell themselves all the while that it was enough.
But Gordon did not feel he could keep up that attitude for the rest of his life. Increasingly, he felt himself wanting to change things instead of merely accept them. He just couldn’t figure out how.
He left the hardware store in a hurry, feeling eyes on his back. Would they talk about him after he left? Probably, he decided.
“You know who that was, don’t you?” the cashier would say to the next person in line. And that was all it would take. They’d jaw about the missing kid, then speculate about Gordon’s involvement in his disappearance. Davy Malcor would haunt him forever if he let him.
He went home, intending to work on his latest sculpture (this one was a commission so he actually had a deadline), but instead he went to the computer and turned it on. While he waited to log on, he made a cup of coffee, then took a seat. He’d returned three days ago from a gallery show in Franklin, Tennessee, and needed to write a thank-you note—a real, handwritten card, not a dashed-off email—to the gallery owners for their hospitality and their continued support of his work. He just needed to search online for the correct address.
While he was online, he figured he’d check his email. He told himself it was just business, not procrastination, as he watched his inbox appear on the screen. Near the top of the list was an email from her, the woman he’d met at the gallery, the one who’d openly flirted with him, who’d asked for his card and pressed her own into his hand. She wanted to “connect” later. That was how she’d phrased it. He’d said he was heading home to North Carolina, that a connection wasn’t possible. Her email made it clear she wasn’t giving up that easily. She had business that took her to Charlotte, she wrote, and wasn’t that close to Wynotte? She’d love to see him next time she was in town.
With a sigh he deleted her email, then shut off the computer. No point in replying. Soon enough she would find out who he was, hear what he’d been accused of doing. Gordon had learned a long time ago there was no sense in starting something that would only, inevitably, end. He hadn’t always known that, and it had caused him a lot of heartache. He was wiser now; he guarded his heart better.
He walked out to his studio in the backyard, opened the door, and threw himself into his work, the one thing that had never failed him.