Gabriel never believed in Santa Claus. It wasn’t anything that I said or did, although the nuns at the boy’s home made it perfectly clear to me that God was the only being who knew if I’d been naughty or nice, besides the nuns of course. Even as a five-year-old child, Gabriel questioned the official story of a large fat man that climbed down chimneys and flew around the world in one night in a sled pulled by magic reindeer, but he believed in God. I certainly never raised him on any sort of religious doctrine, having declared myself an atheist at seven, but he somehow retained faith. Michael also believed in God. Maybe growing up in a satanic cult helped preserve the fantasy and reinforce in his mind the supposed battle between good and evil, but my childhood had the opposite effect. I refused to worship a God that allowed children to endure such unimaginable suffering, and my stance on the subject grew stronger every day, but if God did exist, I suspected Gabriel was the apple of his eye.

Taking him to Billy’s place had been a last-minute decision, and Billy was absolutely correct in his assessment. If someone wanted to find Gabriel, they would, but getting him out of the city seemed like a good idea at the time. I wanted to put distance between us and them and needed a secluded retreat for a couple of days until I decided my next course of action. Gabriel would not be returning to the private academy, that was a given, but I toyed with the idea of moving to a different city, a smaller one, one where heroin wasn’t available on every street corner. My career took the backburner and became as insignificant as the latest fashion trend. I could find work picking up trash or sacking groceries, but Gabriel was irreplaceable. Gabriel was the pearl in the oyster, and he knew it. He knew he was being hunted.

We stopped by the townhome to pack a couple of bags and pick up fat cat. He swooshed his tail and batted my ankles when I stepped through the door, but quickly changed his tune at the sound of Gabriel’s voice. Crying and wrapping himself around his legs, Fatty forced Gabe onto the couch and pinned him down while purring like an overfed motor boat. He looked fatter since I last saw him two days ago and I suspected Billy hadn’t stuck to the diet, but I understood. Fat cat’s meow scraped on the nerves like claws in a litter box, and he wouldn’t let up until the humans dispensed the tuna treats. We’d had him for about ten years, though the skinny alley cat who befriended a four-year-old Gabriel looked unrecognizable now.

Billy headed upstairs to grab some clothes for Gabriel, but I stopped him. “I’ll take care of that” I said, “just go make some coffee.” He knew how I felt. Gabriel was my son. I made sure he ate. I kept him clothed. I provided shelter, and up until his overdose, I kept him safe. I didn’t need help, and I didn’t need someone putting me in a good cop bad cop scenario either. I loved Billy, but he pissed me off. I recognized that look in his eye, the disapproving downshift of the iris, the twitch of his thin lips, and the tilt of his blonde head. I knew he didn’t think I was fit to raise Gabriel, that the overdose was my fault, that Michael and I were mentally ill, but we were right about this one. Gabe knew it too.

I returned downstairs to find Gabriel wrapped in a patchwork quilt curled up at the kitchen table drinking coffee. That’s my boy. He showed me his crooked smile and inspected the clothes I picked out for him, yanking out his green ski hat and pulling it over his head. I chose well. Billy stood with his arms crossed leaning against the cabinet while I bustled around the kitchen grabbing snacks and food for the cat.

“Need any help?” he asked.

I told him I didn’t.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Billy asked. “Who are we running from?”

Gabriel watched me with careful eyes and looked down at his coffee when I met his stare.

“Who are you running from, Gabriel?” I asked.

His sharp green eyes shot up and glared at me, replaced in an instant by the gentle, well-mannered boy. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Whoever you’re running from, I guess.”

Billy pushed himself off the cabinet and placed his cup in the sink. “Well then,” he said, “Let’s go before someone, anyone, finds us.”

“Michael and I will meet you there later,” I said. “You and Lisa go ahead and take Gabe with you, that way he can lay down in the van.” The lost little boy laid it on thick. His young forehead shriveled and bore wrinkles and his soft delicate features flared up with the fear of abandonment.

“What, so that’s it?” he asked. “Time to ship me off to Billy’s house?”

I stormed over to the table and grabbed the bottom of his chin, “We’ll meet you there later,” I said, “and then you and I are going to finish our little talk. Now, go get dressed.” I released his chin and continued packing a small cooler for the trip. Gabriel grabbed his clothes and shed the quilt as he stood from the table and walked to the bathroom in his hospital gown. Billy withdrew from judgment, but I knew he considered my actions harsh and insensitive. Gabriel was used to being coddled and treated with a gentle hand, but Billy didn’t see what I saw. He didn’t see the needle poking out of his scrawny arm or the vomit dripping down his chin. He wasn’t there to witness Kurt Cobain’s sad eyes and downturned mouth or the light spilling through the crack of the closet door. He was spared the sight of Gabriel’s bluish-gray skin.

Fat cat hissed and darted upstairs when Michael and Lisa arrived. He never liked Michael much, and after all these years, still hissed at the sight of him. They stood hand in hand with Lisa’s manicured nails holding tight to their territory until Michael abruptly broke from their clasp to greet Gabriel. He emerged from the bathroom looking every bit like a normal teenager dressed in loose-fitting jeans, a long-sleeved black sweatshirt and black canvas shoes with duct tape covering the left toe cap. He smiled when he saw Michael and reached up to run his hand through his newly cropped hair, but Michael ducked away and told him it was bad luck to do so. Gabriel nodded and said he understood. That was their way. They shared a quirky understanding together and made up jokes and superstitions as they went along, most of which made absolutely no sense, then again, no superstition does. Michael acted as an older brother to Gabriel and I played daddy to both of them.

Everyone I ever loved or cared an inkling for stood in my kitchen waiting for a directive. If paranoia had played me like a fool, I would have a difficult time living this one down. Gabriel leaned against Michael and listened as I laid it all out. Brief and to the point, I told them I had reason to believe that Gabriel’s biological father tracked us down and wanted him back.

“Everyone here knows how we found him,” I said, putting my hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “I think its best he doesn’t find him.”

“They,” Michael said, “they don’t find him.” He wrapped his arms around Gabriel and held him captive against his chest. Gabe squirmed his way free and retreated to the living room with his arms crossed and head down, leaving Michael dumbfounded. I glared at him as I left the kitchen. Standing over Gabriel curled up on the couch, I reassured him that everything would be okay. Tears streamed down his face as he pleaded with me to go with him to Billy’s.

“I have a few loose ends to tie up,” I said, “and then I’ll be there.” I kissed the top of his head and reassured him, once again, that everything would work out. Wiping his tender face, he told me he’d pray about it. Fine.

Of course he was afraid, but Gabriel was easy to misinterpret. His pouty eyes and androgynous features were sometimes misleading and masked his true emotions. Anger and resentment were often mistaken for pain and sadness; thus, the lost little boy was actually the headstrong pain-in-the-ass rebellious youth. One in the same I guess. With Gabriel, I never knew if he was putting on an act for whatever served his purpose, or if his feelings were genuine. I suppose that’s the case with any teenager, but Gabe was a pro, a natural born talent, much like a certain rock star I knew.

Michael entered the living room and approached Gabriel with caution, his arms crossed against his chest and his face somber. He sat down next to Gabe and asked for his hand. Reluctantly, Gabriel submitted.

“Do you trust us?” Michael asked.

Gabriel nodded.

“Good, because the three of us are family,” he said, “never mind DNA, we share a bond no one else can break, not even the devil himself.”

Gabriel raised his head and stared at Michael, his green eyes fierce and unnerving, “I hope you’re right,” he said.

Billy lived about three hours away in a small town outside of Austin. I had planned on leaving Sunday after the Halloween party, but Gabriel made me promise to arrive later tonight. He took fat cat and left with Billy and Lisa. My paranoid delusions of robed men and kidnapping pedophiles coming to take Gabriel intensified the moment I sent him away, but I was positive it was the right thing to do. We were on to them, one step ahead and prepared to take them on, starting with the pinch-faced lawyer. I located his number and left a short message on his machine asking him to meet me at the studio at noon today to pick up the mask. Michael flipped on the television while I jumped in the shower, my mind visualizing the meeting and planning what to say. I became giddy, a jubilant madman like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning; I created whirlwinds rushing about the house preparing myself for the event.

The last two days had taken their toll. Examining my face in the bathroom mirror, I noticed fine lines that never existed before and marveled at the puffiness around my eyes. I sighed and combed my hair, disturbed at the thought of turning thirty in two and a half more years. It seemed unfathomable to me and growing old and decrepit somehow seemed an impossible fate. Turning away from my youthful vanity, I threw on a nice pair of black slacks, a black V-neck sweater and a white button-down shirt. When I emerged from my room, Michael whistled and stood from the couch.

“Need me to go with?” he asked.

“Absolutely not,” I answered.

He smiled and shook his head, “You’re crazy,” he said. “What do you think he’ll do when he sees it?”

“Don’t know,” I grinned, “but I can’t wait to find out.”

We hugged and held on to each other for a few silent minutes, our feelings unspoken but understood. I stepped over the threshold with Michael where insanity thrived in a delicate balance with logic and reason, a sophisticated parity dependent on the other’s existence.

I took my sports car this time. Worried that my client would arrive first, I sped to my studio and pulled in by the curb, relieved to find no one waiting outside. My stomach dropped when I opened the door and discovered the disaster zone I’d neglected to clean. Spilled paint, shattered ceramic sculptures and busted paintings littered the tarp-covered floor. Oh well, at least the place no longer smelled like puke. Welcome to the bright side. It’s all a matter of perspective. I looked around the long table for my client’s mask and found it buried beneath a broken canvas. Bending over to pick it up, I noticed the long-exaggerated nose drooped at the end and sat crooked on the mask, favoring the left side. I snickered and set it down on the table.

PEDOPHILE was still blaringly prominent on the forehead. Written in red paint in my most childlike penmanship, the word spoke a thousand truths and summoned up the bulk of my childhood. I was calling him out, the wealthy attorney who hobnobbed with senators and congressmen, judges, law officials, the elite – I would call them all out, one by one. Mr. Jeffery Spencer was next, along with Gabriel’s father, whoever the hell he was. The big boys club had been infiltrated many years ago when they paid a pretty green-eyed boy for his services, but unlike most child prostitutes, I made it out alive. I beat the odds and have so far avoided total self-destruction, and as unstable as I may be, my determination to take them down remained a permanent fixture.

After wrapping the mask in white tissue paper, I stood in the center of the room and lit a cigarette. My life mimicked my art, having fallen into complete disarray and temporarily destroyed, but I laid claim and guarded both, standing over them with my shoulders back and a gun stuffed in my waistband. My best friend/lover was damaged for life due to his childhood, the scars reappearing and devolving into open wounds, but I couldn’t help him right now. My son overdosed on heroin and slipped into a coma, simply checked out for a couple of days, and I sent him away to the last place I wanted him to be, under the care of Billy Faraday, but I had to do this. We couldn’t run away and start over somewhere else, which had been my initial response. We had to confront them and stand in the way. Threaten and blackmail, trick and deceive, rat them out and expose the growing cancer of elitist filth and corruption.

I stood in the center of the room smoking my cigarette and preparing for his arrival, stiffening my posture each time a car drove by. Fifteen minutes past noon. He was toying with me, making me wait, and exercising his dominating hand. He was letting me know my place. Surrounded by the colorful remains of sellout sculptures and meaningless paintings, I imagined he’d be surprised to find that my place no longer depended on his kind. I planned on walking away from the art world. No more fair-weather critics or kissing aristocratic ass. No more deadlines or rejected masterpieces. No more babbling intellects discussing the significance of shit in a box – I was done, and sacking groceries sounded increasingly more appealing. It was honest work, harmless and without malice, dependent only on people’s need to buy food.

A limousine pulled up out front and my client stepped out onto the sidewalk, alone and debonair in his suit and long coat gently catching a breeze and flaring out at the bottom. I tossed my cigarette on the floor and crushed it out with my pointy black leather shoes as I strolled across the room toward the door. Running my hands through the sides of my hair, I inhaled deeply and slowly released my nerves. Swinging open the door, I smiled and held out my arm inviting him inside. He hesitated, his pinched face brooding and stern as he looked me over and peeked around my shoulder into the studio.

“After you,” I said.

He eyed my waist and stepped inside. Shutting the door behind us, I stood beside him as he stopped to look upon the chaos that surrounded him.

“Vandals,” I said.

He watched me from the corner of his eye and wandered deeper into my lair. I thought about it. As if giving him the mask wasn’t enough to satisfy my thirst for retribution, I pictured myself pulling out the gun and shooting several holes in the back of his graying head. The ways and means rested coldly against my abdomen and the only thing stopping me was me, but I had yet to reach that point. I followed behind and placed my hand on the small of his back directing him over to the table.

“I hope you like it,” I said, pursing my lips and avoiding eye contact. “No other mask will look quite like this one, I assure you. Oh, watch your step.”

His foot landed in a pool of red paint and he stumbled back, wiping his shoe off and streaking the paint across the tarp. Gathering himself, he yanked on his coat and cautiously stepped closer to the table. My body detoxed and poured with sweat, but my face revealed nothing, cool and collected as I picked up the mask and coughed to hide my giggle. The crooked nose was perfectly obvious underneath the thin veil of tissue paper.

“It’s one of a kind,” I said, holding it out for him to take, “completely original.”

Removing his hands from his deep pockets, he reached out and snatched the mask from my grip. “Thanks,” he muttered. “I’ll send you a check in the mail.” He backed away from my gleaming eyes and turned to leave.

“Wait,” I said, maneuvering around the table and stomping through the puddle of red paint. “You should open it here.”

“And why’s that?” he asked, turning around at the door.

I stood before him and ran my fingers through my mismanaged hair. “In case it needs modifying,” I said. “That is, in case it’s not up to your liking.”

He glanced down at the veiled mask and then back at me, a malicious glint burned in his deep blue eyes. “Modifying?” he asked. “I’m sure it’s fine, Mr. Brava, but I suppose I’ll humor your shameful self-doubt.”

“How very kind of you,” I replied.

His soft hands pulled away the tissue paper and carefully flipped the mask over with the crooked nose lagging behind. I coughed into my hand and then clasped my arms behind my back. I anticipated his pinched face to straighten out like worn elastic, but he rewrapped the mask and held it by his side. Wetting his lips, his blue eyes darkened as they bore into me with cold indignation. I smirked and held his glare, my pretty green eyes remembering the silver and black ring inset with a garnet stone wrapped around my client’s index finger. The desecrated mask should have come as no surprise to him. He knew who I was, and I recognized that ring from a prior client of mine. I remembered feeling the cold garnet stone as he flipped it around on his finger and slid it down the inside of my thigh. He’d worn the same type of mask back then as well, with the long-exaggerated nose and cut off mouth. I wondered how many of us existed, ex-child prostitutes turned mask makers. The concept was as ridiculous as selling one’s soul for rock-and-roll, but they kept us under their thumbs whether we knew it or not. The devil owned the arts according to Michael, but I was done. I was getting out.

The lawyer clung to the mask with one hand and clasped his wrist with the other. Contempt poured from his eyes. “How’s your son doing?” he asked.

My arm brushed against the pistol.

“I only ask because I heard he was in the hospital,” he said. “I do hope everything’s okay.” He placed his hand on the door and pushed it halfway open. “Oh, by the way,” he said turning around, “Did Michael extend to you the invitation for tomorrow’s party?”

I nodded once.

“Good,” he said, “I hope to see you both there. I hear the entertainment this year are new recruits, perhaps you two can show them how it’s done.” He bid farewell with the mask, holding it up and thanking me for my trouble as he exited the studio and walked briskly to the limo. I stood in the doorway and watched him leave, the dead leaves coming to life and scattering into the air as the car peeled away from the curb. My finger rested on the trigger, and my paranoia sought restitution. Sending Gabriel away had been the best thing to do.