This Is How I Disappear

Ronnie returns briefly then with the smallest shirt he owns, which still hangs almost to Gerard’s knees when he pulls it on. He can’t lift his arms above his head, so I help him dress. After I stuff the spare bandages into the backpack, we re-don our sunglasses and head to the front, where Ronnie is taking an order from a customer that can’t seem to stop tapping his fingers on the counter. As we leave, Ronnie nods farewell and says to me, “Take care of your brother.”

“Oh,” Gerard replies before I have the chance, grabbing my hand, “he’s not my brother.”

Ronnie’s face freezes as he turns away without further comment. Gerard lets my sweaty hand go once we’re out of sight, but I put it back around his waist as he limps along. I don’t think he really needs your assistance anymore, my brain tells me rather coldly.

He’s still limping, I defend meekly. I’m just being nice.

No, you’re not, my brain argues. You just want to touch him.

I don’t…not want to touch him, I try, but my brain is sorely judging me, so I relent. “Are you good walking, or…?” I query Gerard, hoping he’ll say no.

But of course, since I wanted it, it didn’t happen. “I’m fine.”

Damn fine, my brain compliments, and I again curse it for being so mercurial.

“I hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable in there,” Gerard suddenly gushes, catching me by surprise. I slow, so he doesn’t have to limp too quickly to catch up. “I just hate bigots.”

I nod, inwardly relieved and giddy he said that. But I see my chance, and I have to ask, completely casual: “So…are you gay?”

He glances at me. “Are you?”

Without thinking, my mouth forms the word, “no.”

He looks away as I mentally rage at myself. “Me neither.”

God, those two words are almost painful to hear.

Don’t be dramatic, my brain scorns.

I reply in exasperation, I’m trying to be real.

“Where are we going?” I ask eventually, but my voice is void of curiosity or any other emotion.

Gerard works his jaw before answering. “I know someone who can hide us for a while.”

“Another debt?” I guess, grimacing.

“Sort of,” he hedges cryptically.

I don’t know what he means. “Will our reception at least be a bit more welcoming?” I wonder.

“Um,” Gerard muses, chewing his bottom lip. “Guess we’ll see.”

***

“Your brother’s place?” I hiss incredulously from where we crouch in the bushes, across the street from an apartment block. The unmarked cop car is stationed thirty feet away from us, housing two watchful policemen. “What about this seemed like a good idea? Was it the high probability of getting caught? Or perhaps that your brother is a cop? I’d love to know,” I snark in a whisper.

Gerard turns to me. “I have an idea,” he says.

“Oh, another one!” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Wonderful.”

“You are really sarcastic,” he takes the time to inform me, before digging through the backpack. “Where is it?” he mutters to himself as he starts taking things out and tossing them on the ground carelessly, including the bundles of cash.

I look around to indulge my paranoia, even though we are concealed in bushes at night, then begin to reload the emptied bag. Gerard slaps my hands away.

“I haven’t found it yet,” he snaps.

“You’ve taken everything out,” I reason. “If it’s not here, you must have forgotten it.”

He purses his lips and lets me pack the bag. “Oh!” he breathes after a minute of contemplation, and unzips the outer pocket I assumed was unoccupied. He proudly produces a ziplock baggie of prosthetics and make-up. “Disguises!” he whispers excitedly.

Oh, this is a bad idea, my brain declares.

Emphatically agreed. “Gerard, this isn’t—”

“Trust me, Frank,” he implores, face solemn. “Trust me.”

I swallow, taken off-guard. “I trust you,” I say shakily.

Gerard wields an eyeliner pencil. “Don’t trust my crazy ideas, Frank,” he amends. “Just trust I won’t poke your eye.” He descends with the eyeliner, and I swat his hands away.

“I definitely do not trust you to put make-up on me!” I hiss vehemently.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, trying again.

“This is a terrible idea!” I tell him, snatching his wrists to dissuade the eyeliner from assailing my eye sockets. “We are not doing this!”

***

An hour later, Gerard is a bearded old man with a hat that he tucks his hair into to hide its shade. He wears a worn brown overcoat, and holds a cane. I, against my express wishes, am an equally aged woman, sporting a white curly wig, and a more feminine coat. My face is slathered in layers upon layers of make-up that has morphed me into a wrinkled prune with skin spots. Gerard forced me to let him apply mascara and pink lipstick on me. This is probably the closest I could ever get to hating him.

And, though I loathe to admit it, I’m wearing a dress. And a necklace of pearls. Also, how does anyone walk in high heels? Gerard had me try a pair on, but decided it was a bad idea after the third time I fell over. He probably just made me wear them so he could laugh at my ridiculousness. Instead I wear sandals.

Don’t ask where we got all these clothes. All I’m saying is there’s been a robbery not too far from here.