King Perry (30 page)

After a brief standoff, I continue. “She heard the music and followed it to him. In her mind, his sewer cleaning was heroic; he loved history and wondering about ancient symbols as much as she. Yes, it’s true, they never amassed many belongings in their early married years, but they often purchased irresponsible things, steamer passages to Egypt or plane tickets to Toulouse so they could spend Christmas with her family. They lived with all their love, and while it left them penniless, a golden trail of light swirled around them.”

“Are you making up this part right now to contradict me?”

“I told you that King Aabee sometimes helped Lost Kings get found, right? Living as they did often attracted the attention of a lost king. She helped him stay
found
. There’s a price to pay to live with all your love. King Aabee found the price tag acceptable.”

Perry looks at me with suspicion.

He may realize we’re not talking about King Aabee. Be careful, Vin.

“The two years helping King Diego?”

I consider my love for Pear and make my face gentle.

“King Aabee’s wife loved Turkey; so much rich history. In Ankara, she published, the serious kind of published that makes your career. King Aabee and his family lived in the center of a thriving market city, so many different kings intermingling in such lovely languages. When he wasn’t working on King Diego’s behalf, Aabee and his two sons loved wandering through the tented street bazaars, feasting on autumn tubers and inhaling the misting blue incense.”

“Wait. Now he has two sons?”

“Three. They got pregnant during the three-day party celebrating King Diego’s release. But yes, when they arrived in Turkey they already had two sons, dark-skinned boys who held hands in public because in addition to being brothers, they were also good friends. When their father played music, they were not ashamed to dance. Those were some choice years for his family.”

“And here?”

Perry’s voice contains another new sadness, another surrender.

“
They lived here.
What other reward could you want? In California, King Aabee’s older sons learned to surf, while the youngest trotted back and forth on the beach, anxiously admiring his brothers. Aabee’s family met many oceanic kings and queens, those who forged special friendships with creatures in the deep. Don’t even get me started on Liam, the Dolphin King.”

Perry looks to the sun, radiating its California joy. We’re on a secret beach, accessed through a cave of horrors, serving an important mission for King Bolinas. What could be finer?

“Aabee’s family stayed here for six years, and then an extra five more, because Bolinas and Aabee became best friends. How would you like to spend eleven years with your best friend, giving second chances to homeless starfish?”

Perry turns from me and slowly wades back toward the shore. Not far away, he stops, bends down, and picks something up. He doesn’t need me for approval. He walks into the surf, peering around until he finds a good home. I’m not sure if he forgives the starfish or asks the ocean to forgive, to wash away old memories and let the water sparkle again.

When he finishes, he stares into the rush of waves, unyielding in their pursuit of land.

After this weekend, I will remember Perry this way, in his rubber hip waders staring into the surf. The wind plasters a few wet locks across his forehead and blows the rest back. Well, rustles it. He’s got a clump of wet sand stuck over his ear. Knee deep in the ocean, the Forgiver King’s face reflects impending doom. He looks like one of those giant—

Forgive Billy.

What? No, a stray thought—

Forgive Billy.

No.
No.

I’m going to think of something else now. I’m going to think of something else. Forgive a child-molesting—
tiredofthoseratsyet
—motherfucker?

That random thought didn’t mean anything. Thursday, I thought about how someone should invent rip-off Velcro underwear for men. That wasn’t a message from the kings; not everything is a message from them.

Perry waves me over to join him. Good. Good. Slosh over there, Vin.

I’ll have to think about this later, I mean, there’s nothing to think about, really. Just a random thought, synapses firing. Is this why I’ve been thinking about Billy all weekend? To forgive him? No. I’ll confirm it’s random, but later. I just…. I need to focus up. Don’t be a moron, Vin, there’s no time to get into this on a King Weekend.

But for the record, kings?

No fucking way.

Fourteen

M
AKING
our way back through the tidal pools, we discover Perry’s first throwback riding a shallow wave a few yards down from its original location, a hardcore purple surfer with braised and callused skin. That makes seven starfish, as we finish our patrol in this smaller cove, if we count Perry’s first starfish twice. We also find three dead ones, their skeletons beached further in dry sand. Perry picks one up to keep as a souvenir. Collecting souvenirs is a good sign; he’s in.

Forgive Billy, huh?

Get softer, Vin. Maybe tonight I will find some time to think this through. But honestly, I don’t envision much forgiveness happening, kings. Sorry, but he and his buddies were rapists.

I can’t get into this now.

Focus on watching Perry. Watch him. Read him.

His face grows pensive, a word I prefer, but you can’t toss it out there often; it rarely fits. But Perry’s pensive. Oooh.
Perry’s pensive, Perry’s pensive.
His face says he’s struggling to say something, carefully arranging words so that they don’t accidentally lead into a cave of horrors. He was definitely quieter as we recovered the last few starfish, and while we still enjoyed some goofy exchanges, I felt a slight distance. No denying that.

I suspect there’s a certain topic he’d like to discuss, but yesterday on the pier he made me promise to never bring it up. Of course, that may not be it. Maybe he’s just tired; today is a long day. Or maybe I’m the one who is tired and misreading him. Could be anything.

We stare into the water.

He says, “I’m sorry that I said King Aabee is a tool. He sounds like he’s doing okay.”

I move in close to him and put my arms around his lower back, pulling our hips together and bringing our faces close. He breathes in the scent of me and locks his fingers around my neck. Forgiveness can be oh so sexy.

“King Aabee is doing great. So are you. You’re amazing, Perry.”

He blushes. “I like the story. You’re a bit of an asshole, but I’m glad I came.”

I shrug. “Fair enough.”

Perry’s lips taste warm, sunbaked, with a hint of salt. Kissing Perry is now a tangible manifestation of everything we’ve endured together: our first kiss in ski masks, our Hammock sex on Alcatraz, our shower kiss after my being a dick about the cake, our wonderful closeness on the Golden Gate Bridge. Every kiss now sparks and reminds us both that for this weekend, we are in love.

I break the embrace and point toward the rocky end of the beach.

Speaking almost right into his mouth, I say, “What’s that?”

“Where?”

I point to a specific rock cluster.

We peer in that direction for a few seconds, but nothing appears out of the ordinary.

I say, “Low wave a minute ago. I saw something—”

He says, “Yeah, I just saw it. Something curved—a rope. There’s a rope.”

I say, “Let’s check it out.”

Perry follows my lead, genuinely interested. Examining tidal pools restored a certain inquisitiveness. Who knows what you might find in a secret cove?

He says, “Wait, you saw this while we were kissing? You were
looking around the beach
while we were making out?”

I dart away, jogging toward the rock. Over my shoulder, I say, “I’m an asshole, remember?”

Of course, I am splashed from behind.

Sure enough, tied around the base of a fat rock, we find a thick braided rope, double-tied, as well as knotted through a small opening between two other rocks. The rope floats into a large, secluded tidal pool, hidden from the ocean by three stone walls; the pool is pounded sideways by the ocean once in a while, but it’s mostly protected. We’re not particularly deep, a little over our knees.

Bound in fat leather straps and bungee cords, a blue and white cooler thrashes vehemently, protesting its shackles.

Perry sputters surprised beginnings, but he sees my face and he stops.

“Of course,” he says.

We both chuckle, because, well, just because.

I say, “There’s a hunting knife in the backpack. I’ll go grab it.”

“Why didn’t you get it before we ran over here?”

“Why would I grab my hunting knife to go explore this rock
unless I already knew of a cooler? That doesn’t make sense, Peary-y-y.”

“But you
did
know a cooler was here.”

“No, I found it the same time you did.”

“Vin, that’s just fucked up. I can’t even imagine what goes on in your head.”

“I like surprises. Even when I’m the surprise planner.”

“Ridiculous. If I had the whole week on vacation to do nothing and —”

“Pear, thoughts about the word ridiculous? Before you answer, think of the
c
as a
k
and a hyphen after the
i
. Even though I don’t love
k
, I can’t deny the word sounds better with a k. Say it like this, ri-
dikuluous
.”

“I can’t tell if you’re a Ritalin junkie or if you use those stupid word things to end conversations.”

“I could talk for ten minutes about the word
cooler
. You’ll find my theory on double-o words quite fascinating.
Overlooked overlook, overlooked overlook.
”

Perry puts his hands on his hips and says, “It’s effective because you sound like a psycho. And if I’m right about using that to stop conversations, you’ll stay quiet right now or I’ll ask more questions about how you planned this weekend.”

Well, he’s not wrong.

In conspicuous silence, I head over to the backpack and extract my hunting knife. I am so fucking hungry.

When I return, Perry remains silent with a big grin, challenging me to either give him the last word or engage in a conversation I don’t want to have yet: Magician Tricks Revealed. His silence proves my mastery over him, while my silence simultaneously proves his mastery over me. He’s complying in all ways now, no resistance, but that doesn’t mean he’s not winking at the joke and letting me know he can play at this too.

Man, I love this guy.

I use my hands to indicate where I think we should cut, and he argues back, pointing elsewhere. I guess we’re going to cut the rope and rescue the cooler without any conversation at all, which is tricky but hilarious, both of us pointing at things to make our meaning known and refusing to speak. We splash each other to punctuate our points or interrupt the activity. We make snarky, quiet laughter when we catch each other’s eyes.

A few minutes later, we float the cooler to shore between us, hauling wet, frayed rope over our shoulders. This lends credibility to a shipwreck scenario. We lumber to dry sand and plop down in our squishy, cold waders.

We shake our wet hair at each other. I’m at a distinct disadvantage as I mostly have bristles, but zooming my hand over my head, I launch ocean droplets right at his face. As we remove the leather straps, Perry’s eyes shine because, honestly, this is pretty fun.

He says, “Is there a pirate king?”

“Please. There’s a whole armada of pirate kings.”

Once we master the leather straps and peer inside the cooler, we discover several bags of half-melted ice, Tupperware packed carefully with fresh papayas and pineapple chunks. At last, pineapple! Another Tupperware contains fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, and a baggie with flavored garlic oil and fresh basil. The tomatoes and mozzarella are beat to mostly liquid. Crap. I thought I packed those carefully enough. Water bottles, cranberry juice, and few Summit Pale Ale beers. Swiss cheese slices are triple-baggied as are the maraschino cherries.

I pull a plastic bottle from the bottom and extend it to him.

“Why, lookie here, it’s King Vodka.”

Perry reaches for the bottle and accepts it carefully, gently almost. Despite his earlier enthusiasm, he doesn’t seem particularly glad to recognize his favorite booze and keeps his attention on the bottle as if studying the label.

I think long ago, Perry’s heart made unwelcome room for sadness, and then believing that it could handle no more, slammed itself shut, preventing joy’s free roam. What’s the point of joy, if only followed by sorrow? Perry knows how to have fun; I’ve seen him with his friends. But I wonder how deep he lets joy flow, if he surrenders to the undertow.

I shouldn’t read too much into how he takes the vodka bottle from my hand; it’s too subtle. But I can’t help what I notice, what I think I see. Who cares if my theory is right? I was wrong about him wanting to talk about his dad. Knowing the exact reason doesn’t matter, because the truth on his face doesn’t need a backstory, it’s just truth. In this moment, sweet sadness pours out of him.

He hasn’t noticed the bottom of the cooler. I better point it out.