King Perry (41 page)

I gotta do this quick.

I peer over my back support and turn on the alarm before tossing it down to the rocky earth, careful not to disturb any other props. I probably damaged the clock face, but for $7.99, who cares? Plus, fourteen other gold alarm clocks tick away patiently inside the circle of rocks Perry is about to discover.

I drop my head as I hear him draw closer because I cannot risk him seeing me at this critical juncture; I may not have the luxury of watching Perry the moment he finds this rock corral. On the other hand, I’m fairly sure the slender crack I peer through will keep me hidden.

I’ll risk it. I peer through the crack and watch.

Perry steps over a smaller rock on the opposite side of this misshapen circle. The first time I saw this formation, I remember thinking,
My, what great teeth you have, grandmother
. This space of barren earth is not wide, only eight feet across.

He’s half-naked and scruffy; the dark circles under his eye are purple and softer. Hair is all fucked up. But those details do not describe his true appearance. His eyes glow oceanic blue, the power of the Forgiveness Castle right there. The shimmery gold shirt throws sexy sparkles to his brown face, adding little magic twitches to his fat, griefy smile. His face welcomes joy, which always renders the plainest of us radiant.

He frown-smiles, his smile frowns, some combination of both, glancing around the collection of knickknacks I assembled, and then I see him melt into sad understanding, his gaze zigzagging, reading everything again: a half dozen pumpkins near golden alarm clocks, their shining curves gleaming in the newly-awakened sun. Two tree branches stuck in the earth boast long crimson ribbons rippling the sky at various heights every time the wind blows, which is pretty constant up here. White angel wings from a costume shop crouch against a nearby rock, interspersed with silver plumber’s rods, looking much like prison bars.

On the right side, a polished, shiny cello reclines, as if the instrument recently awoke and needs this rock to steady its morning movements. The support rock is suitable for sitting, in this barren outcropping. Call it a throne.

And he’s holding a duck.

I hope he remembers my first comment to him was about the
V
of ducks in his father’s painting. I’m truly a lucky duck that they were ducks because I had no fucking clue how to get a goose up here. I struggled enough planning a faux ducknapping. I love the silent
x
, my co-conspirator in so many faux crimes.

Faux, faux.
Faux, faux.
I really should learn French.

Perry sets down the duck’s cage.

He speaks quietly to Mr. Quackers, who crabs unhappily about the early morning antics. He’s right to complain; that braying alarm clock is horrible. Perry moves to the clock and silences it. The echo hurts my ears. I only see parts of him, but I can tell he’s walking to the pumpkins. I’m so glad he told me the pumpkin-carving story. That was fun, to carve out triangle eyes. My knife sits near the pumpkins.

“I am the Golden Curve,” he says with sadness.

That’s my cue to retreat. I turn away and sit on the earth, my back to the rock. This is not about him and me; it’s about him. His dad too, but mostly him.

Looking through his back windows, I never saw a cello case inside his apartment. Of course, I could only see in the living room and kitchen.

I hear strings tickled and tightened; he found the tuner and rosin.

I don’t know much about the cello, just what I researched while Perry worked and I had the day for errands. I’m no music expert, but I did buy some good stuff from Tower Records. Safe to say, I’m not qualified to interview people for orchestra, but I’m ready to recognize something awful.

Note to self: I have to remember to go to Coit Tower and get my boom box and supplies out of the underground stairwell. We didn’t need that location after all. No, wait. I’m sure I put it on my post-weekend checklist. Dammit, I need that electronic gadget I was thinking about last night, with the cute little mouse.

More light creeps into our day. Half over the horizon now? Not quite. The world is still not awake, and I can’t look for a while yet.

“Here it is, Dad.”

The first note stretches out, long arms unfurling and morphing into gorgeous ebony, the molasses texture you might find on a darker-skinned black man as you rub your goatee along his smooth thigh. That sensation.

My eyes open wider. Any sluggishness disappears.

Clearly, I was wrong.

This sound flourishes too rich for an amateur, too strong and loving, long bow strokes that end in silvery fingers. A few clunker notes appear every now and then, not wrong notes exactly, but I’m guessing forgotten knowledge races back to his fingers. These notes are steep turns, like the physical roads that brought us here. I decide this is a redwood song, regal and yet gentle, approachable. I recall yesterday’s ascent, the heart-lurching vistas as we inched higher and higher toward the east peak, the fresh smell of ancient decay, the soft-patterned leaves dragging their shade across our sunny faces as Mr. Quackers wobbled around in back, chatty and glad for a break from us.

Perry’s nimble notes flow over the hillside, running together, long purple streaks, intertwining loosely. Sound flows much further than it should because we’re so high. His stage drowns these spectacular colors, beautiful black and silver notes slipping through the boulder cracks, energetic earthworms squirming in delight. Certain notes leap higher than others, sprout wings, and race each other to the bottom of Mt. Tam, where they must burst unheard, uncelebrated. The rocks sway, as sometimes they do when no one is looking.

Well, not unheard; we’re not alone. Soon, they will gather to meet him.

The sky is lighter, gold asserting its right to stay.

Perry’s notes climb higher, chasing the sun. I swear he pours out all his love because at last he found a way to communicate with his father, a way for them to chat about life and its sorrows, and what makes a man.

All hail The Forgiver King.

This weekend won’t cure his life. Anyone who reaches the age of thirty-four acquires a few chinks in the armor; he will carry those all his days. But his kingship will bless those struggles, and the ones yet to come, because he wept alone on a mountaintop, used up all of his love, only to find it replenished from a source he did not expect. He will have his father’s help now in facing life’s problems, a necessity he mistook for a forgotten luxury.

Suddenly, it’s my turn to know a thing that is somehow true: the world is forgiven for taking Perry’s father.

The siren song lives.

In Greek mythology, the siren song heralds doom, and I get it; I do. “You will go mad,” we Lost Kings warn each other. “Cover your ears. It will kill you to live with all your love.” Despite that dire interpretation, the Found Ones know the true purpose of a siren song, and sing it, thank God. Or Goddess. I guess I’m not sure on that point, either.

Perry’s song zings down the neighboring hillsides in all directions, greater confidence tumbling further into the valleys. The music streaks naked, strong and solid, masculine in its tenor, and I’m guessing years of investment banker decisions pay off, because his brain must calculate the best returns on split-seconds decisions.

When the heart serves the brain during a musical performance of this caliber, the technical proficiency is impressive. But when the brain serves the heart, surrenders its dominance, the technical proficiency isn’t impressive at all; it’s breathtaking, forcing you to turn your head.

Which I do.

His whole body moves in concert, arms jerking in seemingly random directions, yet they snap back to center with synchronicity, sometimes in slow motion, sometimes swiftly, and the gold sparkles ripple across him, blinding me temporarily, almost like staring at sunlight on the ocean.

He yells forgiveness and love to several people without breaking the tune, and I smile because he has friends and he is loved. But when I hear the words, “I forgive you, Cecilia,” the words are thick with hurt. The cello chokes out low, painful notes, and even stutters at one point, as grief overtakes him. Whoever she is, Cecilia is a couch in his heart.

But then he’s back into the song, slow skating in thick, luscious curves, making more room. Solid oak notes tether earth to sky with stunning richness everywhere, ocean and heaven fall victim to the sun’s dazzling array of diamond-tipped beams.

Lowering myself back against the rock, I let myself collapse.

I put my head in my arms and cry for Zhong and Jian, for the hardships they face at home, for children whose parents will die this year. I cry for men I have met who were damaged by life, and those who were damaged by me when I was who I used to be.

I cry because of the way the world breathes sometimes, a strong man playing his love on a mountaintop, a song of joy and grief. Perry won’t forget his grief, and why would he? The Castle Forgiveness is looking to expand, and grief makes such beautiful blue stone.

Now that the Forgiver King is enthroned, perhaps I will feel less intimidated wandering those cavernous blue hallways. Maybe I will find my own secret entrance while pressing against the polished rock. And perhaps one day I can be forgiven, because Perry’s cello sounds like seals spelunking in the ocean, the slippery sounds swimming once more into absolute joy.

The Forgiver King’s music will call us home.

Find us, King Perry.

We need you.

Twenty-One

A
FTER
three resplendent melodies, definitely resplendent, Perry stops. The sun is officially up, not high in the sky but balancing precariously above the destroyed horizon, the hour at which sun worshippers pop out of bed with a satisfaction I do not understand. Generally, I prefer the beauty of 10:00 or 10:30 a.m. But hey, King Weekend.

It’s still dark over there. Freaky, to see daylight right here and yet night still chasing its tail over the faraway foothills.

I peer through the crack to see him stand, facing California in the new light. His initial audience numbers in the tens of thousands, even if they didn’t quite pay full ticket prices, nestled comfortably in their overpriced homes. He plays for the growing trees, bewildered campers, and the early risers. Those still sleeping in Sausalito and Mill Valley remain unaware of why their dreams just grew softer.

He definitely earned one adoring fan in Mr. Quackers; exuberant quacking chased the cello’s music. If you were forty miles away and listening to this ethereal concert seeming to rise from the earth itself, you might ask, “Is it my imagination, or is that music powered by a duck?”

I spy on Perry as he struts around the rock pile, taking deep bows before his invisible fans. His arms stretch skyward in a giant
V
, the bow in his right hand seeming to show the sun which direction it should travel.

I poke my head up high above my hiding rock. He sees me and grins.

The duck quacks.

I wipe my eyes dry. Truly an amazing concert.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Hey, not much,” Perry says, laughing. “I’m on a mountaintop at dawn and I just finished a cello recital.”

“You play the cello?”

Wow. He’s shining.

“Almost majored in it, in college.”

“That’s cool. What changed your mind?”

Perry’s face studies mine. “I decided I hated it.”

I nod. I bet he killed his love for the cello the same way cancer killed his father: slowly.

“That and I got tired of being poor.”

“Sure. Gotta eat.”

“Aaaaand now, I’m wearing a king shirt that showed up mysteriously during the night, gift-wrapped in a purple box.”

“No kidding.”

“Yeah, I found it a while ago.”

“Huh.”

“Vin, check this out: I’m part of a green desert with pumpkins and alarm clocks and wings. Something my Dad painted.”

“How about that?”

In a growling voice he says,
“
How about you quit fucking around and come down here?
”

“Sure. If it’s okay to come into your painting.”

He smiles, but I can see him studying me. “I grant you safe passage.”

From my tear-stained face, perhaps his heart gossips a little truth right into his brain. My tears make us equal somehow; I did not expose his deep grief while I took notes on a clipboard. Like recognizes like, which means we have something really shitty in common. And it’s true: I would have loved to have had a dad. I would have liked that very much.

I unsnap my jeans, kick off my shoes, and navigate to a smaller rock for me to climb over, stripping completely naked by the time I step into
Siren Song
.

He puts his arms straight out and says, “King Perry the Forgiver welcomes you.”

I bow. “Your majesty.”

“Oh, please. We don’t have to talk that way, do we?”

As he closes the five feet separating us, his big grin disappears. I reach for his hand, and he offers it, tears already streaming down his face. It’s too bad he can’t see me while I kiss the underside of his thumb, but his eyes clamp shut and his face shakes. He leans in and cries against my chest.