King Perry (36 page)

It could go either way.

We stay silent for a big part of this time, cuddling together in awe. The sun makes actual contact with the ocean at last, thrusting deep its hard disc, prompting the last new friends to bid us farewell.

Perry soaks up each goodbye.

German Dad shakes my hand, and he puzzles over our refusal to depart.
Seriously
, he says with his eyes. I nod to him, and he gets it, that this is part of the plan. He stares at me a moment and then ushers his family away.

We wave back and forth until they have disappeared from sight.

Perry makes a joke or two about the hotel again, and each time he does so, I kiss the side of his head. He takes my hint and chooses silence as the sun’s hard curve begins to disappear.

He says, “I wish you’d saved some bruschetta.”

“Who do you think you’re dealing with?” I say, making sure my voice sounds hurt as I reach for the pouch. “We’re talking about
food
, Perry. I still have regrets about not getting a hot dog on the ferry.”

He says, “My God, was that just yesterday?”

I pass him the second to last piece, and he munches away, licking olive oil off his thumb. From the backpack, I grab two organic grapefruit juices, a delicious local brand so tart and sweet it’s hard not to drink the entire bottle in one gulp.

He says, “Aren’t you going to have the last piece?”

“No, it’s for you, if you’re still hungry later.”

“Go ahead. I’m good. I only wanted one more taste.”

“But later.”

Perry stares at me with soft eyes. Maybe he can’t quite figure out how a guy built like me could turn down amazingly delicious food, and sometimes I can’t fathom it either. But I love him.

We pass a few more moments together in silence, sitting shoulder to shoulder. I would prefer to just stare at the fire-truck-red sky and guess how it will merge with the indigo pressing downward, but these last minutes of sunlight are crucial.

“We better get ready for night.”

I roll out our sleeping bag while Perry drops the black cloth on Mr. Quackers’s cage. Mr. Q expresses dissatisfaction at this instant nightfall, but children always resent their parents’ later bedtime. I pull free our Mexican throw rug and flashlight from the bulky backpack and fuss it over our laps as we snuggle on our private boulder couch.

A mere hint of sun remains above the horizon. Maybe the sun departed a few seconds ago, and these last rays are a mirage. Perry snuggles against me, head on my shoulder. His body purrs.

With our remaining juice, we toast. We had a day.

It’s time to bring Perry to the summit.

“Perry, I love you.”

He tenses against me. Not much, an involuntary spasm.

“Don’t say it back. I’m not looking for that. But when my heart feels this open, I must say it out loud or disrespect the power which brought you to my life.”

Perry relaxes during this, even deeper. He wants this too.

“Saying I love you does not mean we have to date, nor is it an obligation to send each other Christmas cards every year, with our annual one-line joke about Mr. Quackers. This is what it means to me. Right now, if I could choose to be in a five-star hotel with blueberry soap, I would change nothing; I would choose right here with you.”

I say, “Forced to choose between you or onion rings with melted cheddar cheese and jalapeño peppers, I choose you. When I think about the men whom I have loved, you are on that list. Your name is written inside me now.”

Perry trembles as his last wall crumbles down.

I say, “You might be tempted to say ‘I love you’ because I said it or you’re slipping into my moment. If you want to say it, wait for an hour to pass and speak when your heart can no longer stand its silence. And if you don’t say it, that is equally cool. Even kings cannot make rules about saying ‘I love you’. The only rule is doing what’s right for you.”

“Okay,” Perry says. “I can’t believe you picked me over onion rings. I’m touched.”

“Really thick-sliced jalapeno peppers and scalding hot cheese.” I pause. “Tough decision, but then I remembered I loved you.”

And while this humor ruins our moment, it actually doesn’t ruin anything. In fact, we’re sealing this moment, a maraschino cherry on top, remembering today as one of the surprisingly good ones. What could be more delightful than to wake up with Nut Rolls on Alcatraz and end with a mountain sunset in the company of a duck?

I kiss his lips and speak into his parted mouth. “I love you.”

We’re quiet for a few more moments as a bruised navy blue begins to dominate our formerly golden-red sky. We gaze in silence as twilight makes itself comfortable. Stars poke out, prairie dogs checking who else is coming out to play.

Time passes.

Perry breaks our silence and says, “Two years ago, I had about five dates with this guy, nice guy, and then on the fifth date he said, ‘I love you’. Our connection was okay and growing, I guess, but it wasn’t love and he knew it. I think he was lonely.”

He gets quiet for a moment.

“Coming from you, Vin, I believe it. I don’t understand why, but I believe you. I barely know anything about you, which is—”

We kiss with bruschetta breath. Mr. Quackers mutters, eavesdropping from his bedroom. Everything we could ever need is within our grasp.

“I don’t know if I can say it back,” Perry says. “I have only said ‘I love you’ to two guys in my life. The first time, I was seventeen. The other time was Chuck, someone I really loved. Those words aren’t always easy for me to say. I don’t want to say it without being sure I mean it.”

“I didn’t tell you so that you’d repeat it back. I said it because my heart commanded me to open my damn mouth.”

Perry nods and permits me to fold my arm around him, pull him into me.

“All my love, Perry.”

Without seeing him exactly, I feel him shake, and I’m sure he cries a few tears.

His brain has quit fighting these spontaneous and seemingly random attempts to cry. The brain pleads exhaustion, never getting a break from its leadership. Perry’s heart is so ready to pound out commands right now, so ready. There’s just one more grief dragon blocking the way.

I rub his shoulder, fuss with the blanket around him and say, “Sleep if you want to.”

Perry squeezes me. As tired as he is, I’m sure he won’t sleep. Not intentionally at least. He won’t want to miss a moment of this. It’s cold with no trees to block the wind at the top of the world, but we are cozy and happy together. We’ll stay like this for a few hours as the night sky comes alive.

Perry is on top of the mountain.

We have a duck and a sleeping bag.

King Aabee is with his family.

We’re ready now, kings. We’re ready.

Let it begin.

The Forgiver King is ready to come home.

Seventeen

T
HE
moon triumphs high in the sky, the initial, bashful appearance easily overcome. She now sashays with easy confidence as she ascends Mt. Tam’s summit, so unlike our scrabbling, sweaty ascent hours ago. Tonight, I must name her Li’l Shirley in honor of the entertainment happening right now at Anna Marie’s. The world looks awfully bright all around us until you notice the enormous boulder shadows everywhere and realize that the moon’s protective glow has some serious limitations. Navigating this terrain at night could lead to surprising, serious injury. Li’l Shirley, you minx.

According to her, it’s almost midnight. My estimations are never an exact science, but years of sleeping under the night sky gives me confidence that I’m within thirty minutes. I could calculate it within ten minutes if I was back home, but I’m always a little off when on vacation.

I clear my throat and wait a few seconds, because I don’t want to scare Perry out of whatever breezes through his soul right now.

I click on the flashlight, shine it on the cage. “You need to hold Mr. Quackers for the next part of the story.”

“I don’t think I can fit inside, Vin.”

I sigh the “what I have to put up with” sigh.

I keep the light steady while he retrieves our water fowl for this bedtime story. Mr. Quackers is none too pleased, though we were generous with the lettuce leaf an hour ago. This latest intrusion is definitely not cool with him, and he expresses his discontent. It’s colder than earlier, so I decide we need the sleeping bag.

Soon the three of us settle in together, arranging ourselves like nested Russian dolls: the unzipped sleeping bag wraps around both of us, I lean back against our flat rock, arms wrapped around Perry. Perry creates a nest from the Mexican throw blanket, which now holds our duck. We require a few minutes of fidgeting, but once comfortably established, we stare silently at the visible stars far outside the range of Li’l Shirley’s brilliant glow.

Mr. Quackers lives up to his name and belts out a loud one. His head darts in each direction, and he seems shocked by the magnitude of the sound, so he remains quiet and alert in Perry’s protective hands. At some point today, Perry discovered that strumming his thumbs along the duckling’s back calms our friend. Or maybe the soft repetition calms Perry. As I watch over his shoulder, Perry performs this massage almost unconsciously.

Yesterday on Pier 33, had I explained how we’d spend the second night with a duck on the east peak of Mount Tam, I do not think Perry would have stayed. I believe I would have watched him stride away vigorously.

Fuck me, it’s like a mosquito bite this weekend.

Focus up, moron. It’s time.

I say, “The Lost Kings were angry. They had a grievance.”

“What a surprise.”

He pulls more of the blanket into his lap, fussing, his hands acting as cage bars. Mr. Quackers seems pleased with this arrangement as he tucks his head toward an underdeveloped wing.

“They were furious that the Found Kings never sent a representative to live amongst them for ten years, as they once had been promised.”

Perry is completely relaxed right now; he has fully surrendered.

“What about King Aabee?”

“Exactly. But they forgot. They bemoaned how their request had been summarily dismissed, which they claimed was typical of the Found Kings.”

He says, “Fuck ’em. They’re dicks.”

I wait for an extra moment before responding.

“What would you risk to find a lost king? And what if he doesn’t remember you?”

Perry says nothing.

I hoped for a flinch, some further tell, but there’s nothing to read. That’s okay, I still think we’re good to go.

I would love for this to happen during the midnight hour. When I snuck a peek at my pocket watch, I discovered I was off by twenty minutes. It’s only 11:30. This is good. How often does a duck transform a man into a king on a mountaintop at midnight? It would be cool, like a fairy tale, and I’m a sucker for happy endings.

“The Lost Kings demanded a Found King be sent to them.”

“Another ten years?” Perry says, sounding worried.

“No. To be put to death
.
”

After he lets himself hear the words, his entire body jerks. “No. Don’t say it.”

“I will go. Send me!”

“No,” Perry says, sitting forward, sounding surprised and anguished, similar to when he mentioned his mom on the Golden Gate Bridge. As I pull him back into my arms, his body tenses, quickening his return from the previous hours of well-earned peace and great, goopy love.

“Vin, c’mon.”

I remain silent.

He turns awkwardly in my arms, faces me enough for me to see his alarmed expression. “It’s your story. You don’t have to do this.”

“Your face right now,” I say, stroking his cheek with my hand, “is exactly how many of the Found Kings reacted. They said, ‘No, King Aabee. Not this time. Not you. You left us once, great leader of our people, and we almost could not bear it. Please do not leave us again.’”

The duck chafes in Perry’s protective grip, as his fingers have unconsciously drawn closer together. His profile expresses grim resolve until he hears the soft duck complaints and relents, allowing Mr. Quackers a little more room.

“You know he volunteers, Perry. It’s not really a suggestion.”

“This is bullshit. Send that one king who, no, wait—send the Bear Walker king. I don’t give a crap about him.”

“King Aabee argued that he was the best qualified king to go.”

I pull Perry back into my Russian nesting doll position; I want him to feel safe.

Reluctantly, Perry turns around to face the world.

“This older and wiser King Aabee claimed that having spent ten years amongst them, he knew the Lost Ones better than they knew themselves. They might see him and remember his face. Plus, working on King Diego’s case for two years in Turkey polished King Aabee’s negotiating skills; he excelled at logic arguments. When logic failed, all his investment banker skills allowed him to barter in the heart’s gold.”

Crap, crap, crap.

I wanted Perry soft and gooey, not thinking of his career. Was that a mistake to add in investment bankers? I knew it could kick me in the ass. But I don’t see an impact; his body didn’t respond. Maybe I didn’t fuck up.

“It’s gotta be him?”