King Perry (44 page)

A man eating sausage congratulates Perry, explaining that he and his wife, new parents, spent the night awake with a fussy, colicky baby. They don’t live far away. While preparing to drive to Mill Valley for a well-deserved breakfast, they decided to follow the music instead.

“This is awesome,” the man says, haggard for lack of sleep. “I mean, if you want to wake the neighborhood with music and these fat cinnamon rolls, go right ahead. We’ll be up.”

We laugh, all of us, our happy knot of foresteers. I think that’s a word. Or it should be. Those who find instant kinship with others who love to smell the earth. We can’t ever bond for extended periods because we all long to experience the forest alone or in couples. But we can do breakfast. As Perry cuts his birthday cake, another few people wander over. More cars pull into the lot; it’s a perfect morning for a hike. I keep hoping for one set of guests, specifically. If they don’t come, it’s fine, I guess.

Two more groupings approach from the parking lot, children outrunning admonishments from shy parents, until Perry waves them all closer.

“You guys were the shit,” says the haggard father. “That gorgeous music ended a very fucked-up night. Sorry about the swearing. I’m blathering.”

Perry laughs. “Not a problem. Where’s your kid?”

“Get this,” the man says. “She fell asleep on the way here. She’s sleeping in the SUV over there.”

His wife had excused herself a moment ago, and we glance that way to see her peering into the backseat, forty feet away. He nibbles off her plate.

Perry says, “You’re a good father.”

The haggard father blushes and starts talking about the lobster bake.

Perry puts his hand on the man’s shoulder and says, softer, “A good father.”

The man smiles bashfully.

Two more people head toward us from the parking lot, hesitating hikers, wait—
yes
.

I touch Perry’s elbow and nod in their direction.

Perry cries out when he sees them. He jogs over.

“PLEASE JOIN US,” my note from the Golden Gate Bridge begged. “MT. TAM BREAKFAST PARTY, EAST PEAK PARKING LOT. START TIME ROUGHLY 7:30AM? PLEASE, PLEASE COME.”

I misgauged the time because I didn’t realize Perry would be so accomplished a cellist. That was quite a concert. But they’re late anyway, so it worked out. We’ll have to ask them if they went out to a gay club last night as they threatened to do.

I watch Perry raise the inside of Zhong’s hand to his lips. Then he does the same to Jian.

Really, it’s the best way to recognize a man’s kingship.

A
N
HOUR
or more later, after the last cherry crepe is devoured and no more puffy cinnamon rolls can be found, Zhong, Jian, and every other foresteer depart to hike somewhere beautiful. Perry and I take the shortcut trail up toward his concert circle of stones.

He says, “How the hell did you get the cello up here in the dark?”

“I didn’t. At dinner, when I walked out to our van, I met Liam who had parked around the corner. He had the cello with him. He had moved everything else up yesterday afternoon, probably while we were at the beach, stashed under a tarp that said ‘property of California Parks’. When you and I arrived at the parking lot last night, Liam gave me a nod from his car to let me know everything was set. While you were in the bathroom, we confirmed a few last-minute details, but we didn’t really need to. I had already showed him how to fix that engine clicking sound, so he could drive back this morning with the food.”

“I saw you pocket the rental van keys.”

“I made a spare set.”

“I thought it was illegal to make a copy of rental keys.”

I grin at him. “Illegal and dangerous.”

“So, you made the car belt louder on purpose.”

“I asked you twice if the sound bothered you because I needed you absolutely sure that it was our van squealing out of the parking lot and not some random car.”

Perry laughs and says, “Man, you schemer. You should work in finance. And by the way, this trail is a lot easier than the one we came up last night.”

“That’s why we took the other one. But this one is steeper, so be careful. It’s closed off for a reason.”

When we reach the
Siren Song
circle, he says, “I dunno, Vin. I’m a king. Does a king really do heavy lifting? Shouldn’t you be my bitch boy now?”

I chuckle and say, “Remember the part where the kings keep their day jobs? Grab a pumpkin, princess, and a few alarm clocks. If I happen to kick your ass on the way back to the van, your majesty, keep in mind I’m giving you another chance to forgive.”

This strikes Perry a funny way. Well, perhaps not funny exactly, because his face shifts into something different and he comes to me, wrapping his whole body around me, holding me tight. Maybe he’s afraid I might disappear from the mountain, for real this time.

“Thank you,” he whispers into me, and the words are mangled.

After a minute, he shifts his body and I go rigid as he kisses me gently, very gently, on my rat bite scars.
He forgot.

Perry pulls back, and he lets me see his eyes, filled with a depth I cannot fathom. I might call it pity, but it’s not that, not with the love pouring from him, it’s too rich.
Too rich.
He leans in, and I tense as he slowly kisses my hairline again.

He didn’t forget. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

I feel Perry’s grip on the back of my head, and he guides my skull to his, temples pressed together, skin to skin, blood pounding against blood.

We stay this way until our heartbeats slow down.

Twenty-Three

O
N
THE
drive down the mountain, the banquet dishes clatter with good cheer, packed amid alarm clocks and pumpkins, tarps, and a bulky cello case. He insists on cuddling King Quackers in his lap.

Perry wants explanations.

Personally, I don’t think he should bother, explanations being mostly logistics, entirely unromantic. But we’re in a goofy space where everything is asked and answered as we love back and forth. We’re in our final hour together, grooving on our own Charlie Brown wall, philosophizing about life, our elbows not even getting sore.

“The duck came from a website called Craigslist. You ever? No? Well, it’s a giant swap meet. Mostly it’s people selling and buying computer parts, but there’s more. Massages. Find a contractor job as a graphic artist. Buy a VCR. And apparently, you can rent a duck. I can’t believe that actually worked. The farmers who responded to my ad couldn’t believe someone would
want
to rent a duckling for the weekend.”

“I bet it’s a scam. How much did you pay for this website?”

“It’s free.”

“It’s a scam.”

“No, it’s real. Craigslist started last year right here in San Francisco. Read the damn business section of the newspaper, local boy.”

“I assume this is an AOL thing, right? Hey, how did you know foods I liked? How’d you know about the Diet Coke? Or that I like cherry crepes.”

Before I can reply, Perry says, “Hey, you mentioned cherry crepes Friday night in King Aabee’s story.”

“Golly, that’s
right
.”

Perry laughs. “Seriously, how did you know that stuff?”

I knew this question would come, but I remain uneasy about the explanation. “Tuesday night, after you came back for my invitation, I followed you home. For the next few days, I watched your breakfast, your morning commute, and your evenings. I followed you through Safeway twice. I studied who you avoided on the street, and I ran some experiments.”

Perry shakes his head, amazed but not angry. Good; that’s a relief. Our conversation now slides into that easy California rhythm on these green and twisting roads.

“We passed each other twice on Market and you didn’t notice me in my hooded sweatshirt. Of course, I wore sunglasses both times. I paid a homeless guy to shoulder bump you to see how you responded. I also paid $50 to a businessy-looking woman to offer you a cheese sandwich.”

“That happened Thursday,” Perry says, surprised. “That was you?”

He is quiet for a moment.

He says, “Why a cheese sandwich?”

“I figured you for one of those foodies into cheeses, and if so, you’d ask her ‘what type of cheese?’ That would have influenced our menus and a few snacks. Also, I was testing how to make you uncomfortable, and it turns out you had some personal space issues.”

“I will forever be suspicious of strangers offering me cheese sandwiches. What type of cheese was it, by the way?”

“Ha. I knew it.”

“I’m just asking.”

“Smoked gouda. The woman also shared your suspicion of cheese sandwiches, so I ended up eating it myself. Deeee-licious.”

Perry huffs. “Where were the exotic cheeses all weekend?”

“You never answered her. Oh, you’ll like this: Friday morning you and I commuted on the same Muni car for two stops with our backs pressed together; I played that way too fucking close. I hopped out at Van Ness and got back in the same car through the doors at the other end.”

“Unbelievable,” he says; his voice is full of soft affection.

“We drank champagne on Alcatraz and ate bruschetta on Mount Tam. I’ll take unbelievable.”

Perry’s smiles widens, and he says, “Me too.”

Our duck quacks louder right at that second.

Perry quacks his own laugh and says, “I swear, I didn’t make him do that.”

I’m sure we both want to believe that King Quackers understood every word, so we spend a few minutes teasing him, asking him questions and waiting for his reply.

“See, Vin? He wanted cheese too.”

“Next time, take the damn sandwich
.
”

Our chuckling leads to pleased silence, gliding through the golden, emerald canopy around us, hearing accolades from the cheering redwoods, our private victory parade.

We did it.

We survived the long night.

A
T
LAST
, he says, “I’m going to Australia. My sister lives in Perth. We were really close at one point. We still talk on the phone regularly, but we haven’t spent a Christmas together in five years and we always say it’s because she lives so far away. I’m calling her this afternoon to set up a trip.”

He is quiet and looks out the window.

Perhaps Perry and his sister secretly blamed each other for making their dad go away. Irrational? Sure. But kid decisions are often unconscious and very often brutal. Maybe it’s not blame, but rather fear that drove them apart: if this father who I loved so much could leave me, couldn’t you?

He says, “Celie and Mom begged me to play at my dad’s funeral. They pleaded with me, but I wouldn’t do it.”

He puts his hand on the passenger window glass.

I get it.

While his mom and sister did their best to love and grieve, Perry did his best too. But the one person who might have shown him how a man feels grief, and how he lets his grief show, had excused himself from the table. Well, that’s my interpretation.

He says, “The cancer completely devoured him. In his last two weeks, he was this destroyed person with gray skin, no longer my dad. One of his eyes wouldn’t open. I hated being in the room with him, but Mom made me play Bach for him every day, something he loved. Before he got that bad, I would sit by his side and hold his hand for hours, like, hours and hours, hoping it might do something magic, like in a movie. But he only got worse.”

Perry stops speaking.

He says, “I played his favorite Bach this morning, but I don’t think I’ll ever play it again.”

I say, “Really? That’s too bad. If your dad liked it, you could play it as your invitation whenever you wanted him to visit.”

Perry’s eyes open in surprise, hurt again, the good hurt where your heart gets softer when you thought it could not endure any more. He says nothing but stares out the front windshield for a moment.

He says, “Celie had a daughter almost nine months ago. Kimberly. Twice I canceled vacations because emergency bank stuff came up.
Twice.
My niece is almost a toddler, and I’ve never smelled her head. I don’t even know if Kimberly smells like a Mangin.”

We’re quiet for a moment. I watch the leafy green tunnel open before us and I grin wide, occasionally shooting sly looks to the passenger seat.

“You know,” he says, “when I said I wanted to smell—”

“Fucking weirdo.”

Perry offers his fingers to the duck’s gentle nipping and says, “Daddy Vin doesn’t recognize a setup, King Quackers.”

I chortle through the windshield.

Perry makes throat scoffing noises and says, “You wanna talk weird? Stalked me for days to see which vodka I drink.”

“Oh, please. You walked like a bear in a homeless shelter.”

Perry laughs. “You rented a duck from the World Wide Web. Now that is fucked up.”

“Actually, I think the Craigslist website could catch on. A couple years ago, I had to find a rabbit for this Detroit gang banger, and pet stores aren’t really into rentals. Luckily, he wanted to keep it.”

“Really? I’ve been thinking about keeping King Quackers. I never thought about a pet duck, but my place isn’t big enough for a dog. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll return him to his farm or whatever and check it out. If I don’t like his home, he’s coming with me. Also, if they’re going to eat him, no way.”