“Where did he go?”
To the bar. To some street corner. To some slut somewhere. To some dark alley. To the coffee table and a rolled-up dollar bill.
“Can you help us find him?” Corbin asked.
“Did the Wrens capture the Percival’s king, Corbin?”
“Owen says I put him down my cast, but he wouldn’t even fit. I didn’t take him.”
“He’s really missing?” I asked. “He’s actually lost?”
The boys nodded.
“The king is lost?” I almost laughed.
Perfect. The king was missing. Spilling out the edges of the suitcase. Stepping in front of the train. Just a little wooden gnome that could fit in the palm of my hand, but as big as Dad.
“We’ll find him.” But I wasn’t sure.
—
We looked for King Percival. On the deck, over the railing—the painting was already gone, and I didn’t care one little bit—behind the couch, under the cupboards in the kitchen, even in the washing machine. No king. After about an hour, Owen flopped onto his back in the middle of the living-room floor and wailed.
“He’s gone!”
“He’s somewhere.” Corbin sat beside his brother. “We’ll find him.”
“He’s dead,” Owen said with a sigh. “The king is dead.”
“He’s not.” I bristled. The boys had no idea that they were talking about one thing and also talking about another. “We’ll find him,” I insisted. “I promise.”
Billy Glover died shoeless and suddenly on Tuesday from a cocaine overdose, following a fight with his wife and daughter, who were just trying to get him to do the right thing—
“Let’s go ask Mom if she’ll take us to Alice Lake.” Corbin patted Owen’s arm. “Would that make you feel better?”
“King Percival is not at the lake.” Owen sniffled. “He was just here yesterday.”
“We’ll go swimming,” Corbin said. “I’ll even let you push me off the dock.”
“I don’t want to go until we find King Percival.”
“We looked everywhere,” I said. “Maybe if you go to the lake, you’ll remember where you left him.”
“Come on.” Corbin bounced up. “Let’s go ask Mom.”
Corbin pulled Owen to his feet.
“Ugh,” Owen said.
“I don’t know if you should.” I glanced up the stairs. “She might still be sleeping. Dad must’ve come in really late, and he—”
He was still up there, when he should be at work.
Was he sleeping on the floor? Had Claire let him sleep in the bed with her?
The boys were already halfway up the stairs, and then they were disappearing into their parents’ room, and I heard their happy squeals.
“Daddy!” The boys’ laughter cut into the quiet. “You’re home, you’re home!”
Low, rumbled murmurs from Dad.
Not so low murmurs from Claire.
More laughing.
I reached for my phone and texted Salix:
I sincerely hope that you are doing absolutely nothing today.
Now I was ready for distraction.
More laughing, and then the boys leapt down the stairs, hollering.
“The beach! The beach! We’re going to the beach!”
They streaked across the living room and down the other stairs to get their swimsuits. They were back up in less than a minute, digging through the closet for the beach toys.
“Maybe King Percival is in the lake,” Corbin said.
“He’s not in the lake,” I said. But then I realized that he was pretending. “Or he could be, I suppose.”
“He might be,” Owen said. “The Wrens might’ve sent assassins in the middle of the night. He could be in grave danger. It might even be too late.”
—
Claire came down first, her robe loosely tied across her belly. She padded barefoot into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove.
“Boys? You two go hang out on the deck for a little bit, okay? I’ll let you know when we’re ready to go.” They marched outside in their flippers and masks and snorkels. She put a hand on my shoulder. “Billy is coming down in a moment to join us, so we can talk.”
I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to listen. I wanted to hear what the plan was, and how things were going to get better. I wanted Claire and Dad to recite a list of all the reasons why everything was going to be all right.
Claire made coffee and offered me some. I shook my head. Everything already tasted sour. Coffee would make it worse. She poured a cup for herself and one for Dad. She brought them to the living room and placed them on the table, right where Dad had snorted cocaine the night before. I stared at the spot until it was blurry and my eyes stung.
—
The shower turned off upstairs, and a few moments later Dad came down dressed in cargo shorts and an old Railway Kings T-shirt. He sat beside Claire on the couch and put an arm around her.
“Sit, Maeve.” Claire patted the couch on her other side. Instead I sat in the big orange easy chair across from them.
“Go ahead, Billy.”
“First of all, I am so sorry, Maeve.” His voice cracked. “It was cocaine, and it was shitty of me to pretend that it wasn’t.”
Shitty of him? Like being late to pick me up at the bus? Like not being there when Mrs. Patel died? Was that the kind of shitty we were talking about?
“Thank you, I guess.”
“I’ve been a total asshole ever since you got here, and I’m sorry.”
“Okay.”
“It was bad before, too.” Claire leaned forward over her big belly and reached out. I let her take my hand. “We should’ve told you. But I hoped it would get better. Your dad said it would. And we wanted you here. We didn’t want you to be all alone in Port Townsend.”
Dad parked his elbows on his knees and rubbed his forehead with the palms of his hands.
“Billy,” Claire said.
“I’m not sure what happened.” He pulled his hands down his face and groaned. “But I’m going to make it better.”
“Look at her,” Claire said. “Look at your daughter when you’re talking to her.”
He lifted his eyes.
“I fucked up, Maeve. I really did.”
He stared at me until I looked away. No one said anything for what felt like ten minutes, but it was probably only seconds.
“So now what?” I finally said.
“It’s over.” My dad rubbed his face, harder. I could hear his stubble scratch.
My skin became ice. “You mean you’re breaking up?”
“No!” Dad looked up.
“Not for now.” Claire and Dad shared a look. “Remember before?” Claire said. “We got through it, right?”
The months I hadn’t heard from him. Or Claire. The months where Vancouver hadn’t even existed, and Dad and Claire hadn’t either, as if just by drifting away from each other, they’d made everything disappear around them, including me. As if remembering that was any reassurance.
“We’re better together.”
“Believe it or not,” Dad said with a laugh.
“I don’t know if I do,” I said with a catch in my throat. “Cocaine? Are you doing heroin, too?”
“Of course not.”
“But it’s not far-fetched, right? Go back a few years, there it is.”
“Decades, now.”
“Your drummer dying wasn’t enough to keep you away from this shit?”