The Quest of Perkins Vale

by L. B. Dunbar

  “Got coffee?” she croaked.

  I smiled at the sound of her sleepy voice as I shook my head in the affirmative and sat up to get off the bed. I cursed my body that was too snug in my jeans as I slept in them all night next to her. Aware that she despised me at the moment, I doubted she would notice, but I tried to adjust myself uncomfortably, all the same. I went to my dresser for a clean t-shirt, slipping it on as I ran a hand over my non-existent hair.

  “Help yourself to anything you think might fit…or might be clean. I’d stick to the dresser versus the floor or closet.” I smiled down at her, as she continued to stare at me like the caged animal that didn’t recognize her capturer.

  I gave her a few moments of privacy and I saw her enter the bathroom with a t-shirt in hand. I heard the shower start and eventually stop, as I made coffee, started bacon, and mixed up some eggs. She returned looking like a vision of the quintessential rock fan. She wore my favorite Swamp the Crows band t-shirt. She’d bunched it at the side with a hair band to make it more form fitting. She redressed in her leggings, but she draped the shirt over her hips, covering her ass. Standing barefoot with wet hair, I’d never seen anything so lovely and mysterious in my home.

  “Eggs okay?” I asked, without waiting for a reply and poured her a cup of coffee.

  She held the mug between her hands as she sat in a stool beside the island. She looked around the room again as if anything changed in the light of day. Two skylights overhead lit the kitchen space with natural lighting, giving the dark cavernous feeling of the place a brighter appearance when the sun shined.

  “Are you ever going to tell me how you know my name?”

  “We met before. A long time ago in what I believe was your uncle’s home.”

  She only nodded, waiting for me to continue. Her hesitancy told me she might not remember me, and I felt a pinch in my heart. I’d been holding onto the memory for so long. I knew it was dangerous to hope she had held the memory, as well.

  “My uncle has many homes. Which one was it?”

  I paused. She didn’t remember; it was obvious.

  “The one near Lake Avalon.”

  She only nodded in an I-see sort of way.

  “And you know my uncle, how?”

  I began to wonder when this became her question and answer time versus mine.

  “Arturo’s father was a friend of his.”

  “Arturo? Was he the guy on the other bike?”

  I stopped flipping the bacon and pinched my eyebrows at her.

  “Yes. Arturo King.”

  She continued to look at me without recognition.

  “You do know who Arturo King is, right?”

  “Isn’t he the lead singer of The Nights?”

  “Yeah. The band playing last night at The Round Table.”

  I continued to stare at her, hesitant in my words, hopeful that she recognized the band.

  “And that makes you….?”

  I looked at her suddenly aghast.

  “You don’t know who I am?”

  “Of course, you’re…” She paused.

  I couldn’t believe it. She had no idea who I was.

  “You don’t know, do you? How could you get on the bike with me, if you had no idea who I was?”

  I began to beat the eggs briskly before dumping them into the ready skillet.

  “I…” She stopped.

  I returned my surprised face to look at hers.

  “Do you make it a habit of going home with strangers? Men you don’t know?”

  “I…” She looked hurt suddenly, but her face changed instantly to a hard shield. “It’s none of your damn business who I go home with or not. You practically kidnapped me. Once I was on the bike, it’s not like I had a choice. Ride or die.”

  “Ride or die?” I choked, a side of my lips curling upward, biting back a laugh.

  “Yeah. Ride, or jump off and die.”

  I returned to flipping the bacon, thoughtful for a moment.

  “I would never hurt you,” I said softly, still looking at the sizzling meat in the pan.

  Silence filled the space next to the crackle of frying bacon.

  “Will you please tell me who you are?” she finally asked, her voice no more than a whisper. “We won’t be strangers once you tell me your name.”

  Sighing, I responded, “I’m Perkins Vale.”

  Although I’d heard it before, I hardly expected it from her.

  “Alan Vale’s son?”

  Yep. For someone who hardly recognized Arturo King, and didn’t recognize me as Perkins Vale, she knew Alan Vale?

  “You know my father, but not me?” I couldn’t hold it in and laughed without humor.

  “Alan Vale was one of the greatest singer-guitarists of all times. His band won Grammys when they were young and old. The Valentines are classic.”

  Classic, I thought. Greatest, I almost choked.

  “I didn’t know him,” I bit out. Silence filled the air again between us.

  Plating eggs and bacon for her, I served her before I did the same for myself. I sat on a stool that made me perpendicular to her, so I could almost face her. She took several small bites of the food as if she was afraid it might poison her, but I devoured the meal, which I hoped prove to her it was safe to eat.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “about your dad.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  I took a final gulp of coffee to steel my courage and ask her questions.

  “Why were you in a women’s shelter?”

  “You think I…” She stopped. “How do you know my name again?” she interrupted herself, as she squinted at me.

  “I know your uncle. Women’s shelter? Why?”

  “We’ve met before?”

  I had already concluded she didn’t remember our first meeting.

  “This is not how this is going to happen, Hollister.” I needed to change the direction of this inquisition. “I have questions, then you can have yours.”

  Delicately, she placed her fork on her plate and crossed her arms under her chest, forcing her breasts to rise. It distracted me and my body reacted again to her. I had to divert my eyes from the temptation of wanting to know what it felt like to cup them, tug them with my mouth, bite her nipples to see how hard they could get, and make her scream without hardly touching her.

  Her gaze on me narrowed again.

  “Are you done yet? I know your reputation.”

  I laughed, this time in earnest.

  “You don’t know me, but you know of my reputation?”

  “Who hasn’t heard of the Hands-Free Lover?”

  “What?” I choked, although I had heard that God-awful nickname amongst many others.

  “Hands-Free Lover. Known to make a woman scream in ecstasy without even touching her.”

  “Wow. That’s powerful stuff.” I smiled.

  She still held those narrowed steel eyes on me.

  “Want to find out?” I added.

  Her red lips opened wide in shock, and I’d gone too far again. I’d always had trouble with that, which is why I didn’t know how to communicate with women. I knew the ways of women: how to please them and make them scream, but I couldn’t talk to them. I always felt I’d say the wrong thing. I always asked too many questions, except for the right question all those years ago. My mind slipped back to my purpose with her.

  “Never mind.” I straightened my back. “I need to ask you about your uncle.”

  She hesitated for a moment.

  “Joseph?”

  The surprise wasn’t hidden on my face.

  “Joseph? I thought your uncle was Roy.”

  She had a thoughtful, contemplative look for a moment.

  “Hmm…Joseph.”

  Something was off. I didn’t believe her, but I let it go for now. I felt this was going too far, too fast again. I needed her to trust me. I wanted to prove she could trust me.

  “I need a shower,” I said. “Give me ten minutes and then I pr
omise to drive you back to the shelter after we talk.”

  She relaxed her shoulders and let her crossed arms slide down her stomach to form resting hands in her lap. Hanging her head slightly, she nodded to agree with me. Feeling triumphant, I jumped off of my stool, leaving the dishes, and heading for my room. Entering the bathroom, I saw her clearing the dishes and starting the sink to wash them. I had a strange flash of her doing that action again, and I smiled to myself as I entered the shower.

  The trouble was I also thought of her standing in only the Swamp the Crows t-shirt, minus the leggings, minus anything else, in front of that sink; or better yet, completely naked against my kitchen counter. I envisioned me coming up behind her and covering her hands on the edge of the counter, holding her captive, while I rubbed myself against her bare ass. I imagined what she would sound like: a soft moan and a slight whimper. I imagined sliding my knee between her thighs, forcing her to spread her legs and then rubbing my throbbing length against her warmth.

  I grabbed myself in the shower, unable to resist the heaviness in my hands. I had to get release to stop thinking of her that way. I needed answers first. I slipped my palm upward, jerking several times as I began to imagine what it would feel like to enter her. How tight. How warm. How wet.

  I had to place a hand on the slick tile to hold my large body steady as I jerked one more time and spilled into the warm cascade of water. I could only imagine what she would feel like, because I didn’t know. I hadn’t known any woman like that. Ever. At twenty-five, I was still a virgin.

  The streets…

  [Hollister]

  I hated to do it because Perkins Vale had been so kind that morning. He let me peacefully shower. He lent me clothing. He made me breakfast. I couldn’t find anything not to trust about him, but I had to go. The second he mentioned my uncle Roy; I knew I had to leave. He did know my uncle, but I couldn’t let those memories back in. Whatever memories he had of Roy, they had to be Perk’s memories, not mine.

  So huddling in my oversized army jacket, despite the warmth of the day, I stole down the street like a runaway. Reaching the corner, I wasn’t sure which way to turn, nor which direction would be safest. I trusted in the daylight and recalled the direction we turned onto the street to enter the warehouse district. I backtracked until I reached a busier road with a name that sounded familiar. The area was full of gated storefronts, long closed with faded signs of foreclosure or going-out-of-business. The soap-covered glass didn’t give a hint to past potential of the businesses that, at one time, might have been successful in this part of town. The sadness hung in the air, like the litter of crumpled paper and plastic cups floating down the street in the warm early fall morning.

  Finding a cab might be impossible, but I also knew that walking back to the shelter would not be possible. It was too far into the city compared to my current location. A dead cell phone, a hundred dollars, and my prized possession were all buried within my jacket. I was faithless about the phone. Guilty of not remembering to charge it, knowing the purpose was for emergencies, like last night. I didn’t use the technology like I should. The hundred dollars was a security fund, tucked into the lining through a secret incision, additionally for emergencies, like the present, and my need for a taxi. Finally, in another secret pocket was my greatest treasure, a symbol of promise and hope.

  It wasn’t worth anything by other people’s standards, but it was sacred to me. Made with a promise a long time ago. A promise I often lost faith in and had to remind myself to hope. Hope that he meant what he said all those years ago. I had believed in him, even though I didn’t know him. I believed in what that boy had promised me.

  I shook my black haired head to rid my thoughts of sad memories. I didn’t have time for those daydreams; I needed to concentrate. Walking down what appeared to be another abandoned street, I noticed a woman exit a grate-covered door between two abandoned shops. Knowing that the second floors of the old storefronts were cheap residences, I assumed the woman might have lived above one of the past businesses, until I drew closer to her.

  “Martha?” My voice gave away my surprise.

  “Ms. SanGrael, I…What…What are you doing in this neighborhood?”

  “Martha,” I tried to keep my voice steady from the panic I felt within and firmed my tone. “I need to ask you the same thing.”

  The frail Hispanic woman before me looked around nervously. Her brown eyes were wide, her hair slightly greasy and tangled. Her faded dress was askew on her lank body, only partially covering her caramel colored skin. The barely visible bruise on her jaw was still present. Twisting her neck from side to side, before letting her eyes travel up the building to a second floor window, her hesitancy was palpable.

  “I don’t think it’s safe here for you, Ms. SanGrael,” Martha said, placing her hand on my arm and wrapping her fingers to bunch up the sleeve of my jacket. Tugging gently, she nodded in a direction for me to follow her. In doing so, I looked over my shoulder several times until we turned a corner four blocks ahead.

  “Martha?” I hesitated. “What have you done?”

  “I just needed to see him one last time,” the weak voice of the other woman spoke volumes to me. I had heard it before. Women who felt they couldn’t get away from an abusive man. Women who felt they loved him. He promised not to do it again. He said he was sorry. He loved her. I recognized those words. I had heard the excuses first hand from my own lips.

  “Martha, you know the shelter doesn’t allow you to do this. There are others there who need the anonymity.”

  Martha looked at me as if I had spoken a foreign language, although the woman before me spoke two.

  “For the safety of the others, you have to commit to stay at the shelter for protection or open the space for another woman. It’s only fair, Martha.”

  “It was only once. I swear. I…I just needed a fix.”

  “No drugs, Martha. That’s a strict policy.” My voice was rising, solid in its conviction this time. It felt like my words echoed down the empty street behind us.

  “Not drugs, Ms. SanGrael.”

  “Then wh…” I trailed off. I understood suddenly by the sheepish look on Martha’s face what she meant. Not drugs, sex.

  “Oh, Martha,” I moaned. It wasn’t pity or sympathy, just a statement of sadness. I understood the weakness, but I also wanted the woman to find the strength, too. To know that it was okay to want sex, just not with the one person who abused her for it.

  Martha’s eyes dropped, cast down to the cracked cement of the sidewalk beneath our feet.

  “Martha, I can’t pretend I didn’t see you.”

  “I know, Ms. SanGrael. But, please, just give me another chance. You know I’m working hard.”

  Reminding Martha finally to call me Hollister, I recalled that Martha was working hard. She’d taken a job as a secretary in a small nonprofit law office and was attending a class in the evenings to increase her paralegal knowledge and computer skills. Her bed, each night, was held because Martha signed a contract, accepting the rules that she would not engage in any communication with the abuser.

  “Martha, the home can’t help you, if you only plan to go back to him.”

  “I won’t. I can’t. I promise. It was only one time. It won’t happen again.” Martha’s words were a flood of emotion, and I sighed. I’d heard it all before, from both sides of the fence.

  After finally hailing a cab that was thankfully driving down an abandoned street, the day continued to be particularly grueling. The shelter had to turn newcomers away. We had to take a girl of only sixteen to the hospital for extensive injuries, inside and out. A toddler was left on our doorstep and child protective services had to be called. An irate man came to the building, threatening to burn the place down if his wife didn’t come out to see him. Fortunately for us all, the woman had been placed in a new apartment, in a new town, some forty minutes from the city. He wouldn’t find her.

  I was exhausted as I lay flat on my back on my regul
ation cot with the scratchy wool blanket and over-bleached sheets for a brief evening nap before the night shift. I didn’t want to complain, but after last night, I couldn’t get comfortable. His sheets had been warm and soft with the intoxicating scent of woods and cleanliness. When he forced himself to be a human lock over my body, I was overwhelmed by his protection, not possession.

  I felt something else I hadn’t felt before. A tingling sensation fluttered in my stomach as his hand rested low on my hip. His knee between my legs was only inches below my most sensitive spot, and a slow pulse beat against me. I felt the moisture building as his presence licked over my skin. I was a ball of conflicting excitement as he settled into sleep over me, while I lay there winding up into a slow burn of sensual energy. An energy I knew I would have to deny.

  Despite the conflicting sensation, I felt safe rather than threatened by his presence. At some point I had turned into him, letting him envelop me and shield me from my nightmares. His touch calmed me eventually. A sense of peace, I hadn’t felt before, overcame me inside his arms. He must have had his own bad dreams because he jolted awake in the morning. Prepared to ignore it and drift back to sleep, I would have, if he hadn’t kissed my hair. It was a silly thing to overreact to, and yet, it was so innocent and comforting, I had to push away.

  Rolling onto my side, I folded my hands under one cheek, willing myself to relax and rest. I would need it to make it through the night. Nighttime should have been one of the easiest times in the shelter. The women at rest, safe, protected, but the silence of the night also brought out the nightmares, the cries in the dark, the screeches of memories, and the tears of loneliness. It was the time of stories, and I had to mentally prepare myself by not being physically tired. The strength needed to take on the emotions was necessary. It could be so draining, knowing I could not ease their pain, could not take away their experiences. I often felt so helpless.

  Not being able to sleep as my mind drifted over the troubling sight of Martha this morning, and the abuse of the sixteen year old on our doorstep, I decided to head to the kitchen where Marie worked on the evening menu.