That hurt. I looked away. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I missed a lot, I know.”
“Me, too,” he said. “But what did you do? I mean, you’ve been gone a long time.”
He was getting curious again.
“Not that long.”
“Just half my life,” he said.
He wasn’t going to make this easy, and I couldn’t really blame him.
“Well, mostly I just kept trying to feel better. I fucked around and surfed and tried not to think about you.”
“Not thinking about me is what made you feel better?”
Marshall knew what I had meant, but he wanted to gouge me a little.
“Well, I’ll never know that. Because I could never do it.”
“But you still left.”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Because it was the best thing for you, Marshall.”
“No, it wasn’t,” he said.
I nodded. “And I’ve never been able to forget that. But at the time, it was the last lifeboat left.”
“The ship didn’t sink, Dad.”
“I know,” I said.
Marsh slowly unraveled the rim of his paper cup. “Sometimes there’s a secret code written under these.”
“I could use one,” I said.
Then he pointed to my tattoo. “Tell me about the mistake.”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“It’s a long trip,” he said.
“But with less baggage,” I said. “She’s gone.”
“Did she have kids?”
Jesus.
“Cut to the chase, why don’t you?”
Marshall shrugged. He was waiting for an answer.
“Two,” I said.
“What kind?”
“Boys. Your age.”
“Twins?”
“Unrelated Irish twins,” I said, ad-libbing an entirely new category of sibling. “But they aren’t skaters.”
“Let me guess.” He was maybe a little jealous. “They’re surfers?”
I nodded.
“Any good?”
Definitely jealous.
“About like you are at skating. One of them even wants to be a pro.”
I meant it as a backward compliment, but Marshall laughed at me. “Every grom in SoCal wants to be a pro something. Like being great is that close and we’re entitled to it.”
It looked as if I’d hit a sore spot, but Marshall was making a great point. He lived in a world where only fame seemed to matter—Instagram likes and Kardashian clickbait.
“Just get as good as you can get at whatever you love,” Marshall continued. “That’s what matters. Nothing else.”
It was a pretty smart way to look at life. I was impressed.
“Who told you that?” I asked.
“You did, Dad. When I said I wanted to play pro ball after we won that big game.”
I turned away so Marsh couldn’t see that I was about to cry.
“Do you still play ball?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said. “That was the last time I ever played.”
We filled up for the last time and headed south. I was planning to drive straight through to Tepic and maybe even Sabanita before sunrise.
Marshall was dozing on and off and listening to his iPod. I had tuned the Suburban’s AM radio to a local doubleheader. I missed a lot of the details, but I could tell that the Culiacán Tomateros had beaten the Venados de Mazatlán by a couple of runs in the first game. It was tied up in the second one.
I reached over and took Marshall’s hand in mine. He opened his eyes and looked over at me, and I was hoping he wasn’t too big to hold hands with his old man.
“I think I can feel your heartbeat,” he said.
“I think I can, too,” I said.
56
The last hundred-mile chunk of the trip was safe but slow. I had no choice but to follow a dozen semis down the switchbacks out of Tepic. We didn’t make it to my casita until noon. Marshall was on his second siesta, and I squeezed his knee to wake him as we pulled into the dirt driveway.
Tilly sat straight up, her tail wagging like a jackhammer. The casa’s garden had been weeded; someone had raked the lawn and bagged the leaves. The place looked storybook.
“You live here?” Marshall asked.
“I do,” I said.
“Who’s that?”
Meagan was standing in the doorway. She was wearing an apron, and her hair was up. She looked like the all-American mom on a Mother’s Day card. It felt like a hallucination.
I grabbed Marshall’s hand to make sure he was still there and counted back to the last time I’d taken my meds. My son was staring at me. I pointed to my tattoo.
“That’s who,” I said.
“The mistake?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said.
“But you said she was long gone.”
“Yes, I did,” I said. “Gimme a minute.”
I got out of the Suburban and moved to Tilly. She was vibrating with joy. I gently lifted her chin and stroked the back of her neck.
“Hey, good girl,” I whispered. I couldn’t look at Meagan. But then it occurred to me that something might have happened to Jade and Obsidian, and I turned to her.
“Are the boys okay?” I asked.
I slowly walked to the casa’s front steps. Meagan and I were face-to-face now. I was a step down, so we were the same height. It looked like she had what was left of a black eye. It was still a little bloodshot.
“The boys are fine,” Meagan said.
“Are they here?”
“Of course,” she said. “They’re surfing.”
“What’s with the eye?” I asked.
“I fell.”
Meagan touched the little bit of makeup she had on and tried to smear it over the bruise.
“What’s going on, Meagan?”
“Danny’s the same asshole he was in college,” she said. “All he cared about was cutting the boys’ hair and changing their names. I didn’t want it to rub off.”
“So you came back down here?”
Meagan shook her head.
“That’s why I left him,” she said. “You’re the reason I came back.”
“Yeah, right.”
I reached out and put my hand on the side of Meagan’s face. The bruise felt warm.
“Does that hurt?”
“It feels good,” she said.
“You have shitty taste in men, Meagan.”
“Not always.”
I shook my head and took my hand away.
“You were always nice to me, Nick,” she said. “You didn’t have to be, but you were.”
“I had my reasons,” I said.
“And so good to my boys—always, no matter what, without asking.”
“Don’t make it sound like a song,” I said. “Like this is suddenly all okay.”
“My kids love you, Nick.”
Meagan took my hands and pulled me to her. Then she kissed me, but I didn’t kiss her back too much. I have to admit that I felt like it—but I didn’t want to start making out in front of my son with someone he hadn’t even met yet.
“And I love you,” she said.
“Hey, Dad?” Marshall interrupted. He was standing outside the Suburban and keeping an eye on Meagan. “Is it okay to pet this dog?”
“Sure,” I nodded. “Her name’s Tilly.”
“What kind is it?” Marshall asked, cautiously stepping to the dog.
“A Mexican Rescue,” I said. “Which is a very popular breed down here.”
Marshall let Tilly lick the back of his hand.
“That’s my son, Marshall,” I said.
“He’s shy,” Meagan said.
“No,” I said. “Just stunned. Like his dad.”
Meagan smiled. “Totally stunned?”
“Don’t confuse it with hope,” I said. “Where’s José?”
“He moved out. The day after you left, the kids and I came back to t
own.”
“And people say there’s no order in the universe,” I said.
“There isn’t,” Meagan said. “But sometimes the right thing just happens.”
“I owe José some money.”
“Not anymore,” she said.
I didn’t want to ask Meagan the details—but I think she knew that, based on the way she was grinning at me. “I gave him Winsor’s computer,” Meagan said. “I think he was happy with that.”
I was relieved. I had been obsessing about what might be on its hard drive, in some secret perv file, which was why I hadn’t taken the MacBook with me across the border.
“I’m Meagan,” Meagan called out and then hopped down the steps to Marshall. “I’m your dad’s girlfriend.”
“I didn’t know he had a girlfriend,” Marshall said.
“Well, he does, and I’m it.”
“Does he even know?”
“Dude, c’mon. I mean, he tattooed my name on his arm.”
She was beaming and charming, and it was hard not to beam and smile back. The Marshman was trying his best to resist, but he was about as successful as I was.
“And I have two boys just about your age, too,” Meagan continued, and then took over stroking Tilly’s ears.
“The surfers?”
“Yup,” she said.
“Well, I’m not a surfer,” Marshall said.
“They weren’t surfers, either, until they moved down here.”
“I skate,” he continued.
“That is so cool,” Meagan said. “My kids suck at skating.”
57
We took Tilly for a walk on the beach. I let the Marshman lead the way and hold the leash. He had to be feeling like he was in an elevator full of strangers, and we were all being careful not to stand too close to each other.
“I saw your dad knock a guy out once,” Obsidian suddenly said, reaching out to the new kid. And I loved him for it.
“Why did he do that?” the Marshman asked.
“Because the kook was snaking my waves,” Jade said.
“That sucks,” my son said.
“Totally,” Obsidian said.
“Is that a real tat?” Jade asked and pointed to the gothic skateboard tattoo above Marshall’s bicep.
“What do you think?” Marshall said.
“I think it must’ve hurt a lot,” Jade said.
I’d hardly recognized the boys when they’d first run up to Marshall and me. I thought we were being mugged—by a couple of student-council presidents. About a foot of their dreads had been cut off, and they’d lost their tans. But they were still wet from the surf.
“Is that the kid Mom told us about?” Jade asked as he let me out of a bear hug. It wasn’t the friendliest question I’d ever heard, and Obsidian was giving Marshall some serious stink eye.
I nodded. “This is my son, Marshall.”
The Marshman and I had been standing under the higuera. I had been trying to explain why it’s never called an higuera tree but just an higuera—something gringos can never quite get.
“It’s okay with him, then?” Obsidian asked.
“Is what okay?” my son asked, staking out a little territory.
“That we get to have some of Nick, too.”
“He’s my dad.”
“But we know him better,” Obsidian said.
“You do not,” Marshall said.
“Hey, look,” I said. “It’s still pretty low tide, so let’s go easy.”
“We’re just asking,” Jade said.
“Everybody can have as much of me as they need.”
“If there’s enough,” Marshall said.
“I’ll make sure,” I said.
My son took a step away from my side and closer to the boys. I could tell he was digging that he was taller than both of them.
“That’s Jade and Obsidian,” I said. “Meagan’s two precious stones.”
“I’m the semiprecious one,” Obsidian said.
I had wanted Chuy to meet Marshall, but before we headed over to Pirata’s I’d needed to make sure it was cool with Jade to go back to where Winsor had molested him.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to go,” I had said earlier.
“I’m good with it,” Jade said.
Pirata’s was packed, but the sign I had painted just last week had already been replaced with one that spelled out don pelícanos in drippy red letters.
We stepped through the door and worked our way toward the bar, where a wall of locals sat watching Mexico vs. the Netherlands in the World Cup elimination round. They were screaming and bitching about a bad call—two of them were crying.
Chuy was behind the counter, pouring shots and opening beers. He saw me and then pointed two thumbs up at the crowd.
“Pirata!” he said. “I’m glad you are coming back to save us.”
I was stunned at how busy the place was.
“How did this happen?” I asked.
“Everybody wants to see el pájaro de milagro,” he said.
Chuy pointed to an upside-down barstool that had been placed on a table in the corner of the tavern. The one-winged pelican was perched there, guzzling anchovies and hunks of cheese tossed by his devotees. Some of Señor Pelícano’s feathers had grown back, and his wing stump had healed. The old bird looked oddly vibrant.
“The miracle bird,” I said.
“For six thousand pesos, it’s a miracle,” Chuy said. “That animal doctor keeps calling here for money.”
Chuy poured a half dozen shots of tequila into a circle of shot glasses.
“Abrazos,” he said. “Welcome back.”
Marshall reached for one, but I was able to stop him just before he tasted it.
“Dad,” Marshall said. “This is Mexico.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said.
“Even for us?” Jade asked.
Obsidian tried to look taller.
“For everybody,” I said. “These kids are barely fourteen, Chuy.”
“When I was fourteen I was already almost a papa,” Chuy bragged. “And I’ve seen these two groms out there ripping like men.”
Meagan reached for a shot and toasted Chuy. “Mi chicos,” she said.
“¿Quién es el fugitivo?” Chuy asked, winking at Marshall.
“This is Marshall,” I said. “My son.”
Chuy tipped his head back very slowly. He squinted at Marshall and then looked at me.
“¿Su hijo?” Chuy asked. He was solemn.
One time, during an over-the-top binge that I had talked Chuy into joining me on, I had confessed to crashing my car into a tree with my seven-year-old son in the front seat. But I had become so grief-stricken, with a grotesque and sobbing kind of agony, that I was unable to finish the story. I was sure Chuy had assumed the worst, but having seen my extreme pain and suffering, he’d never mentioned it again. Over these past few years, I was grateful that he’d never grilled me for more of the details.
“Yes,” I said.
“Muy alto. Like you,” Chuy said.
Meagan reached for another tequila shot and downed it without a wince.
“It’s good to be back,” she said.
Obsidian picked up a piece of cheese that had fallen on the floor and flung it at the pelican—nothing but pouch. Marshall high-fived him.
“I thought you gave up on us, Meagan,” Chuy said.
“Just on me,” Meagan said. “But not for good.”
“That’s what counts,” Chuy said as he salted the rim of a glass.
58
We enrolled the boys in the ninth grade at Sabanita’s Pública Secundaria, which is the final year of schooling available for locals in this part of Mexico—and they were already dinging me about graduation gimme bags.
“I want a surf trip to Tavarua,” Obsidian said. He was obsessed with a WSL clip of Gabriel Medina killing it at Cloudbreak.
“Or a Harley,” Jade said.
“I already got what I wanted,” Marshall said as
his two new stepbrothers groaned.
“You are such a kiss-ass,” Obsidian said.
Marshall bent over. “Give it a try,” he said.
“Dudes, first you have to graduate,” I said. The SEP curriculum in Mexico is taught entirely in Spanish. “Which is going to be like learning how to change tires on a moving car.”
“No hay pedo,” Jade said.
Jade and Obsidian usually banged around Sabanita’s beach break with Marshall after school, and after a few weeks he was ready for a real wave. The three of them didn’t talk much, mostly just punchlines and zingers. They kept their spaces, as if they’d somehow ended up inside the same paper dragon at their very first Chinese parade. There was a job to do, each of them had to hold up a piece of the monster, but it was cool that they were willing to do it.
“Surfing is a gravity sport,” Obsidian said. “Just like skateboarding.”
“Your mom said you suck at skating,” Marshman said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Obsidian said. “It’s the same gravity management.”
Marshall was straddling the TC Pang while Obsidian was treading water next to him. We were at Gagger’s on an overhead day. I was standing on the beach. Jade was cruising out the back on my Red Fin. He had decided to become a longboarder.
“I appreciate the esoteric nature of it,” he said, smarter by the minute.
A single pelican swooped low into a glide, and I could see a set coming in. Obsidian turned Marshall’s board slightly and then pushed it hard as a wave raised the two of them up.
“Paddle!” Obsidian shouted.
And in three strokes the Marshman was down the face and made a pretty good get-up. He stood too tall at first but adjusted, crouching lower and guiding the TC Pang down the line. It was clean and sweet, the lip of the wave two feet overhead and curling just behind him—and then it closed out and took him to the bottom. I held my breath until he popped to the surface.
“That was so rad,” Obsidian called out.
Jade whistled, paddling into an outside roller as Marshall threw Obsidian a shaka.
“Dude, thanks,” he said.
I felt as if I had somehow survived myself—and I was more than a little surprised that such a thing could actually be done. It made me smile. I was happy to feel like a man with a lot to lose.
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