King of Joy

by Richard Chiem

  I don’t care either, says Corvus.

  Tim lets the phone ring in the other room with a dead serious look on his face. It rings for a long time and fades into silence. Amber listens to the wind batter all the sides of the building and rethinks the question. There are times when she just wants to hear nothing instead of answering a question. How sweet it would be to simply turn everything off. However, trusting her instincts, she commits a little abandon, ignores the pull of the camera, and talks freely without worry, which Corvus and Amber can now both see clearly on-screen.

  I’m not really afraid of anything, Amber says. She looks at ease, like nothing in the world bothers her. Looking around the room and twinkling her fingers, she says, I don’t know, I feel in control. I live life without fear.

  In the gleam of her eye, she has that quiet, hidden something, the ability to soothe or unsettle anyone around her, and she uses it. Call it being erratic or manipulative or call it being disciplined and tapped in, she looks calm as the sea.

  Again, the screen goes fuzzy before tracking clear again and Amber reappears. She blinks a few times and takes a few seconds. She still looks calm, shaking her head, like no regrets, though. Not a one.

  Childhood is the fucking saddest thing, says Amber. She motions her hands, canceling something in the air. I just thought of something.

  I used to watch my sister growing up, Amber says, my older sister, Valerie. I used to watch her marvel at things. Little things, like big clouds, tall buildings, bodies of water, a stranger’s accent—it could be anything, Valerie loved to marvel. And she was kind. It was so beautiful to watch her consider the world and its weird people. Valerie seemed to welcome all things, anyone, any creature, with open arms. She was almost thoughtless in that way.

  Only three years older than me, my sister raised me. What parents? Fuck parents. Mom was gone, Dad was in and out. Valerie was my protector, my buffer to all the things kids shouldn’t know about as kids. She dealt with Dad, she found ways to keep me fed, she played with me and always comforted me and told me I was smart and kept me company. All I wanted sometimes was some company.

  But I started to notice things about Valerie, as we went from middle school to high school, the same way you notice how one of your siblings is getting fatter or skinnier over the years, except Valerie was getting sadder, less expressive, and less interested in the beauty around her. It was as though she volunteered to become an adult before she was ready, and something was sucked away from her, and suddenly she could be sad at any moment without ever knowing why. But she did it all. For me she did.

  I think of Valerie when I think about fear, says Amber’s trembling voice. I don’t have any. Valerie put me on her back and so now I don’t dare fear a thing. She is with me always.

  Wait a minute, Tim says, where is Valerie now?

  Valerie is dead, Tim. She’s dead, says Amber.

  Wait a minute. Tim knocks his knuckles against his forehead. You don’t have a sister, he says. You have four brothers, I remember. I remember now.

  I’ve never seen you this worked up, she says.

  Tim cocks his head, cracking his neck.

  Amber looks into the camera and her cheeks inflate with deranged laughter, her eyes losing any touch of fear. Amber cackles and cackles and she throws a pair of normal handcuffs at Tim, hidden underneath her pressed thighs this whole time. He catches them, befuddled.

  Handcuffs, too, are for the gullible, baby. You’re too easy.

  Get the fuck out, Tim screams. Get out! Get the fuck out now!

  Amber runs with her head ducked down as though the roof were about to cave in, giggling her whole way out of the room, unable to help herself. The tape cuts to black, the VCR hums, and the TV shows a blue screen.

  Holding the remote control and lying on her stomach on the bed, Corvus says, Get the fuck out!

  Amber cackles on her back, legs paddling the air. Yeah, she says. Yeah, I did.

  You don’t have a sister named Valerie?

  I’m the oldest of five, says Amber. All brothers. I raised those little fuckers.

  Corvus throws her pillow at Amber’s face. The sound of the pillow’s impact is startling, louder than expected.

  Suddenly, the dog howls in a volume that raises Amber’s and Corvus’s neck hairs. They both hop over to the dog, immediately petting his neck, patting his back. He wakes up trembling and looks back and forth between Corvus and Amber.

  Poor baby, says Corvus. I completely forgot he was even here.

  Amber says, I remember now. He gets night terrors.

  Corvus says, I can’t believe I forgot about him.

  Amber says, I want to be a dog.

  The dog howls and howls inconsolably before silencing on a dime, looking up at the blinking girls, as though realizing everything is going to be okay. He is awake.

  Motel employees, a few maids and a clerk, crowd the door, no one brave enough to knock and investigate. Faint shadows underneath the door, they shuffle past. The dog has finally stopped howling in any case.

  CHAPTER 7

  FEELING SUN-KISSED AND SICK AND ACHY, CORVUS FINISHES her champagne in the shower and reaches for the shampoo. The glass fills with water, which she pours to her feet. Steam buries the room in soft heat and fogs the mirror. Time is unknown and irrelevant to her, a moving realm outside the walls. Corvus thinks, I am the only one now. She makes the water hotter and stands for a long time without moving against the black-and-white checkered tiles, still holding the thin neck of the glass between her two fingers. Amber jiggles the doorknob and lets herself in. Corvus, knowing Amber is just on the other side of the curtain, still does not budge from her little private dream. She turns the water even hotter.

  Tilting her head, Amber approaches and sits on the closed toilet seat, adoring the unaffected silhouette. She asks the shadow, Can I sit here? May I sit here?

  The small square of a room is hot, even the hand lotion bottle is hot. Amber dabs some in her palms and rubs a layer up and down her arms and neck. Corvus pokes her head out of the small gap in the shower curtain, her face partly masked with dangling wet hair, and shows a thumbs-up.

  Sure, she says. You can do whatever you want.

  Corvus hands Amber the dripping wet glass.

  Amber says, Champagne for my real friends. She crosses her legs and listens to the running water, listlessly gazing at the hanging towel on the wall. For a long time, they’re silent, which Corvus admires. It’s a tiny science: how to be quiet, and when to break it. Her fingers prune under the water.

  Corvus asks, Where are we now?

  I have an idea.

  What?

  Amber smiles and says, I have an idea. Wait.

  Wait, what?

  Amber stands up and talks to the shadow before going ahead and opening the curtain, startling Corvus.

  Do you, Amber asks, have anywhere you need to go to? Do you want me to drive you home?

  I don’t have anywhere, says Corvus. The water is louder than her voice.

  Do you want to keep working, then? Keep working with me?

  Corvus turns off the water and brushes past Amber reaching for her towel. She wraps it around herself and asks, What are you thinking?

  I know Tim’s distributor, a woman with black hair. Her name is Molly, but she goes by Camila, I don’t know why. She owns a mansion even deeper in the woods. I really like her.

  Corvus asks, What do you like about her?

  Amber says, I’ve always felt like I’ve known her for a long time. I knew she loved me right away. She told me her house was my house.

  Mansion.

  Amber makes a crooked, confused face.

  Corvus takes off her towel and starts to dry her hair and says, Her mansion is your mansion.

  Amber makes eye contact with Corvus in the mirror. She smiles and says, Yes, and it’s waiting for us.

  Returning the smile, Corvus blissfully cowers in a small, sudden fit of laughter, before catching her breath. She says, Real pain fo
r my sham friends. I don’t care anymore. How far?

  Not far.

  Fuck it, let’s go disappear again.

  Amber almost screams and says, You’re so fun.

  Suddenly, a loud knock on the door startles Corvus. Loud pangs, rattling the hinges. The big puppy runs to the door but doesn’t bark. He seems ready to pounce, easing his weight on his hind legs. Amber skips over and Corvus moves away from the door.

  Sliding the door chain unhooked, Amber says, You’re a loud knocker.

  The delivery boy looks as though in his teens, sort of bowing to Amber. I’m really sorry, says a deep voice. He holds up two paper bags wrapped inside plastic bags, with HONG’S, a dragon, and Chinese characters written on the sides. The bags are dripping wet. The dog stays in place, wagging his tail, never taking his eyes off the delivery boy.

  Amber asks, How old are you? How come you’re not in school?

  Marco: his name tag. Marco nods and says, There are no other cars in the parking lot. I think you guys are the only ones out here.

  Creepy, Amber says. Here. She hands him a fifty but doesn’t let go until he makes eye contact with her again. They lock eyes and she says, You didn’t answer my question?

  Marco nods and says, It’s, it’s Saturday morning.

  She lets go and says, Keep the change, Marco, and closes the door, nudging the dog away with her bare foot. Meek and lowly, his footsteps down the stairs and back to the car are as though never heard. His radio starts with the ignition: “Dancing on My Own.”

  Corvus walks over to the bed, watching Amber set up paper plates on the linen. She pours steaming hot rice onto each plate, then prawns, sweet-and-sour chicken, beef chow fun, and tiny egg rolls. The dog, so good, still does not budge but watches with his entire body. Amber takes a joint out of her purse and, tiptoeing on the queen bed, disables the smoke alarm. She takes a single deep hit, her eyes flickering, and then balances the burning roach on the edge of the alarm clock. Silently, Corvus watches Amber devour her portion of the food, mixing everything into a greasy, lumpy mound. Amber tosses the puppy an egg roll, chews, and coughs smoke, searching for a napkin with her fingers.

  Corvus touches her chest unconsciously and smiles in delight. Poor Marco, she thinks. The alarm clock reads 9:27 a.m. Amber swallows and says, I can tell we’re going to have an adventure today. I can really feel it. A faraway look comes to her face, her mouth half-full of beef chow fun.

  The air smells of weed and coconut sunscreen. Corvus stands slouched, back in time in her head, with no touch of fear on her face. Time travel is as simple as not blinking. Standing with Perry only a few years ago, in her mind, they’re checking into a motel just like this one: with a joint in his pocket, he bumps his hips into her hips just to make her laugh. It takes a little longer than usual for Corvus to get her head back to the present, wishing first to dematerialize, before appearing whole in the room again, ready for whatever. Mouth and eyes, back in the room.

  Realizing the dog has no name, they decide to name him Marco, and they smile as they watch him in the rearview mirror. The road is bumpy, full of leaves and pebbles. The highway becomes two lanes heading deeper into the woods, and Corvus takes advantage of being in the passenger seat, looking almost all the way up the whole ride, getting lost in the overwhelming canopy of trees. She leans back and pets Marco behind his ear and feels nothing.

  Yeah, I only remember Tim calling him Boy or Dog, or he would snap his fingers, Amber says. But nothing else. I don’t remember any names for any of his other dogs either, she says. Amber drives too fast, wearing her big sunglasses at the bridge of her nose, and she seems to go even faster around the bends and corners along the cliffs.

  I don’t either, Corvus says. Let’s not talk about Tim anymore.

  Corvus looks around and begins to see the water beyond the trees. There is a minor tremor in her left hand. She realizes she hasn’t had water yet today, only champagne and coffee and a toke of weed in the morning. Beads of rain blink on the car window as they approach the lake. The light in the fog floats mere inches above the water in small clouds. Corvus turns around: there are no other cars. With the engine off, it is so quiet she can hear her heartbeat; the cold air makes her skin feel dry and alive.

  Although Corvus hears a bark in her head, the dog remains quiet in the backseat. He pants and smiles the way dogs do. He doesn’t hate me, she thinks. He stares at me. The lake shimmers in dark blue-black patches and secret depths. Amber takes a single breath, as though about to go on camera, and dials an unsaved number on her phone.

  Amber listens to the ringing and says, I need a new phone.

  Corvus stares at the water and says, Pretty.

  There are wooden signs on the dark sand along the shore that read: PRIVATE PROPERTY PLEASE DO NOT SWIM PLEASE DO NOT ENTER THE WATER DELIVERIES PLEASE CALL INVOICE NUMBER. Smaller signs are nailed along the post in different languages and Corvus reads the same message in Spanish. She notes the politeness and the abrupt way the three commands are bunched together.

  She turns down the radio: the DJ plays Robyn’s “Indestructible.” The pop song calms their excited pulses.

  Someone picks up. Amber listens, then smiles and says, Camila! Corvus can hear muffled instructions and inaudible language and watches Amber nod and hum and say, Okay, okay, I got it. I missed you, too, I missed you so much. I’ll see you in a half hour. Amber hangs up and looks at Corvus. The conversation feels like a homecoming.

  This is going to take a bit, she says. Wait here and I’ll be right back. Ambers turns up the volume on the radio and mouths along to the lyrics, bopping her head. She reaches for something beneath her seat and comes up with pliers. Amber winks as she exits the car. She walks slightly downhill to a shiny black generator a few yards away, and Corvus sits on her knees to see.

  As Amber works, it rains harder. After a long minute, orbs of light begin to illuminate, strung along parallel rows of buoys on the lake, creating a path leading to a now clearly lit view of a house on a close-by island. The house looks massive, even from this distance: a mansion. Amber rises from the ground, a little muddy from work, and Corvus wonders if Amber is a genius. The dog barks once as Corvus clicks her tongue. She decides she loves Amber in this very special way, listening to the sound of her door opening.

  There’s a canoe, Amber says, wiping her forehead. She nods and looks toward the island. We have to stay in the path.

  Corvus asks, Why?

  She says, I don’t want to scare you.

  What?

  Amber opens the passenger door to let Marco out of the car. He leaps out and she says, Let’s get going and I’ll tell you on the way.

  Corvus mouths the lyrics, turning the keys free and killing the radio.

  Amber walks over to the edge of the lake and dips her hands into the water, washing her hands and then face, suddenly looking incredibly worn down. As she rises, blood rushes to her head. She sees white and then the lake. She looks as though there are a few things wrong, her mind occupied with strange out-of-place scents. Things are here that weren’t here before and the place feels larger than she remembers, danker and warmer too. Inside, her chest bobbles.

  Marco, without warning, jumps into the black lake. He surfaces farther away than Corvus imagines he could swim in a single breath. She has never seen a dog keep his head underwater for so long before. Marco keeps swimming toward the island and becomes difficult to see in what little waves the lake makes.

  He was born in that mansion, says Amber, her voice stern behind Corvus. He and all his brothers and sisters, the whole litter, she says, were all born in that deep basement over there.

  Corvus stops at the edge of the sand, each tiny wave rising insignificant magnitudes higher on the shore, and loses sight of Marco. She can see lights glowing from the mansion, and some look like real fire. The building shimmers. She can hardly believe the sight: the foggy view of the brightly lit mansion swarmed by fresh night and black water seems like something from one of her favorite
pop songs. As though pulled by the lights, Corvus walks to the beached canoe and, arms crossed, she kicks the hull.

  The path is sweet and inviting, she says. The dangers reveal themselves almost immediately.

  Amber walks over and touches Corvus’s lower back. She asks, Is that from something? Are you quoting a book?

  I’m just talking to myself.

  Yes. Amber nods emphatically.

  It’s safe as long as we stay inside the buoys, Amber says.

  What’s outside the buoys?

  Amber hugs Corvus tightly, sinking into the wet sand with her bare toes. She whispers, Nothing to worry about, Corvus.

  Corvus notes her own name, softly spoken in Amber’s voice, and grows quiet. The wind blows rogue sand particles and droplets of lukewarm water. Amber picks up two spear-length paddles and shrugs her shoulders. Let’s canoe, honey, she says.

  With no life jackets in sight, they climb inside the canoe, with Amber at the rear, looking loose and comfortable and very much in her element. With almost no effort, they push off, and start paddling. Slowly, they tread and pull a thousand ripples along with them toward the island.

  At first, the sound of the water is so soothing, Corvus closes her eyes for a few moments. The tension in her neck melts away with the sounds of the lake. Then she opens her eyes. There is a sense something is happening underwater, like something is underneath the canoe. Corvus can hear deep bellows—animal sounds so guttural and alarming that she prepares her body by gripping the side of the hull. She slows her breath, ready for the canoe to flip. But despite the rippling water, the vessel never does. The deep bellows continue around them and Corvus feels as though the lake could reach up and touch her. Her whole body tightens.

  Corvus asks, What is that, Amber? What’s that sound?

  I feel really tired, Amber says.

  We can just drift if you want, Corvus says. Or I can paddle by myself. She breathes herself calm and still, realizing she has been shaking.

  Amber stops paddling and lights her last joint, hands cupping the flame from the wind. They pass the roach back and forth silently, at rest on the waves, bright star clusters reflecting in the black water. With Corvus looking up and Amber staring down, the glow of the universe surrounds them in the fog, buried in the alien noise of what lies underwater. Outside the lines of buoys, Corvus can see eyes.