We douse the burritos in hot sauce. Our hands become sticky. Our napkins get used up.
None of the boys brought a phone. They’re so used to being without. But I have mine in the pocket of my backpack and there’s still a bit of charge.
I pull it out and read about Kingsley’s death in several different news outlets. There’s lots of coverage, but all the articles seem based on the same press release, maybe issued by Gabe’s office or Kingsley’s gallery. There is no mention of him in relation to the Sinclair family, and no mention of his real childhood.
I’m surprised that no journalist has tried to dig up the truth about Kingsley. But Meer shrugs. “He had people he paid to keep his address scrubbed off the internet, his details out of archives or whatever. I think he burned his birth certificate. His biography is in his paintings, that’s what he always said.”
The obituaries don’t say how he died, either. They do say that Kingsley is survived by his longtime partner, June Sugawara, and by their son, Vermeer Sugawara. There is no mention of Tatum, no mention of Brock. No mention of me.
Articles say that the value of Kingsley Cello paintings is expected to skyrocket. Instagram floods with posts featuringPersephone Escapes the Underworldand several other well-known paintings.RIP the greatest artist of the twenty-first century. His art = my heart.And so on.
I close the apps I’ve been looking at and lean against Tatum, who is intent on his burrito. “It feels like the rest of the world knows our business,” I say. “But at the same time, they don’t know anything at all.”
“That’s how it always is with famous people,” says Brock.
The four of us say the things people probably always say when someone dies. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” “What do we do now?” “He was just here. I saw him yesterday.” “I wish I’d had longer with him.”
None of it is adequate, but we say it all anyway.
Brock tells a story about how Kingsley made a painting of the woman who owns this one fish market in Menemsha. When he tried to give her the painting of her surrounded by dead fish with open eyes, she told him he was a weirdo and not to shop there anymore.
Tatum remembers Kingsley coming to “band night” at the high school, and since June wasn’t there to push high-nutrient food choices, Kingsley filled his pockets with Oreos from the refreshments table. He ate them quietly throughout the show, putting an entire one in his mouth at a time and talking to no one.
Meer tells about a time when he was four and Kingsley had been away for nearly a month. He came back with an enormous stuffed elephant, squishy and bigger than Meer himself. “More like a beanbag than an actual elephant,” Meer explains. “I named it Laxative, which was a word I’d just learned that I thought sounded cool.”
“You didnothave an elephant named Laxative,” I say.
“I did. She was Lax for short. It’s a cool word,” says Meer.
“That’s true,” says Tatum. “I’ve met Laxative.”
“Then where is he now?” asks Brock.
“It was a girl elephant,” says Meer. “And she’s dead.”
“What?” I ask.
“I poked a pencil into her, just to see what would happen, and all these little plasticky beads came out and went all over the floor. My mom sewed her up, but I kept poking at the place where the threads were and the beads were always all over and finally Laxative had to say goodbye.”
“Oh, that’s a sad ending,” I say.
“But she was a really good present,” says Meer. “Our dad didn’tgive presents all that often, but when he did, he gave really good ones.”
“Except to the fish market lady who didn’t want her million-dollar painting,” says Brock.
Of course there is nothing I can tellthemabout Kingsley. He and I had all of twenty minutes together. But I love hearing their stories. Now the boys won’t avoid talking about him. Their secret is out in the open, so I can maybe learn a little more of who my father really was.
Even though he is gone.
Gone.
Horrible and wonderful.
My phone pings and I open my texts. It’s Holland, checking in.
I promise I’ll fill her in on everything soon. Then I glance at the other messages that have built up: My mother has sent several short expressions of fondness, plus a photograph of her in what seems like a new dress, which I heart. There’s a link from the housing office at UC Irvine, telling me my dormitory and room number. Then there’s a series of texts from Saar, increasingly concerned at my lack of response. Alotof texts, actually.
Send update when you can. More tie-dye? Photo of castle? Info on you and your dad?
