“Marin?”Blake asked, running over to join him.He glanced at the storefront, but Marin’s eyes were trained up at the sky bridge next to it, expression unreadable.
“Your favorite statue,” he said in a soft voice.“It’s.It’s up there, isn’t it?”
Blake started—how could Marin have possibly known the precise location of the sculpture from a picture alone?
Did I mentionexactlywhere it was?he thought with a frown.He couldn’t recall if he was that specific.Maybe Marin had looked up the sculpture himself after Blake had mentioned it a couple of nights before.
Something brushed the back of Blake’s hand and realized that Marin was reaching for it.He allowed him to lace their fingers together, squeezing Marin’s hand.With gentle pressure, the merman began to tug, leading him back towards the mall.
“I gotta go up there,” Marin whispered, brow furrowed in determination.
You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?Blake realized as they rounded the corner onto Webster, sliding into a side entrance.Marin’s hand began to tremble in Blake’s grip as they found the stairs.
The bronze sculpture came into view.Behind it was a deep-sea mural, the fish depicted there aglow in the lantern of an angler fish, fine streams of bioluminescence lining their forms.In the center, a large bronze octopus statue emerged from the wall, two of its arms held protectively above two cuttlefish, six other legs fanned out behind him, the very image of pride.His black glass eyes were carved into gemlike fractals.The eyes of the cuttlefish flanking him were aglow in shades of amber and brown.Little offerings of coins—dimes and yen alike—had been placed upon the base of the statue by visitors and passerby.Upon the base was a small copper plaque, the raised letters turned golden by the touches of appreciators.
SAN FRANCISCO CITY PLANNING PUBLIC ART PRESERVATION PROJECT EST 2007
“home & family” Watatsumi, 2002
One of several public art pieces created between 1998 and 2002 by sculptor and muralist Watatsumi, renowned for the 1999 collection of Castro murals known collectively as “The Whiteouts” and the hanging sculpture “Breathless”, which is now displayed in the San Francisco International Airport.This is the last known art piece installed by the anonymous artist, with sources reporting an incomplete companion piece in the Japan Center West Mall, which was removed between 2004 and 2006.
Marin reached out to press his fingertips to the plaque, sucking in a sudden, trembling breath.
Blake wasn’t stupid.
He traced the outline of his phone in his pocket.The photo that he’d kept religiously as his phone background since he snapped the shot four years prior—the singular art piece that had impressed him since his college days—now stood before him.These were the metal curves and glass gems that connected him to Marin.
“In 2002…” Blake began, his voice small.His tongue darted out to wet his lips, almost unable to speak.“Was… was that when…?”
“In 2002,” Marin whispered, pressing his palm against the plaque as he continued to gaze at the statue before them.“I died.”
29
1988
Bang!Bang!Bang!
“God dammit Joyce, I know you’re in there!I can hear your fucking kids crying for Christ’s sake!”
Adrien Porter-Marin shuffled under the throw blanket cast around his shoulders, tapping at his math homework with the eraser end of his pencil.This had been going on for almost ten minutes now.Inside the bedroom the siblings shared, his baby brother David had started to sob.
Bang!Bang!Bang!
“Joyce!You want your brat to stay safe or not?!I heard fish tail’s going for a premium on the black market.Wouldn’t want anything to happen to that kid of yours…”
It was an empty threat, but unsettling all the same.
Adrien set down his pencil, rubbing his forehead.He was half-tempted to turn off the kitchen light, but if he did that, then the guy would know for sure that he was being ignored.Instead, he stood up from the kitchen table and went to crack open the door, the deadbolt chain pulling taut across the gap.A tall man in a baseball hat stood outside, glowering down at him.
“My mom’s not here right now.”
There was a pause, and then a heavy sigh.
“Look, if she’s in there, can I—”
“She’s not,” the boy insisted, closing the door in defense.“She’s at work.”
Truth be told, Adrien had no idea where she was.His mom would sometimes be home from her shift at Mervyn’s around eight, but it was well past ten and she still hadn’t shown up.Despite this, Adrien wasn’t worried.It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for her to stumble home the next morning, grumpy and squinting and reeking of cigarette smoke and alcohol.
