The Emperor of Any Place Read Free

didn’t protest.
It’s just us boys,
thought Evan — and, anyway, the table was covered with newspaper, littered with tiny tools, a tube of glue, saucers of paint. And an unfinished bowl of stir-fry left to harden.
    “The
Cutty Sark
was a clipper. This is going to be the USS
Constitution.
”
    “Frigate,” said Evan.
    “Correct,” said Dad.
    “You Got Me Floatin’” ended and “Castles Made of Sand” came on, psychedelic guitar warped and weaving through a phase shifter. Evan watched as his father pulled a thread and the masts rose steadily inside the bottle, like some kind of strange butterfly unfurling its wings. A tiny contained ship that wasn’t going anywhere.
Just like my dad,
thought Evan fondly.
    His father stopped what he was doing, looked up. “I learned something interesting today,” he said.
    “Something even more interesting than a frigate?”
    “Way more,” said his father. “It’s about Griff.”
    It took Evan a moment. “Your father?”
    “The infamous Griff.”
    “Right,” says Evan. “The infamous Griff. He was a general or something, right?”
    “A sergeant major. And you do not make mistakes like that around Griff.”
    Evan stopped eating. “You mean he’s coming here?”
    “Hell, no!” His father looked up as if Evan had just announced an alien invasion. “What made you say that?”
    “You sounded like you were warning me, like I should be prepared.”
    “If he were coming, I’d be sandbagging the place and planting land mines.”
    “Cool,” said Evan. “Fort Any Place.” He picked through the stir-fry for chicken. He’d eaten all the good bits. He put the bowl down. “But it’s kind of too bad. I thought maybe he’d phoned and said he was homeless and we were going to have to put him up.”
    “I’d take poison first.”
    His father tied off the lines. The sails were raised.
    “So?” said Evan.
    “Huh?”
    “Your father. You learned something?”
    “Oh, right. Well, not much to my surprise, it turns out the man is a murderer.”
    Evan nodded. “Uh-huh,” he said. “What else?”
    “Murder isn’t enough?”
    Evan had heard all this before, and anyway his mind was wandering. “It would be kind of cool if he showed up, wouldn’t it. Like the premise for a really bad sitcom.”
    His father laughed, but it was not the kind of laugh you got from a studio audience. “You obviously weren’t listening closely to what I said.”
    “He’s a murderer. Boring.”
    “It’s true.”
    “I
know,
Dad. He was in the army, right?”
    “No, the marines. A leatherneck.”
    “Yeah, so killing people sort of comes with the territory.”
    His father’s eyes gleamed. “In a war, yes. But when the war is over? What kind of a guy goes on killing when the fight is officially over?”
    Evan rolled his eyes. “Keep on trucking, Dad, like it’s nineteen sixty-seven.”
    His father acknowledged the reproach with a grin. “Okay, I hear you. I’m ranting. But this is different. This is actually murder.” The smile on his father’s face was a little maniacal.
    “This is what you learned today?”
    “This is what I learned today.”
    “Like, it was on CNN, or something?”
    “Not yet. But that’s not a bad idea.”
    “Dad, stop being mysterious.”
    His father chuckled. He shook his head, returned his attention to the brand-new ship in a bottle. The deranged smile turned into a grimace — indigestion, judging from the stir-fry. He rubbed his chest. Some of the decrepit Day-Glo rubbed off on the heel of his hand. Jimi was fading away to nothing.
    “So are you going to tell me or what?” said Evan.
    His father frowned for a moment, shook his head. “Sometime, maybe.” Then the frown lifted and he smiled radiantly at Evan as if he’d only just seen him and the boy was a miracle. He looked down, gazing, kind of sadly, at the ship in the bottle. He seemed flushed.
    “Dad, are you okay?”
    Clifford shook his head.
    “What is it? What’s wrong?”
    Clifford