On a sultry summer night, Timothee Chalamet showed up at the doorstep. Traces of sand particles on his curly black hair. His ash-grey warrior-like outfit carried the scent of wet mud from Cowell Beach as he limped inside our living room, muttering about seeking refuge from some men. Blood smeared on his left leg.
“Should I call the cops?” I asked.
“No,” he boomed in a voice that shook the walls.
My ten-year-old son AJ peeped out of his room. His shoulders slumped awkwardly, and he was pleasantly surprised to see his hero in front of his eyes.
“Who hurt you?” he asked, pointing to Timothee’s leg
I stared at AJ, who had been reticent lately. After his dad left, he no longer went to the beach to build sandcastles or watch the seagulls, our regular Sunday ritual. Sometimes, he and his dad would rent a kayak and cruise on those waves; AJ aspired to be a sailor someday and felt his dreams had been squashed even before they began.
“What about the doctor?” I persisted.
Timothee shook his head and asked for an ice pack instead.
AJ watched while I provided an ice pack, ibuprofen, and bandages from the first aid box. Much to my surprise, he even touched Timothee’s arm.
“They hit me too,” AJ whispered. “They call me a freak because I don’t have a dad. Do you have a dad?”
Timothee ruffled AJ’s hair and smiled faintly.
“My dad is too busy,” he said in his husky voice.
“I’m sorry,” AJ replied.
***
Timothee stayed that entire summer. I helped him change the bandages while AJ gawked at the sight of dried blood. AJ asked if Timothee would teach him to swordfight. He was disappointed when Timothee refused.
“Aren’t you too young?” Timothee ruffled AJ’s curly hair.
“But I want to fight those guys who call me names when I return to school,” cried AJ.
“You need to choose your battles carefully,” Timothee’s expression turned serious. “You can’t lose time and energy fighting everyone.”
After AJ’s father left us for another woman last year, AJ spent most of his time watching and obsessing about Dune on Television. He was fascinated with how the thumping sound of the fist induced the sandworm. He’d watch that scene repeatedly, wondering if the sandcastles he built on the beach would turn out as prominent. Or whether he’d have the power to induce a sandworm to destroy the woman who snatched his father away from him. His grades slipped, and he declined invitations to birthday parties where he’d see other kids’ fathers dropping and picking them up.
AJ was persistent about learning to fight until Timothee finally relented. I watched AJ learn the moves with a baseball bat every afternoon. Over two weeks, AJ’s posture was straighter, and his shoulders no longer slumped with all the exercises Timothee was making him do.
***
After a few weeks, AJ asked Timothee to accompany us to the beach one morning. I loaned him my ex-husband’s T-shirt and shorts, which he’d left behind. The streets of Santa Cruz were relatively empty. A layer of mist engulfed the wharf and the ocean. Typical of the foggy Santa Cruz weather. The beach was cold and grey. Slimy green seaweed was washed ashore. Timothee’s leg was healing well, and he no longer had the limp. A few swimmers in grey wetsuits were assembled near the Lifeguard tower. AJ grabbed his favorite spot, close to the wharf. I was worried for Timothee. What if those men emerged again and spotted him? But Timothee was engrossed in building an enormous sandcastle with AJ. He never mentioned those men after the first day. But then, he never ventured out of the house the first month. I presumed the men would have forgotten about him. I watched AJ and Timothee gather heaps of sand in their buckets. AJ chattered animatedly while Timothee responded to his queries. His presence made AJ more cheerful than I’d seen in the past few months.
The sandcastle turned out to be bigger than the ones AJ built with his dad. AJ began to collect shells to decorate the sandcastles. I watched the seagulls swoop over his head, shrieking. It wasn’t their regular shrill call. This sound had a sense of urgency, almost like a warning. I felt uneasy.
Then, a sudden gust of wind blew with an unrelenting force. Sand particles began to fly in the air, making a whooshing noise. The particles poked my eyes, and I cursed myself for leaving my sunglasses behind. I called out to AJ and Timothee to run. My voice drowned amidst the hullabaloo of the wind and sand. I waved my hands frantically. At a distance, I watched those swimmers walking towards us. I heard a thumping sound like my heartbeat. Around me, the sand moved. I screamed again and was relieved when AJ ran into my arms.
“Where is Timothee?” I cried.
He pointed towards the sandcastle. It seemed to have disappeared. We looked around frantically and watched the shadowy silhouettes of those swimmers and Timothee in his shorts and T-shirts hover above us.
I took AJ’s hand and ran.
“But what about Timothee?” AJ cried.
“He will come,” I panted, praying fervently that AJ’s hero would not be harmed.
Behind me, the beach was a strange swirl of mist and sand. I reached home and cleaned my eyes from the dirt. Somewhere inside me, the pain lingered as I observed AJ keep an eye on the door. He was probably waiting for it to knock and see his hero walk inside—this time without a bleeding leg and a limp. In the meantime, AJ began to practice his sword fight moves. After a while, there was a knock on the door. AJ walked confidently toward it this time, carrying a baseball bat. I noticed he had a fiery expression and a glint in his eye I hadn’t seen before.