“Gay Uncle Pat.” Greg’s expression said it all. Duh.
Patrick was appalled. “Seriously?”
“What,” Greg began as he gripped the wheel, “you don’t like being gay?”
“I don’t like being Pat.”
“Are you our guncle?” Maisie asked.
Patrick buried his head in his hands. “Make it stop.”
“Audra Brackett in my class has two guncles,” she continued. “She’s my best friend.”
“Guncle Pat!” Grant exclaimed.
“Patrick. Guncle Patrick. We’re not doing Pat.” Pat was so—oh, god—he didn’t even know the word. Heterosexual. “And I don’t like guncle, either.”
“What’s wrong with guncle?” Greg asked.
“What’s right with it? It sounds like cankle.” Patrick flipped down his visor to catch Maisie’s eyes in the mirror. “Calf and ankle,” he said before she had a chance to inquire.
Greg threw the car in reverse, looked over his shoulder, and backed out of the driveway.
“You don’t have to do that, Dad! There’s a camera.” For the first time Patrick recognized a little bit of himself—the know-it-all—in his niece.
“Yes, he does. I’m going to teach you some things while I’m here. That’s Guncle Rule number one. Okay? If we must? Cameras are your enemy as much as they’re your friend. Scratch that. That’s Guncle Rule number two. Guncle Rule number one: Brunch is splendid.”
* * *
The restaurant hostess smiled when Patrick entered holding the kids’ hands. People tended to do that when he was with them, he noticed. Smile. No one ever frowned with concern that he’d kidnapped two children; not one person’s facial expression the equivalent of an Amber Alert. Couldn’t they see how unnatural this all was for him?
“Three, please. Or, two and a high chair.”
“I’m too old for a high chair!” Grant screamed.
“Jesus.” Patrick sighed audibly. “Three, please.”
The hostess smiled even wider. “Three it is.”
“Are you still serving brunch?”
“Of course! Brunch is our most popular meal.”
Patrick shot the kids a look. See?
“Follow me.”
She led them to a corner booth and left them with menus, which they studied with great interest. “What looks good?” Patrick asked.
“I can’t read, stupid,” Grant declared, although “stupid” came out more like thtupid. He put his menu down and swung his feet back and forth, kicking the table.
“No kicking,” Patrick said, but in truth he was relieved at least Grant wasn’t screaming.
“Who are you again?” Grant asked. He wasn’t entirely sure of Patrick’s authority in this situation.
“He’s our guncle!”
Patrick looked down his nose at his niece. “Don’t make me repeat myself. That word is unpleasant.”
“You’re unpleasant,” Maisie observed.
Patrick sneered like an old black-and-white-movie villain. “You have no idea.”
“But who are you?” Grant implored.
“I’m your father’s brother and I was your mother’s friend. Got it? You came to visit me once at my house in California.”
“We did?”
“I have a pool,” Patrick said, as if that would settle it once and for all. “Now, focus. What looks good?”
“I like bacon,” Maisie announced.
“We don’t eat bacon.”
“Yes we do.”
“No we don’t.”
“Yes we do.”
“Bacon is pigs and pigs are our friends. Do you want to eat your friends?”
Without hesitation. “If they taste like bacon.”
Patrick set his menu down. “I’m a vegetarian. Lacto-ovo. Well, pescatarian, to be more precise. And maybe you should be, too, while I’m here helping because I can’t buy all that stuff from the grocer. You know. Morally.”
“What’s pethca—?”
“Pescatarian. I occasionally eat fish. Do you like sushi?”
“I like hot dogs.” Grant perked up just enough to take the conversation backward.
“What? That’s like the worst parts of the pig. Like lips and buttholes and . . . I shudder to even think.”
Grant laughed.
“Why do you eat fish but not pigs?” Maisie asked.
“Because fish are dumb and delicious. Now look at your menu.”
“Yes, but our oceans are overfished.” Patrick felt a shadow fall over the table and he looked up to see who was speaking. An older man with graying temples smiled at him while opening a small pad with his pencil. “So there are environmental concerns at play.”
“Don’t flush the toilet for three months, don’t shower for six months, or don’t eat one hamburger. I’m from California, where there’s always a drought, so I’m more concerned about the environmental effects of factory farm—I’m sorry, who are you?” he asked the man.
“Patrick. It’s me.”
“Me, the . . . waiter?”
“Me, Barry.”
“Barry . . . ?” Patrick was pretty certain he didn’t know any Barrys.
“From high school.”
“Barry from high school.” We’re the same fucking age, is that what you’re telling me? “Of course.” Patrick said Of course even though it was still fuzzy. There was only a handful of people he remembered from high school; in most respects, his life began with Sara. “These are my brother’s kids, Maisie and Grant. Guys, BARRY.”
“It’s really great to see you. I haven’t heard anything about you since the show went off the air. What was that, four years ago? How are you?”
“Ummm . . .” Patrick stalled, desperately wanting out of a conversation that really had yet to begin.
“You should do another show. You were very good.”
“Thank you. That had never occurred to me.” Patrick soaked his reply in so much sarcasm it might as well have been a teenager experimenting with cologne.
“Although I thought that last one was a waste of your talents. Remember when we did Brigadoon in high school? You were so good!”
Shut up, shut up, shut up.
“So, what brings you back to Connecticut?”
“Our mom was sick,” Maisie said, coming to her uncle’s rescue. “She died.” She and Grant looked at the ground. Patrick winced, surprised to hear a years-long battle summarized so succinctly, then covered his shock with a grimace. He put one arm around each of them and joined them in looking down. They were mourning, you see. Something best done in private.
“Oh,” Barry said, his ability to get chummy shut off at the valve. “I’m very sorry.” He awkwardly tapped his pencil on his pad as Patrick luxuriated in the silence. “Get you started on some drinks?”
“Kids?”
“Bacon!” Grant perked up, a little too quickly.
Make it believable, Patrick thought, recognizing their grief as a shield against small talk. Keep the work focused. “C’mon. Drinks, he’s asking. Juice or milk?”
“Juice!”
“Grant?”
“Goose.”
“Two juices. Do you have apple? And one mimosa, light on the OJ.”
“Our orange juice is freshly squeezed.”
“Either way. A whisper of juice. I’m serious. You can really just wave an orange over the glass and that’s probably still too much juice.” Patrick stared at Barry’s golf pencil, willing it to move. “You’re not writing this down.”
“Two apple juices and one glass of champagne. I’ll give you some time with the menu.” As abruptly as he had appeared, Barry retreated.
Patrick drummed his fingers on the table. “So, guys. There’s something we need to discuss.” He looked down at his place setting and
aligned the silverware as if he were some footman on Downton Abbey. “I thought we could eat brunch, the three of us, and have a little chin-wag.” He looked up to nothing but blank expressions. “That means talk. Your father, he’s very sad with your mom, well, you know. We all are. He’s asked me to—while he takes a little time for himself—take care of you.”
“WHAT?” Grant hollered.
“Don’t worry. I said no. I wanted you to hear that from me. I believe in treating kids like people.”
“You said no?” Maisie offered an expression that was difficult to read.
“It’s nothing personal. It’s just. You know. The whole kid thing is not my bag.”
“For how long?” Grant wondered.
“Not forever, by any means, or even very long, but for long enough that you would have to come stay at my place in Palm Springs.” He wondered if they found this entire proposition as ludicrous as he did, but how could they really? They couldn’t possibly remember his house with its pristine midcentury décor, white terrazzo floors—his Golden Globe, for heaven’s sake. It was a fine bachelor pad, but no place for children. “Can you imagine? He wanted you to come after Maisie finished school.”
“College?” Maisie asked.
“Are you in college?” Patrick looked to the skies for strength; there was a wad of gum stuck to a ceiling tile. “No, third grade. You’re done next week.”
“Where’s Daddy going?” Grant was very concerned, justifiably so. Patrick bit his lip; how do you explain to a six-year-old who just lost his mother the difference between temporarily and forever?
“A special place that helps daddies who are sad.”
“Will he see Mommy?”
Patrick’s heart sank. He thought of the website he had viewed, the one he’d pored over with their sister, Clara, once Greg had confided in her, too. It had photos of beige rooms with small windows, each with its own pitiful Black & Decker coffee maker. “No. The place is not that special.”
“Why do you live in Palm Spwings?” It surprised Patrick that all this pushback was coming from Grant and not from Maisie, who quietly studied her menu. “Why do you live tho far away?”
“It’s not that far away. It’s not like I live in Botswana. C’mon. You’ve been there. Remember? You came with your mom.” He realized the trip was now three years ago; Maisie was probably Grant’s age and Grant was not even three.
“Dad said it’s far because you can’t fly direct.”
Patrick looked at Maisie with disbelief. “You can from New York!” He sighed. “Look, we’re getting off track here, but if you must know, I’m young in Palm Springs. Okay? This is the sad truth for gay men. Forty is ancient in Los Angeles, middle-aged in San Francisco, but young in Palm Springs. That’s why I live there.”
“You’re forty-three!” Maisie bellowed.
“Who are you, the DMV? Lower your voice.”
“That’s almost fifty!” Grant’s eyes grew big.
Patrick took the jab, then closed his eyes and bit his lower lip; the observation was just shy of a hate crime. Do not punch a child, do not punch a child. “Can we please focus?”
“Why can’t you stay with us here?”
He put down his menu to retake the reins of this conversation. “Well, here has certain advantages. I’m thin here. But Connecticut only gets like eleven days of sun a year and I’m solar-powered. I need the sun or else I’ll . . .” Patrick had just enough sense to stop himself before he said die.
“Or else you’ll what?”
He answered in slow motion. “Slow down . . . like a . . . windup . . . toy . . . until . . . I . . . stop. But again, we’re not the right match. No one would swipe right on the three of us.”
“How long will Daddy be gone?”
Patrick tried to recall the details Greg had peppered on his request. “I don’t know. Ninety days? Something like that.”
“That’s three hundred weeks!” Grant exclaimed. Patrick couldn’t tell if it was excitement or exasperation.
“We need to check your math on that one, buddy. But it’s not your fault. You’re the product of a failing public education system. And I share the sentiment. Which is why we have to find you someone appropriate.”
As if that were his cue, Barry appeared carrying a tray of drinks. “Here we are, two apple juices, one champagne. Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”
Patrick had a fleeting thought: Could Barry babysit for three hundred weeks? No. Barry was a stranger. He knew enough to know that would not do. He turned back to the kids. “What sounds good? Pancakes? Waffles? Lobster thermidor?”
The kids stared back at him blankly. This news about their dad had left them reeling.
“C’mon. That’s the great thing about brunch. You can have almost anything. Pick your poison.” Now they were at a loss for words. “How about French toast, then? Two orders of toast in the French style with fruits mélangés.”
“And bacon,” Maisie pleaded.
“Fine. And bacon.” Bacon was not a hill to die on today. “And I’ll have poached eggs with a side of fruit and also some low-fat cottage cheese if you have it, but no meat because I don’t want to hurt any pigs or cows or birds.” He looked up and snorted at his niece and nephew, who warmed to his porcine impersonation.
“Very good, gentlemen. And madam.” Barry still didn’t write any of this down; Patrick was beginning to wonder why he bothered with the pad if it was only a prop. Surely he could make better use of his hands—perhaps hold a tin can for donations so he could afford to dye his hair. They sat quietly as Barry sauntered to the kitchen, each looking around to study other diners presumably living better, more carefree lives.
“Do you guys know anyone you could stay with? Friends who have parents and a guest room?” Maybe the problems held the solution. “C’mon, who are your friends? Who comes over to play?”
“No one.” Maisie shrugged.
“No one? What about, what’s her name you mentioned?” Patrick snapped his fingers three times. “Audrey Bennett.”
“Audra Brackett.”
“Yes. Audra Brackett. She sounds nice. What about her?”
Maisie shrugged again as she stacked some little jams. “Our house is too sad.”
“Oof.” It was a stab right to the heart. Patrick scrambled not to dwell. “So, anything big planned for the summer?” He cringed. Clearly whatever plans they may have had had gone right out the window.
“I was supposed to take swim lessons,” Grant said wistfully; even he could sense that was no longer happening.
Patrick looked at the next table for help, three women enjoying mimosas, at least fifty percent orange juice (suckers), and individually designed omelets with any combination of thirty ingredients. They ate without constant interruptions and exclamations and Patrick was envious, as if he were already mourning a former life. Should he consider this, taking them in? One of the women made eye contact, recognition, or an attempt, perhaps, at pity. No. It was out of the question.
“We’ll find you someone. Your grandparents, maybe,” Patrick said. “I’ll even pay for your swim lessons.” Grant seemed to find this agreeable; crisis averted. “Is that really what someone told you? Your house was too sad?” Patrick’s heart was still breaking.
“You have a pool.” Maisie brightened. It was all coming back to her. “You could teach Grant to swim in Palm Springs. Could I have my own room?”
“SHARE!” Grant screamed. Patrick observed he had taken to sleeping in his sister’s room, and had, apparently, since Sara was checked into hospice.
“No, I want my own!”
“You’re not coming to Palm Springs. We already decided. It’s better for you that way. You’ll see.” Grant flipped his place mat over to look for kid activities, but it wasn’t that kind of establishment. “Your father and I shared a room, you know, for a time. We h
ad bunk beds. I had the top bunk. I felt bad for him as I grew and that top bed started to sag. I swear, by the time your aunt Clara left for college and I moved into her room, he couldn’t so much as roll over without scraping his nose on my undercarriage. He got his revenge when he discovered a certain teenage pastime and I had to fall asleep with the bed swaying like we were adrift on a gay cruise in monsoon season, if you know what I mean. Anyhow, cheers.” He picked up his champagne and clinked glasses with Maisie and Grant, who it seemed enjoyed a good cheers.
“Cheers!” Maisie added.
“Poop!” Grant said, and they both laughed. Patrick wanted to drop his head to the table with a deafening thud, but it would only draw attention to Grant’s “joke.”
“Can we eat brunch in Palm Springs?” Maisie asked.
Maisie was plotting something out and Patrick didn’t like it. “You’re not coming to Palm Springs.”
“Yeah, but could we? If we were.”
“Oh, god, yes. We only eat brunch in Palm Springs. Brunch and lupper.”
“What’s lupper?”
“You don’t know lupper, either?” Patrick sighed for effect. “Well, if brunch is a combination of breakfast and lunch, what do you suppose lupper is?”
Maisie got there first. “Lunch and supper!”
“Exactly. It’s a mid- to late-afternoon meal, which is good for digestion. If you eat too late you get heavy unless you’re European. They have dinner at an ungodly hour and never gain so much as an ounce, but they’re evolved and they walk everywhere and smoke cigarettes, which helps, so—you know.” Patrick put his napkin in his lap and made a production out of it so the kids would follow suit. “All my meals are portmanteaus.”
“You talk funny,” Grant said.
“Me talk funny?” This time Patrick did an impression of a chimp, scratching his head with one hand and under his armpit with the other. “I suppose I speak with a certain élan. But that’s not a bad thing.”
“Why don’t you talk like everyone else?” Maisie leaned forward and put her lips on her apple juice without lifting the glass from the table.
“‘Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.’ Oscar Wilde.” Patrick looked at his nephew also gnawing on the edge of his drinking glass. “Don’t do that.”
The Guncle Page 3