The Guncle

by Steven Rowley

“You said a thwear.” Grant’s eyes looked wide as Frisbees.

  “Okay, this is going to be a really long summer if we’re going to track every time that I say a swear.”

  The goodbyes had been awful. Greg did his best to explain his situation without burdening them, but the children were, in the moment, inconsolable. They had just said goodbye to their mother and they were being, what—sent to live with a stranger? Even to Patrick it seemed needlessly cruel. Greg cried, the children sobbed, and Patrick did his best to remain stoic. Deep down he didn’t think this was any better an idea than they did, but someone had to appear certain; someone had to be captaining this ship. More tears were shed at the airport. Patrick pulled his cap down so far over his eyes, he had to look up to see past the brim. Maisie and Grant each had two checked bags; he never knew children came with so much stuff. They ate quietly at the airport Papa Gino’s, but none of them had much of an appetite for cardboard pizza or, really, for anything else.

  “Can we watch YouTube?”

  “What? No. There’s no Wi-Fi on this plane.”

  “Why not?”

  “One of the advantages of being on an airplane is that we’re disconnected from everything going on beneath us. We’re in a metal tube in the sky. It’s a time to reflect, read a book maybe, to be with ourselves.” Patrick was lying about the Wi-Fi and wasn’t sure why. His insistence, perhaps, that there was more to appreciate about planes than staring blankly at a screen, doing something you could readily do on the ground. He carried a torch for air travel from the 1960s, before he was born, when flying seemed glamorous and stewardesses looked like Dusty Springfield or Petula Clark, served chateaubriand off of a cart, and came by every so often to light your cigarette. But since Grant and Maisie weren’t old enough to enjoy an in-flight martini, was this really necessary? Shouldn’t he loosen the reins, or would that set a bad precedent—would he lose all sense of authority before this experiment began? “You guys packed a few books, right?”

  “Does your car at least have a DVD player?” Maisie asked.

  “I’m Uber only.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I told you I don’t drive. I have a Tesla, but I keep it in the garage.”

  Maisie furrowed her brow. It was hard to know where to tear at her uncle’s logic when he spouted so many unfamiliar words. “What’s a Tesla?”

  “It’s like a spaceship.”

  Grant turned his head at lightning speed.

  “Not an actual spaceship, but it might as well be, as I don’t know how to use it. It’s just a fancy car.”

  “Why do you have a fanthy car if you don’t drive?”

  Patrick closed his eyes. He wasn’t going to make it ninety hours, let alone days. “It was a gift.”

  “Someone gave you a car?” Maisie was incredulous.

  It was the studio. They gave them to the main cast when they signed a contract extension for two final seasons. “That happens sometimes when you’re famous.”

  “You’re famouth?”

  Patrick peered into the aisle to make sure no one was listening. “I used to be.”

  Grant kicked his feet lazily, hitting the seat in front of him. Patrick reached over to stop him. “We should have taken Mommy’th car. Mommy’th car has a DVD player.”

  Patrick wished he could go back in time, maybe to one of the nights he and Sara drank 40s in the lounge on their dormitory floor, when they were doing something nonsensical that amused them, like trying to pronounce the word noodle in as many accents as possible, to tell Sara that one day she’d be driving a minivan with a television inside. “Well, I don’t really leave the house much and I have a TV at home.”

  “Does it get YouTube?” Grant hollered.

  Patrick shushed him. “Inside voices.”

  “We’re outside. The thky is outside.”

  “The what? The sky?” Patrick resolved then and there to spend time with Grant working on his lisp. “The sky is outside, the plane is inside. I’ll toss you out the window if you want to know the difference.”

  “He means is it a smart TV.” Maisie stepped in to de-escalate.

  “What is there to watch on YouTube, anyhow?” Patrick didn’t understand the obsession.

  “Kid vlogs.”

  “What on earth is a kid vlog? You know what? Don’t answer that. My TV has TV.”

  “We don’t like regular TV.”

  Patrick mimed a dagger going into his heart. “You realize I was on TV.” What was wrong with kids today? Not liking television. Television was everything when he was young, it’s why he wanted to be on it. The most mind-blowing day in his life was the day he discovered other children could see Mister Rogers, too. “Hawaii, by the way, was the answer to my question. Hawaii is the only state that’s an island.”

  “Oh,” Maisie said.

  Oh. He was about to ask if they wanted to go; they could stay at the Four Seasons in Wailea and sit in reserved deck chairs and order virgin piña coladas. But they didn’t like TV and they weren’t impressed with Hawaii. What did it take to amuse them? “Fun fact about your uncle Patrick. When I was your age I thought Alaska was also an island because they always stuck it with Hawaii in the bottom corner of maps.” He thought he could win them over with this; how stupid to think a state that was mostly tundra and ice was an island in the South Pacific. It landed with a thud. “Maybe when you’re ten that will be funnier.”

  Conversation ground to a halt. They’d only been in the air three hours and he’d already run through his best material. Patrick found it difficult to refrain from sharing with them other facts about when he was their age—like that cars and planes didn’t have televisions or Wi-Fi, or seat belts, probably—but he knew instinctually that saying things like that made him square. I’m moderately famous, for god’s sake. I can’t possibly be this dull.

  “Can I have a fudgesicle?” Grant looked up at him longingly.

  “Jesus Christ. You can’t pronounce the word sky, but fudgesicle you nail?” He tickled his nephew so that his observation aped a joke. “When we get to Palm Springs I’ll buy you a whole box of fudgesicles.”

  “Can I sit on the aisle?” Maisie asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s been like thirteen years since I even flew in steerage and the aisle seat is the only thing keeping me sane.”

  Greg had purchased tickets for them in coach so they could sit three to a row. Patrick wanted to upgrade, but his brother begged him not to. It was important, Greg felt, for them to sit together.

  “But what if I’m recognized?” Patrick tried to emphasize the full horror of that happening. “Can’t you fly with them while I sit in first class?”

  A stern look from Greg as he packed his own suitcase ended the conversation. His flight was the following day so he could focus on seeing his children off. Everything was set. There was no backing out now.

  Bing-bong. The chime alerted them to fasten their seat belts.

  “What’s Alaska again?” Maisie asked. Finally, some traction.

  “What’s a map?” Grant asked more succinctly, with just enough disinterest to close the subject for good.

  “Look, all right? Your flying with me is good. It sets a precedent. Instills a love for travel. I blocked three people from my high school class on Facebook for being grandparents before we were forty. Three people! Why would they do that to me? And that’s your future if you never leave your hometown. So, California here we come.”

  “What’s Fathebook?”

  “Exactly. Facebook is done. Over. The social media platform for Nana and Papa.” Grant was more hip than he knew.

  “You could be our grandparent?” Maisie was stunned.

  “Not your grandparent, a grandparent, and NO! No. No, I could not. That’s the wrong takeaway from what I just said.” Patri
ck cringed. He’d already lied once on the plane and should probably leave it at that. “Well, I suppose biologically. But that’s not the point.”

  “You’re too young!” Finally, Grant’s outside voice was warranted; he sounded as offended by the idea as his uncle.

  “Thank you. See? Grant gets it.” He gave the kid a high-five.

  They hit a pocket of turbulence, sending the kids rising an inch from their seats. Patrick reached over and tightened each of their lap belts.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the fasten seat belts sign. Please remain in your seat.”

  “You okay?” He placed his hand on Maisie’s arm to calm her. She felt clammy, so he plowed forward to distract them. “You know the secret to staying young? Money. Guncle Rule number four. Not so you can carve up your face, mind you; don’t do that. But if you have money, you’re not stressed. Stress is what ages you. And winter and not getting out of your hometown. You guys really should be writing these down.”

  Patrick glanced over again to see if they were laughing. When he looked back, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the screen mounted on the back of the seat in front of him. The crow’s feet around his eyes. Those lines on either side of his mouth. He thought it might be time to touch up his Botox, consider some of the Restylane or Juvéderm his Eastern European cosmetologist, a woman whose face didn’t allow her to laugh and who went by a name like Bianca, suggested might fill in his scar. Or maybe it would be easier to do more than just stop answering his agent’s calls. Maybe he should retire from television officially. Then his face could look however he pleased.

  “What state are we over now?” Maisie asked when the plane found a smoother path.

  Patrick loosened his seat belt to peer out the window again; all the Western states had the same topography, ropy mountain ranges that snaked like macramé, and bland 1970s color. “I’m not really sure. I think we passed most of the square ones. New Mexico?” He settled back in his seat and tightened his belt before he could get in trouble. “Have you ever been to New Mexico? The whole state is one giant flea market for turquoise jewelry. I went years ago on some sort of men’s retreat and was chased to the Arizona state line by a diner hostess named Luna with a thick mop of red hair and an angry toe for daring to ask what a Kokopelli was and why they all seemed to have scoliosis. I mean, do you guys know?”

  Silence.

  “Okay, well, we won’t call that a hard-and-fast Guncle Rule, but don’t go to New Mexico if you can avoid it.” How long is this flight? Shouldn’t they be starting their descent? It was the stupid headwinds. Flying west always took an hour longer. Patrick drummed his fingers on the armrest. He reached up to open the air vent above him and pulled his shirt away from his body so he could feel the air wash down his chest. “Anyone know any good jokes?”

  Nothing.

  He fiddled with his own screen to see about ordering some snacks.

  “You said there was no Wi-Fi.”

  “Maisie, I’m looking at snacks. You don’t need Wi-Fi for that. Would you like a snack? How about these veggie crisps?”

  Out of nowhere, Grant screamed. The kind of deep, anguished, shrieking that wins Viola Davis Oscars, and then Maisie started in, too, more frightened by her brother than from any pain of her own. Patrick’s heart wrenched.

  “Okay, guys, guys, we don’t have to eat veggie crisps. They’re not really vegetables, just bullshit potato chips. But we can literally eat anything else.” He tried to swivel the screen so they could see, but it only tilted up and down.

  Grant’s inconsolable screaming continued unabated, much of it straight out of a horror film. That it was so out of the blue made it as terrifying as it was physically painful to the eardrums; Patrick had no idea a child could make such a primal sound.

  “Are you hurt? WHAT IS HAPPENING?” He looked over his shoulder several times for help but only to be met with angry passengers staring back at him, so he pulled his ball cap down farther over his eyes as sheer panic took hold.

  “MY TOOF!” Grant covered his mouth in horror.

  “Okay! Okay! Calm down.” Not knowing what to do, he unbuckled all three of their seat belts, grabbed Grant’s hand, and pulled him into the aisle. He took two steps toward the restroom with the boy in tow before realizing he forgot Maisie; he reached back until he found her hand, too. Patrick ran them toward the bathroom at the rear of the plane, ignoring the flight attendant near the exit rows calling after them.

  “Sir! Sir! The fasten seat belt sign . . .”

  He folded open the bathroom door with such force he was surprised he didn’t shear it clean off its rails. He stood Grant on the closed toilet lid and yanked Maisie inside, closing the door behind them. It was tight; Maisie was pressed against his leg. He hugged Grant close and said, “What about your tooth?” and kept repeating it until Grant’s wailing slowed to a whimper. He ran his hands through Grant’s hair and pulled his face in for closer inspection.

  “It fell out!”

  “Oh, well. Teeth do that. Don’t tell me this is your first.” He squeezed Grant’s mouth open and his lips puckered like a fish. Sure enough, a bottom tooth was missing—Patrick hoped it was a baby one. There was a little blood, but not much. “Maisie, grab a paper towel. And run it under some water.”

  Maisie did as she was told and Patrick made note of it. Stays calm in emergencies. Grant, however, continued to cry.

  “Do you know why kids even have baby teeth? I’ve always wondered that. Why don’t they just grow like the rest of your body? It’s not like your childhood nose falls off when you’re ready to grow a bigger one. Can you imagine if Grant’s arm just fell off because his adult one was coming in?”

  Grant stopped sobbing long enough to exclaim, “My arm’s going to fall off?”

  “And your ears. Hopefully not both at the same time or you won’t be able to hear.”

  Grant screamed.

  “WHAT WHAT WHAT? It’s a joke. I’m just talking out loud. I was wondering because we’re born with all of our teeth, baby and adult. Did you know that? A child’s jaw holds twice as many teeth as it needs to. It’s like how Maisie was born with all of her eggs inside of her.”

  “I have eggs inside me?” Maisie’s eyes bulged.

  “Yes,” Patrick said. “Dozens of them. Like a chicken. You’ll probably grow feathers. And a beak.”

  Maisie frowned, clearly not fond of this. “You’re not supposed to talk to kids that way.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No! You’re supposed to comfort us. Don’t you know that?”

  “Okay, jeez.” Patrick took the paper towel and placed the wet part along Grant’s gums. Grant instinctively reached up to hold it in place. “Why all the tears, kiddo? You have to tell GUP. I don’t understand.”

  “I . . . CAN’T . . . FIND IT!” He cried so hard he gurgled between words, and tears fell off of his nose. He tried desperately to fill his chest with air, but couldn’t, and wheezed like a trauma patient whose lungs had collapsed.

  So? Patrick’s mind roared, or maybe it was the jet engines. They jostled back and forth in the lavatory, the three of them, protected by the confined space—wedged together, none of them had any room to fall. He wondered momentarily how he and Joe had ever joined the Mile High Club; he couldn’t so much as turn around now. Maybe planes used to be bigger? The three of them stood there, until both kids quieted, until they were comforted by the rocking motion and the ambient hum. The lighting, however, was terrible. He gave Maisie a look, asking for help, then leaned against the sink so he could see both their faces.

  “If he can’t find his tooth, the tooth fairy won’t come.”

  Patrick was almost relieved. This was a relatively easy one. “Says who?”

  “Says everyone.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  Grant’s tears slowed; he wiped his eyes wit
h the back of his free hand. “How do you know?”

  “Did I ever tell you that when your dad and I were kids we had an old beagle named Phillip? His teeth would fall out all the time. We’d find them just laying on the floor by the wood stove, where he liked to sleep. Your dad and I thought we could make some extra cash by putting Phillip’s teeth under our pillows. We made a big production out of it, boasted about our new moneymaking scheme. You know what happened?”

  Grant hesitated, and then asked, “What?”

  “We each woke up with a Milk-Bone in our bed.” Patrick elbowed Maisie. See? He could be comforting. “My point is, the tooth fairy knows everything. Okay? She doesn’t miss a trick. When we go back to our row, I’m going to find your tooth. But even if I can’t, she’s definitely going to know that you lost one. Okay? I’ll make sure of it.”

  “I want . . . Mommy.”

  And there it was. The tough one. Only a few hours in. Patrick wasn’t going to get off with anything as easy as the tooth fairy. “I know, kid.” And then he added, “We’re going to get through this.”

  “How do you know?” Maisie was genuinely asking, each word syncopated like discordant jazz. “How do you know we’re going to get through?”

  Patrick thought long and hard about how he could make them understand, settling on a quote he had selected for his high school yearbook, one that became eerily prophetic. “‘It’s not the tragedies that kill us; it’s the messes.’ Dorothy Parker.” As soon as this passed his lips he knew it was the wrong fit. Not because they wouldn’t understand it or know who Dorothy Parker was—although they wouldn’t and didn’t—but rather because, what was this if not a mess? Sara’s death was a tragedy, sure. But Greg’s addiction was a mess, his asking Patrick to step in was a mess, his thinking Patrick would know how to handle a situation like this was a huge mess of epic proportions. So, he went straight for the truth. “I know what it’s like to want someone back, too.”

  Grant, in a moment of reversion, removed the paper towel from his mouth and sucked on his thumb. His face was tear-streaked and somehow even his hair was wet.

  “What if something happens to you?”