“I would have preferred blue.” Maisie shrugged. What are you going to do?
“By the way, who’s coming to this party?” Patrick turned around, but Cassie was already gone. “You know what? I’ll be surprised.” He looked down at his nephew. “Seriously, though. Where is the dog’s bow tie?”
Grant looked over each shoulder and then lost interest. “Did you know snails can sleep for three years?”
“Did you know that forty percent of icebergs are penguin piss?”
Grant’s jaw dropped. “Is that true?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” He mussed Grant’s hair to make it look more stylish. “Would you like a martini?”
“I’m six.”
“Is that a yes?”
The doorbell curtailed their conversation.
* * *
By nine o’clock, the party was in full swing. Patrick was both touched and horrified by the number of people who had made the two-hour drive. More than that, who committed to spending the night in Palm Springs; there was no driving back to Los Angeles after an open bar. He should have had Cassie book a group rate at the Parker. Patrick was loath to admit, but she had done a remarkable job with the guest list. All of his friends and a few of his frenemies, but none of his enemies, and a smattering of up-and-comers who you would want to be seen at any A-list event. It’s like she’d read back issues of Us Weekly to see who was in and who was out, or at the very least the list of people he passively followed on gay Twitter.
“Cassie!” Patrick remarked when he finally caught sight of her in his caftan. “Bravo.” She looked amazing and knew it, so she beamed and gave him a spin. “And this is quite a crowd!” He was legitimately impressed.
“They’re all here for you!” she replied, but her smile was not nearly as radiant as her dress. Patrick raised a stern eyebrow. “Fine. And for the Eagles. They’re playing tomorrow night at Agua Caliente and I bribed them all with tickets. I can’t tell if they’re being ironic, but they think Don Henley is cool.” She steeled herself for Patrick’s wrath; instead he placed his hand gently on her shoulder.
“Well done. And I like that you tell me the truth.”
Guests smiled and waved as Patrick weaved through the crowd, many hugged him tight and declared some version of Where have you been?, each putting their emphasis on a different word in the question. Patrick smiled back and did his best to remember little inside jokes he had with each of them. He whispered something about a vegan ham to Jeremy Dykstra; they had both been to a disastrous Easter brunch at a well-known publicist’s house. He summoned his inner Marlon to yell, “STELLLLA!” at Malina Kuhn, as she had once reenacted in horrific detail her disastrous college production of A Streetcar Named Desire in which Blanche DuBois had a lisp (I have alwayth depended on the kindneth of thtrangers—he would have to get Grant to say that later). He stopped to place his hand on Max Crosley’s arm and said, “Why didn’t you tell me?” and when Max said, “What?” Patrick replied, “To bring along my harmonica.” He could never pass up the opportunity to quote Eleanor Parker’s character from The Sound of Music to anyone named Max; in another life Patrick would have made a perfect Baroness.
In truth, it was good to see the house so . . . full. Alive with people. He felt like part of something again, seen. But also strangely like a ghost, invisible. These parties were happening in Los Angeles night after night, week after week, without him. People were happy to see him tonight, sure. They would greet him, then retreat into conversations with themselves, afraid perhaps of becoming trapped in a conversation with the crazy man who left Hollywood. He had to be mad. Why, after all, would anyone leave LA at the height of their success? What was he doing in Palm Springs? Was he part of a cult? Mentally ill? Addicted to sonic therapies and sound baths? Had he found God in Joshua Tree or was he going to ask them for money, for favors, their souls?
It was off-putting.
But Patrick didn’t realize how deep the hole he’d dug for himself in the desert sand had become until he grabbed the hand of Adam Harper; there was instant gravitational pull. He could feel himself, if not quite rescued, buoyed. Like spotting the lights of a distant ocean liner while adrift on a raft at sea, or a diver giving you a hit of oxygen from his tank when yours was running out. It didn’t hurt that Patrick wouldn’t mind a little mouth-to-mouth from his former costar, but Adam, all six-three of him, was hopelessly, tragically straight. “Come here, you big gorilla.”
“Patrick!”
He pulled Adam in for a tight hug and pressed himself maybe a little too close to his old friend’s muscular torso. Over Adam’s shoulder he spotted Cassie kindly engaging Maisie and Grant as they pointed to each ornament they’d hung on the Christmas tree. It was sweet, he thought, and disorienting: his interest in his niece and nephew outweighing his interest in Adam’s torso. He didn’t like that one bit and, spooked, he let go of his friend and took a step back. “Prince Adam.” It was a nickname Patrick had bestowed for Adam’s He-Man physique.
“What has it been,” Adam asked. “Years?”
“Something like that.” Probably since they walked off of Stage Four on the Disney lot and Patrick never looked back.
“So this is where you went. You’re the talk of the town. The disappearing Patrick O’Hara. Or, were. People eventually forgot about you.” He gave Patrick a slap on the back strong enough to dislodge a hard candy.
“Yeah, well. It’s not like any of you are setting the town ablaze.” It was perhaps a bad choice of words, given the number of fires Southern California had recently endured. But it gave Patrick some solace, the lack of anything from his castmates approaching success. Adam had starred in a movie as a former tennis pro named Tony who came out of retirement to play a last match against a child prodigy with a mean backhand; the film was laughed out of South by Southwest (how it ever got in was anyone’s guess). And that was enviable—a movie. The others had short-lived series on some of the lesser streaming services, none of which warranted two seasons.
“You keeping tabs on me, brother?”
“No, but I still have access to IMDbPro. And my agent tells me.”
“Your agent.”
Patrick lifted his arm and pointed at Cassie as Adam frowned in her direction.
“Great dress. But she brought her kids?”
“They’re mine. Kids and the dress.”
Adam barely had time to react before Daisy Morales and Jennifer Skeen stumbled into Patrick’s sight line with wide-eyed curiosity, like they had just stepped off the bus from whatever small town still sent their most attractive ingenues to Hollywood via public transport. “Um, HELLOOOO,” Patrick bellowed, and when they turned their heads and saw him, they immediately crouched into two-thirds of the classic Charlie’s Angels pose. Patrick wasn’t keeping track of how many drinks he’d had (he wasn’t an amateur, so what was the point?), so was surprised when he opened his mouth and gasped a high-pitched wheeze. Daisy and Jennifer were his other two costars on The People Upstairs. Patrick couldn’t form words, so instead fell in formation as Kate Jackson until the entire party turned around and applauded, and then they broke, hugged, and screamed.
“I hate you for ever leaving,” Jennifer pouted. “LA’s just no fun anymore.”
“Was it ever fun?” Patrick asked.
“Yes, silly. When we were young and famous!”
Daisy leaned her head on Jennifer’s shoulder. “I was on the lot for a meeting the other day and I went by our soundstage and they totally painted over where we signed our names on the back wall! Everything’s been undone. It’s like we were never even there! Come back.”
Patrick wiped a drop of nervous sweat from his forehead. He hadn’t had to be so on in some time. “Well, gee. You do make it sound enticing.”
“Pat-riiiiick,” they whined, stomping their feet. He studied their faces; they looked both older and younger, copies of th
eir former selves plumped with Botox and fillers (although by a very skilled hand).
“Come, come,” he said, eager to move on. “I want to introduce you to my wards.”
They spun around and Patrick pointed at Maisie and Grant.
“Oh . . . my . . . god.” Jennifer covered her mouth, as if her ovaries had taken control of her speech. Patrick felt something akin to pride. If the kids were anything, they were cute—especially in their matching outfits; he could see why they would be the object of maternal desire. “You have a tree!”
What? “Not the tree, the children.”
“Are they yours?” Daisy grabbed him by the shirt collar and pressed herself against him. “I begged you for your sperm and you said no.”
“Well, I didn’t know you wanted it to make babies.”
“What did you think I wanted it for?”
Patrick grasped for an answer. “Decoupage?”
Jennifer laughed. “Ugh. God, I missed you. I missed this. I miss us.”
Patrick introduced Maisie and Grant to his friends. Maisie did this little curtsy thing that she learned on her own; only Patrick caught the side-eye she flashed when she finished. The girls squealed over their outfits and even Adam was impressed with Grant’s loose bow tie.
“I wish I were still that cool,” Adam declared.
“Still? Were you ever?”
“Fuck you. But don’t you just want to give him a scotch, neat?”
“I offered him a martini, but alas.” He pulled Grant, suddenly shy, tight to his side and parted his hair to the side.
“How long have you lived with Patrick?” Jennifer asked.
Grant picked at a branch on the Christmas tree. “Since our mother died.”
“Oh, my god,” Daisy said. “That’s hilarious. You’re hilarious. Where’s the bar?”
She twirled in circles until she spotted the bartender on the patio. Patrick turned to his niece and nephew. “She thought you were kidding. She doesn’t really think that’s hilarious.” He looked up at Cassie standing nearby and made a face. Oops.
* * *
It didn’t work the first time, but Patrick was undeterred. He took the cheese knife and banged on his glass hard enough to shatter even Baccarat crystal, which, since it was part of the bartender’s service, this wasn’t. “Everyone. If I may . . .” Patrick bit the inside of his cheek. Lame. He was overcome with nerves. Why? It had been a while since he’d had to do any kind of public speaking, but didn’t he have a performer’s heart? He was looking down at the kid from the new drama on the CW that had tweens aflutter. The nerves came when the kid looked back. Patrick didn’t want anyone telling teenagers, but this guy was actually hotter in person in his thick Tom Ford eyewear and sculpted white tee that gave him a perfect James Dean edge. Was it legal to make eyes at him? Sure. Hollywood has employed twenty-somethings to play teenagers all the way back to the dawn of TV. Ron Howard was already balding when he played Richie Cunningham; that one girl from that nineties show was actually the president of SAG when she was editing a high school yearbook on TV. “Everyone?”
He surveyed the crowd. His costars, other actor friends, that burgeoning pop star whom Patrick had told smelled nice. (He misunderstood her reply; when she thanked him and said it was her fragrance, he didn’t immediately get that she meant it was her fragrance—something bottled and sold with her name on it for girls to buy at malls nationwide.)
Chunky Glasses, Emory something-or-other, wet his lips, put his fingers in his mouth, and whistled so loudly the dog jumped, almost completing a full somersault. Emory winked at Patrick.
Whoa. Does one ever become immune to hot boys winking? “Thank you.” He almost said Emory, but what if that wasn’t his name? What if it was something else, something trendy and embarrassingly dumb, like Every? “Maisie, Grant, and I wanted to thank you for coming to our little party.”
Maisie’s little voice pierced the quiet. “And Marlene!”
“Yes, and Marlene.” How quickly she’d become part of the family by doing nothing else but resting her chin on his thigh while snoozing. It reminded him of Grant falling asleep in the crook of his shoulder that first night as he told them stories. Suddenly the spotlight felt lonely. He didn’t want to be the center of attention without his ragtag crew. It felt wrong, incomplete. “Come up here, kids. For those of you who don’t know, it’s been a hard year for our family and it’s only July.” Maisie and Grant made their way to him and flanked their uncle; Patrick reached out and took their little hands. He felt like a political candidate, staging his family for maximum effect. He gave each of their hands a squeeze, how small and fragile and warm they felt in his own. How big and strong he felt in comparison. For a rare moment he liked who he was. He liked who he was with them. Not so much a guardian but a guard, someone to stand between their fragile selves and anything else that dared threaten them. “We decided instead of moping our way through a difficult summer, we needed a party. We needed you. ‘Before you can say come and go, and breathe twice; and cry, so, so, each one tripping on his toe, will be here with mop and mowe.’ That’s from The Tempest. I don’t know why that comes to mind. Except I’m tripping over myself trying not to break out in a freakish grin.” He squeezed the kids’ hands again, three or four times, as if he were tapping out the word happiness in Morse code. “The three of us have been muddling our way through. Except tonight. Tonight, instead of tripping on our toes, we shall trip the light fantastic.” He looked down at a confused Maisie and Grant. “It’s an idiom. Anything else I’m missing?”
Grant tugged at one end of his bow tie. “Enjoy our Christmath tree!”
“Yes. A special hat-tip to Jerry Herman, who taught us Guncle Rule number . . . I’ve lost count: When faced with unimaginable loss, we need a little Christmas.”
“Right this very minute!” Emory bellowed. He raised his glass in the air with such infectious enthusiasm, the rest of Patrick’s guests followed suit.
“RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE!”
Patrick looked out over the sea of raised glasses and saw, if only momentarily, the flash of another, happier, life. The Ghost of Christmas Past at work, perhaps, if only it really were Christmas. The spell was broken by the sound of his white lacquer baby grand—an impulse purchase he’d only played once and instead made for an expensive table to display Jonathan Adler knickknacks—and the opening chords of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” He looked up. It was Cassie. She smiled at him, all teeth and gums, the nervous expression of someone asking permission. Sweet Cassie, who still needed to learn it was always better to ask for forgiveness.
But Patrick gave his consent. And the whole crowd turned and burst into joyous song, looking to each other for a cue. Are we really doing this? Yes, I think we are.
And the party raged on like this. Carol after carol, drink after drink. It was the sound of pleasure, of long forgotten joy. Not just for Patrick, or the kids (Maisie settled on the piano bench next to Cassie while Grant sat on top of the piano itself, twirling one end of his bow tie), but for everyone who in the midst of the Hollywood rat race had forgotten to exhale. Gaiety, Patrick thought, smiling. And no one seemed to love it more than Emory, who, in the midst of a FA LA LA LA LA, linked his pinkie finger with Patrick’s, a gesture so intimate it felt like an entire sex act.
They were on the eighth day of Christmas, maids-a-milking, swans-a-swimming, and whatnot, when the front door opened and Clara thrust her head inside. No one noticed, no one turned, no one made anything of this late entrant who wheeled a carry-on suitcase with a red ribbon tied to its handle (not in a Christmas bow, but to distinguish it from other lookalike luggage) across Patrick’s floor, except for gargantuan Adam, who, towering over her, put his meaty arm around Clara just in time to sing, “Fiiiive gold-en rings!”
Patrick caught a glimpse of his sister’s horrified face out of the corner of his eye and his first thought was Can you
imagine? and he cackled to himself without missing a lyric. But then he turned and looked more carefully, the words “French hens” flopping off his tongue and plummeting clumsily to the floor like flightless birds. Like, well, French hens. He sheepishly waved, the happy buzz of vodka and Christmas draining from his face along with any color his skin’s pigment held from a life of year-round exposure to sunshine.
Clara, stunned into silence, looked up at Adam, then across at the hulking hand squeezing her opposite shoulder. She looked around the room, recognizing a few faces from magazines in the supermarket checkout, but not many, then down at Marlene, who was jumping at her feet and sniffing her shoes. She next spotted the pink Christmas tree with its sparkling white lights and colorful ornaments and tried to make sense of it in the context of the general décor of a house in which she had never stepped foot. Eventually her eyes landed on her niece and nephew, Maisie nuzzled into a stranger in a beaded caftan and Grant sitting on top of the piano with his bow tie undone and Patrick’s empty vodka glass by his side, looking like Frank Sinatra if he had starred in the movie Big. Finally, after all that, her eyes landed on her brother, dressed in butterfly-patterned pants with a curious expression that enraged her, and she regained her ability to speak.
“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.”
FOURTEEN
“How long was I on that plane?”
The few remaining party guests had broken down into two distinct conversation clusters in the living room; the vibe had irrecoverably dimmed with Clara’s arrival. It was nearing one o’clock in the morning and while that’s hardly last call in LA, where most of these guests were from, the bartender was only hired for five hours and had already started to break down the bar. As much as Patrick would like to pin this all on his sister, it probably had as much to do with that; this crowd seemed loath to pour their own drinks. Patrick did his best to do a round of goodbyes, thank everyone for coming, but the exodus was mass and he likely missed a few, including Emory, who slipped away into the night.
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