But as the kids emerged from their rooms wearing their helmets for the fifth morning in a row, all Patrick could manage was “Why?”
“Aftershocks,” Maisie said with a dismissive nonchalance. “Things could hit us on the head.”
“The sky is not falling, Henny.”
Grant produced a granola bar he was hoping to eat. “My helmet’s on too tight for me to chew.” Marlene began sniffing around his shoes, hoping he’d drop a bite of his snack.
“Well, the good news is, you look ridiculous.” Patrick ushered Grant over and loosened his strap so the kid could eat his breakfast. “Finish up. We might as well go for a bike ride so you blend in.”
Early-morning bike rides had become a staple, a way for them to burn off some of their energy before they were driven inside from the heat. This morning, however, they got a later start; riding in the mid-morning sun was like pedaling into a wet cement wall that was slowly hardening around you. Five blocks from home, they dismounted their bikes to walk.
Patrick’s heart was racing and his palms were sweating, he assumed incorrectly, from exertion. It wasn’t until after they’d walked a block and his elevated heart rate refused to recede that he realized how apprehensive he was. It was long past time to tell the kids about Joe, and now he really didn’t know how to begin. A small lizard scurried across the sidewalk, which was hot like a griddle, until it disappeared in some tall desert grass growing on a vacant lot. Patrick didn’t call attention to it, for fear of losing his focus.
It didn’t matter; he chickened out anyhow.
By afternoon every inch of his swimming pool was covered in enormous pool floats. The unicorn, the flamingo, the donut, the pizza slice, they’d all been drafted into service—even the lobster that Sara had given him to remind him of his New England roots. Patrick could hardly see signs of water peeking through the flotilla. Grant rode a silver winged stallion filled with glitter through this inflatable forest; Maisie kneeled on a pineapple, clutching its yellow sides. Both of them in their bicycle helmets still.
“What on earth?” Patrick asked as he emerged from the house to join them.
“GUP, look! I’m riding a Pegathus!”
Patrick focused his attention on Grant, who was pleased as punch, perched safely above the water. His forehead was covered with a flesh-colored bandage that shined in the sun. Patrick set a tray of smoothies he’d made on the patio table. “You’re riding a pterippus. Pegasus was white. You know what? Pteriffic. Don’t get your bandage wet.”
“I’m floating on a pineapple!”
“I can see that!” Patrick cupped his hands above his eyes to block out the sun. “Where’s my pool?” He took two steps forward and tripped over the cord to the pump that they undoubtedly used to inflate his stash.
“GUP, get your thwimthoot.”
“Already wearing it, bud.”
As Patrick entered the pool, John popped his head over the wall, holding a gardening trowel.
“Howdy, neighbors.” John waved. “Just doing some planting, when I heard the kids playing. Thought I’d check on them.”
It takes a gay village. “How’s your house, John? Any damage from the quake?” Patrick could all but see JED’s collection of tumescent sculptures shattered in ruins on the floor; it was a mystery how they ever stood upright to begin with.
“A few broken glasses in the kitchen. We have a cabinet door that likes to swing open by itself. Some knickknacks. No heirlooms. A mirror fell off the wall and shattered. That’ll be seven years of bad luck.”
Some knickknacks? “Sorry to hear.”
“Don’t be. They’re just things. We’re fine. Dog’s fine. Cleaned up in a jiff. Grant, you’re riding a Pegasus!”
“That’s right!” Grant exclaimed. Finally, someone who got it.
“Pegasus is the symbol of wisdom and fame. Just like your uncle. Wise and famous.”
“He’s not that famous,” Maisie scoffed.
“Pegasus was also a fountain of inspiration for poets,” John added, leaning farther over the wall. “Some people called him the horse of muses.”
Patrick took full opportunity of John’s distraction to rub more sunscreen on Grant.
“You know, we wrote a limerick about you when you first bought the house,” John offered.
“Oh, really.”
“‘There once was a man named Patrick; who moved in just over the brick. We looked over the wall; he was standing quite tall, with quite an impressive—’”
Patrick covered Grant’s ears. “Okay.”
John laughed. “I was going to say picnic.”
Sure you were.
“A friend gave us one of those floats for our pool, too. Pegasus was the son of Poseidon, the god of the sea. According to legend, wherever Pegasus would strike his hoof on the ground a spring would appear from the earth.” John had Maisie’s and Grant’s rapt attention. “Palm Springs is known for its springs, as well as its many swimming pools, so a Pegasus seemed like a symbolic gift. At least according to my friend.”
“Wow, cool.” Grant turned and splashed and looked at his uncle through his green lizard goggles. Patrick massaged the last of the lotion into Grant’s skin and gave him a little push.
“Did you hear me before? Don’t get your bandage wet.”
John looked on, impressed. “You know, Patrick. You’ve become quite adept at that.”
“What?”
John glanced at the sunscreen. “When we babysat the other day, I had an awful time with the stuff.”
What was once the bane of Patrick’s existence, making sure every inch of the kids’ skin was coated with hellish lotion, now had become de rigueur.
“Huh,” Patrick said.
Maybe he was more capable than he thought.
* * *
After John returned to his gardening, Patrick took up residence on the pizza slice and he tethered the three of them together by placing a foot on each of their floats. They lazily sipped their smoothies, dazed in the midday sun. Greg had entrusted him for a reason. It was time to share his experience.
“Hey,” he began, but had to clear a frog from his throat. “Do you guys know why your dad wanted you to stay with me?”
Grant looked up at him blankly; Maisie focused on the sky.
“Because you have a pool?” To Grant, that was reason enough.
“Because Daddy is close by.” Maisie, in character, was giving this more considered thought.
“Because you were friendth with Mommy,” Grant added, as if unwilling to concede rational discourse to his sister.
“Well, all that is part of it. I do have a pool. And your father definitely didn’t want to be far away from you, and your mom was very special to me. But it’s more than that.” Deep breath. “You had an uncle Joe, once. Or, I had a Joe. He would have been your uncle, too, had he lived.”
“He died?” Maisie was immediately hooked. Patrick had observed her all summer in a quiet search for meaning; she was adrift without her anchor. The pictures she drew, the questions she asked, the stories she requested be told. One shiny lure and she bit hard.
“He did.” Patrick swallowed the rock he felt in his throat. It was hot, as it had been lying all summer in the sun. “I loved him and he died.”
“Was he your brother?” Grant asked.
“Was he Dad’s brother?” Maisie added.
“No, what? Gross. Why?” With all due respect to Greg, this was already a mistake. “Oh. Not your uncle by blood. He was my . . .” Patrick suddenly struggled with the word, although he wasn’t sure why. They knew exactly what the G in GUP stood for, what guncle meant. He wanted to convey everything that Joe was in a way that they would both understand. Partner seemed confusing, like they ran an investment firm. Lover seemed antiquated, although they had no context to understand why. “Boyfriend.” Out loud it seemed n
ot enough.
“How did he die?” Grant’s preoccupation with death was different than his sister’s. At six, his search wasn’t so much for meaning as it was for grisly detail. It had taken Patrick weeks to understand it was to calm his own fears about dying. The more bizarre the circumstances were, the less likely they would happen to him. At bedtime each night he liked to list elaborate ways to bite it. Last night’s death involved falling down a mountain while skiing, being mauled by a panther, hitting a half-dozen trees, catching on fire, and then tumbling into some sort of wood chipper.
“He was driving.” Patrick led with that to ease Grant’s anxieties; it was no being launched out of a cannon into a cheese grater before having your bits filtered through a pod of baleen whales, but Grant was still a good ten years from climbing behind the wheel of a car. “And he was killed by a drunk driver.”
Grant sucked through his straw, slurping his drink and making an awful racket. Jesus, kid, Patrick thought. I’m ripping my heart out here.
“Were you in the car with him?”
Patrick nodded.
“Is that why you have your thcar?” Grant set his cup in the floating drink holder they’d bought their uncle for Christmas.
Patrick touched his forehead between his eyebrows gently, as if after all these years it might hurt. “Sadly, as much as I’d like it to be otherwise, I’m just not a boy wizard.”
“When was this?” Maisie asked.
Patrick had to do some quick math in his head. “Before you were born.” He reached out and intertwined his fingers with hers, further anchoring them together. “So, I’ve been at this grief thing a while.”
Maisie fiddled with her helmet, sweeping her hair back underneath so it wouldn’t stick to her brow. “When does it get easy?”
He thought about lying, but what was the point? Greg didn’t send his children to Palm Springs to be lied to, and even if he had they deserved better. Instead, he squeezed her hand and said, “Any day now.” And then he smiled to show them that grief wasn’t the end of the world.
Maisie let one leg fall into the pool, defeated.
“But it does get easier. I want you to remember that. Because you’re going to go home in a few weeks, back to your house and your belongings. And normal things, your toys for instance, might seem drained of their pleasure, of their ability to bring you joy. Games you played with your mom, maybe. And that’s okay. You’re both so big now.” He reached for Grant’s hand, too. “Maybe you’ve outgrown them. Maybe they will regain their powers over time. Either way, it’s fine.” Patrick sat up, careful to keep his balance. He leaned forward to unbuckle Grant’s bicycle helmet, and then likewise loosen Maisie’s. “Take these off. The sky is not going to fall. That’s what I’m telling you. The pain you feel, the disaster you think is imminent. Those feelings fade. And some days you even miss it. Some days you miss the pain, because you’re afraid. Afraid that as the pain softens so do memories of the one you lost.” Patrick thought how best to explain this in a way they would understand. “Do you guys have chalkboards at school?”
“We have whiteboards,” Maisie said. Patrick lifted the helmet off her head.
“But we have a chalkboard eathel at home.”
“Weasel?”
“He means easel.”
“Oh, so then—you know. It feels sometimes like Joe, whom I loved very much, is being erased. He’s just a smudge now on a chalkboard, smeared in an effort to get rid of him to make way for something new. And I hate that. So there are times I wished it hurt more, because it would mean the details of him would still be sharp. And then there are other days out here in the desert—especially if you go way out, to Joshua Tree or beyond—when you can see the Milky Way. A whole smudge of stars across the sky. And you think, there’s still so much in that smudge. So many gleaming, beautiful things that you could never erase them all.”
“Do you have a picture of him?” Maisie asked after taking this new information in.
“Of Joe? Many. I put them away. I don’t often look at them anymore.” Patrick eased back onto his float. “I have a letter.”
“That he wrote to you?”
“That I wrote to him. After he died.”
“Why did you write to him after he died?”
The question hit Patrick hard. Was it merely an assignment from a therapist whose credentials he questioned at the time? “It helped me. And I think it might help you. When we go inside, I think we should all write letters to your mom.”
They looked confused.
“We can’t send them, you understand. But really, they’re for ourselves. Years from now we can read them. You’ll see where you were. And you’ll see how much you’ve grown. And that will make your mother happy. Knowing, eventually, that you’ll be okay.” Patrick pushed Grant’s drink back in his nephew’s direction. “Finish your smoothies, kids.”
“Why?” Maisie asked.
“Why?” Patrick reached for his own beverage. “Guncle Rule number thirteen: Fun drinks make everything more interesting.”
They wrote their letters that afternoon.
* * *
“Cassie Everest’s office.” The voice was androgynous, bordering on bored. So much so, Patrick almost forgot to speak.
“Cassie?” Had she finagled an assistant out of this promotion? Or was she lowering her voice an octave to fake one? Either way, he was impressed.
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Patrick.”
“Patrick . . . ?”
“Her client.” Patrick was immediately jealous. He liked to have people’s undivided attention. “Does she have other accounts?”
“Oh, Patrick!” There was a glimmer of light in the voice. This wasn’t Cassie after all; she wouldn’t take the charade this far. So who was this new being?
“Please. Let’s not stand on ceremony. Call me Mr. O’Hara.”
There was an awkward pause as this new addition to the team tried to assess if he was joking. “One moment, Mr. O’Hara.”
Patrick emptied the dregs of the coffeepot into his mug, took a sip, and spat it in the sink. Maisie insisted on making the coffee each morning, and while it was drinkable freshly brewed, it did not stand up to the morning. He peered into the living room; it was empty. The kids were reading quietly in their rooms. It was a rare moment of privacy, and he was taking full advantage.
“This is Cassie.” Her voice rang through the phone, serious, assured.
“Amy Adirondacks? Is that really you?”
“The one and only.”
“Neal really did right by you.” Patrick hoped to god this was true.
“Office. Assistant. Company credit card. And I have you to thank. He really listens to you.”
“Everyone listens to me.” The TV came on in the other room. Patrick screamed over the volume. “I said no television!” He could hear Cassie’s smile through the phone.
“I think he’s jealous of you, frankly.”
“Neal?” Gossip was the way to Patrick’s heart.
“He became an agent, but all things considered he would have rather been famous himself.”
“You tell that prick the only way he’s going to see his name in lights is if he changes his name to EXIT.” It was an old line, but Cassie was young and didn’t know all the old lines, and he punctuated it with a new panache, hoping she would later repeat it in the office lunchroom, allowing Neal to overhear. Sure enough, she laughed.
“What can I do for you, Patrick?”
All business, Cassie 2.0. “My Golden Globe is dented.”
“It’s dented?”
“It has a dent in it.”
“A dent,” Cassie repeated. The word was in danger of losing all meaning.
“A dent, a dimple, a depression. It fell. During the earthquake.”
“Oh. Okay. We’ll call ov
er to the Hollywood Foreign Press and see about getting it replaced.” Silence. “Are the kids all right? Do you mind me asking?”
“They are and I don’t mind. Listen. I want you to look into something for me. Without saying you’re looking into it.”
“I’m not sure I understand, but okay.”
Am I going to have to do all the work? “I want you to gauge interest.”
“In?” Cassie asked.
“Employment opportunities.” Patrick swallowed hard, as if trying to force the words from escaping. But it was too late. “In New York.”
“Wow. New York.”
“All right, well, don’t blab it all over town.” Although, wasn’t that exactly what he was asking her to do?
“Any particular kind of employment?”
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