“It says we should go see the dinosaurs. So eat up.”
Grant dropped his fork on his plate and threw his hands in the air in triumph. “YETH!”
“They may be extinct now, but you never know.”
Sometimes things come back to life.
TWENTY-FOUR
The rain started midafternoon in torrential sheets and caught Patrick and the kids off guard; three hundred and fifty days of sun a year—why bother to ever check the weather? Each drop landed with a deafening thwack against his flat roof, the symphony outside a perfect score to the mood within. Patrick glanced out the front window. The gravel in his yard was already disappearing under a thin lake, the ground underneath too dry, too hard to absorb such a downpour quickly. Earlier in the day, he ordered a cake to be delivered. Now he wondered if it would show up at all.
Grant twirled into the room, his own cyclone. “Do you think I should write a letter to the toof fairy?” He had to yell to be heard above the rain.
“No.”
“But I want to!” Grant climbed on his uncle’s leather chair to look out the window, too.
“What are you, pen pals? You don’t need to write her.”
“Why not?” Grant implored.
“Because you don’t have any loose teef.”
Grant placed his hands on his hips defiantly. “Yeah, but I’m gonna. I’m worried she might forget me.”
Patrick stifled a laugh. “She won’t.”
“She will!”
“Won’t happen.”
“How do you know?”
Patrick pried his eyes away from the front walk to focus squarely on Grant. “You’re unforgettable, that’s why.”
Grant beamed, then stuffed his fingers in his ears. “THE RAIN ITH LOUD!”
Patrick agreed that it was, then added, “Feet off my chair,” even though Grant couldn’t hear.
The cake finally arrived while Maisie was in her room with the door closed and Grant was in the backyard. Marlene erupted like Vesuvius at the knock at the door, her hot, angry barking blanketing the entire house with panic. Patrick picked her up in order to answer the door; she wriggled the entire time to get free. Where was the silent-film star he brought home from the kennel? Everyone, it seemed, was changing.
“Cake for Jack Curtis.”
“Whoa,” Patrick exclaimed. Behind the deliveryman arched an enormous rainbow in the sky.
“Neat, huh?”
Patrick tipped the guy a twenty and balanced the pink pastry box in one hand. He marveled at the rainbow as the delivery guy returned to his van. Sara, is that you? he thought, but felt instantly foolish. What was a rainbow after all, refracted light? Gay people, Christians always fighting over the symbolism when rainbows rightfully belonged to the leprechauns.
He kicked the door closed and set Marlene on the ground, careful to balance the cake. The truce he’d established with Maisie since brunch was fragile; a ruined surprise could reignite their war.
As promised, Patrick had taken them to the Cabazon dinosaurs roadside attraction. At the base of the life-size brontosaurus, Maisie nestled into her uncle. It might have been to shield herself from the wind that came whipping through the exhibit, kicking up sand from the parking lot; it might have been to commiserate over having to go to the dinosaurs for Grant yet again. Patrick had put his arm around her anyhow; he was willing to take what he could get and she didn’t openly rebel. They even dug for dinosaur eggs in the sandpit together, crouching low to avoid the wind.
“Can we do a video?” Grant asked. It was the one thing that never failed to bring them together.
“Sure. We’ll film one in slow motion. You both run from the T. rex and look back over your shoulder like it’s chasing you.” Patrick fished his camera out of his pocket. “And scream. Make sure you scream big.”
“I don’t feel like screaming,” Maisie protested.
“You’re being chased by a dinosaur. Screaming is the most important part!” And then, without really thinking, Patrick screamed a long, hoarse yawp to prove his point. A weekday morning, the crowds were thin, but his carrying-on still turned a few heads. He scanned the startled gawkers and then pointed up at the T. rex’s open mouth towering above them as explanation.
And then the kids screamed, too. And Patrick screamed again. And together they’d released these primal, mournful wails that were swallowed by the howling wind.
“What’s in the box?” Grant asked, appearing through the sliding glass door. It seemed aggravatingly nosy at first, intrusive, the way he would materialize at the sound of the doorbell, until Patrick remembered how, for years after Joe died, the way his heart would lift whenever someone opened a door; he knew intellectually Joe wouldn’t walk through, but in those fractions of seconds he remembered what hope felt like.
Patrick gently nudged Marlene out of the way with his foot to clear a path to the kitchen. “A surprise. Want to help me? I need to find matches.”
Grant vibrated enthusiastically. He was conspiratorial by nature, and if lighting something on fire was a part of this, he was one hundred percent on board.
Together they tapped on Maisie’s bedroom door. Patrick held the cake with three lit candles, their gentle flames dancing in the current from the air-conditioning vent. It had lavender icing and elaborate sugar flowers that crawled up the sides of the cake like vines. The design wasn’t to Patrick’s taste, but that was hardly the point. It wasn’t for him. Grant held his ear to the door and snickered.
“Go away.”
Patrick knocked again.
“I’m asleep.”
“Then how are you talking?” Grant implored. He apparently found this hysterical, but worked hard to stifle his giggles.
After a pause Maisie replied, “I’m reading.”
Patrick opened the door slowly, and when he saw Maisie’s eyes connect with the cake he pushed his way in. The room was darkening, drained of its color the way things can look in the last of a gloomy day’s light; the candles introduced a sunny, yellowish hue. Maisie was lying on the floor with a book and, betraying her inner determination, she looked up at her uncle with wonder.
“What’s that for?”
“You tell me.”
Maisie closed her book and sat up. She clasped her hands together and placed them under her chin. “It’s Mom’s birthday today.”
“Yes it is.” Sara’s birthday. Send flowers. The message that appeared on his lock screen that morning.
“She’s not here, though. To celebrate.” Her voice dripped with defeat.
Patrick knelt in front of his niece and ushered Grant around. He held the cake between them. Maisie’s eyes grew wet and a single candle flame danced in each of her dark pupils. For a flickering moment, he saw Sara in Maisie, plain as day. And then the light shifted and he saw himself, even though he knew it wasn’t him, but rather his brother, Greg.
“Sure she is. Don’t you think? And either way, we’re here to celebrate for her. So it’s up to us to make her a wish.”
“What kind of wish?” Grant asked, joining them on his knees.
“Whatever kind you want. Let’s all make one.”
Maisie considered the cake, her demeanor softening as she took in each perfect detail, the color, the flowers, the buttercream swirls. Patrick could tell she was already wondering if the cake was vanilla, her mother’s favorite; he couldn’t wait to show her that it was. “I’ll go.” Maisie propped herself up on one knee and clutched her T-shirt at the neckline. “I wish that you’re not alone, because it can be scary alone and I don’t want you to be scared.”
“That’s a beautiful wish.” Maisie glowed in his validation. “Now blow out one candle to make that wish come true.”
Maisie blew gently, skillfully; all three candles flickered, but only one went out. Smoke trailed upward before dissipating in the air, like the
wish had transformed into a secret only the three of them knew.
“Grant?”
Grant squished his face as he thought.
“Don’t make that face, you’ll need Botox when you’re nine.”
Grant shook his head. “I know! I got one!”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I wish I could hear you laugh.”
Maisie objected. “That’s a wish for you! Not for her.”
“Easy, easy, easy.” Patrick scrambled to intervene. “How about, I wish you much laughter where you are?”
Grant signaled his approval, very happy with this edit. Patrick shielded the candle closest to himself with his hand, and had Grant blow out the other one.
“Your turn, GUP.”
A shiver ran though Patrick’s body and his eyes began to sting; this was but an exercise for the children that he was overseeing, another activity like the letter writing, and the videos. How was this so difficult for him? “I wish you total freedom from pain. Freedom from the body that failed you. I hope that you’re full of light, unconstrained, and that you can dance. Because I know how you loved to dance.”
He looked at the candle, the last one lit on top of the cake. He struggled to summon a breath, as if the last of the light that was Sara could be fully extinguished with one forceful expulsion of air.
“I like that wish, GUP.” Maisie rested her hand on Patrick’s knee, giving him the permission he needed.
“Me too.” Grant bounced up and down on his knees.
“Let’s blow out the last candle, the three of us,” Patrick said. “And that wish can be from us all. On the count of three?”
They agreed.
Patrick nodded, once, twice. And they blew.
The room went dark. They sat together quietly, listening for any hint that Sara had heard them.
“Can we eat thum cake?” There was sugar at the end of this endeavor, and Grant didn’t want to further delay that reward.
“Come,” Patrick motioned.
The kids followed their uncle into the kitchen, where Patrick set the cake on the counter. But instead of pulling out a knife, he produced a box of matches. He pulled a single candle out of the cake, struck a match, and relit the remaining two.
“Why are we blowing out candles again?” Maisie asked.
Patrick pointed at the stools and snapped his fingers; they hopped up to the counter like obedient dogs. Marlene, less disciplined, nipped at his heels. “I have two more wishes, one for each of you.”
The kids looked up at him with twisted expressions, confusion mixed with whatever was just shy of delight.
“Grant. You are my funny boy. My wish for you is that your sense of humor remains intact. Life is not always funny, in fact it’s not always fun. A lot of the time it downright sucks. But your humor will guide you, it will protect you, and it will heal you. So laugh hard, laugh loud, and make others do the same.”
“Knock knock,” Grant said, accepting the mantle of this charge.
“Jesus Christ. Not now.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, who?” Maisie added with a giggle.
Patrick dropped his head to the counter with a thud. “Just blow out a candle.”
Grant leaned in and did just that.
“Maisie.” Patrick stood up straight; there was a red mark on his forehead. “You are sensitive and kind and brave, just like your mother. My wish for you is that you carry the best of her inside you and build on that with all the special ingredients that make you, distinctly, beautifully you.”
Maisie swallowed, tasked with this solemn responsibility. Patrick wondered if he should ease her burden, tell her how naturally he thought this would come. Instead he watched as she leaned forward and gently extinguished her candle as if with a delicate kiss.
“Now can we have cake?” Grant asked.
“One more thing.”
Grant’s shoulders drooped.
“For your mom.” Patrick turned on the Bose speakers that sat on the kitchen counter and waited for the Bluetooth to connect with his phone. He opened iTunes and selected a playlist called dance. “She and I would always dance on our birthdays. Just go crazy to some really good music. In celebration. And I think we should do that for her.” Patrick scrolled through the playlist until he found just the song. “Ah, here we go. America’s third-favorite Wang Chung song, ‘Let’s Go!’ It’s actually the best Wang Chung song. People prefer ‘Everybody Have Fun Tonight’ or ‘Dance Hall Days,’ but people are generally wrong in this regard. Do you know it?”
They both shook their heads.
“It was a cut on their 1986 album, Mosaic, but wasn’t released as a single until January 1987. You guys remember the eighties?”
They shook their heads again, as if it had been a serious inquiry.
“Jack Hues sings lead vocals, while Nick Feldman sings the bridge. Both sing the chorus. Wang Chung? Jack Hues? A play on the French, J’accuse? No?” The kids were growing impatient. This lecture was delaying their cake. It was time to wrap this up. He hit play and the opening synth chords filled the room in full eighties splendor. “Play it in the morning and I defy you not to have at least a decent day. On some days it’s the only thing that makes the day decent. You should know this. More people should know this. Everyone should know this. Guncle Rule number fifteen: Let’s go, baby, let’s go, baby, c’mon.”
Patrick closed his eyes, letting the music take root inside him. His shoulders were inspired first, they shrugged in tune to the song. His wrists curled in, then up, then his arms opened wide and his fingers fluttered, ushering the kids off their barstools. He sang the opening words. “Meet me in a restaurant.” He waved again, until they joined him. “Dance with me. Then we’ll stuff our faces with cake.”
Patrick grasped their hands, they formed a circle and began to sway until the crescendo building to the first chorus. He pulled his hands in close to his body and started jumping excitedly. And then his body exploded as he leapt in perfectly with the refrain. “Let’s go, baby, let’s go, baby, c’mon!” He danced as hard as he’d ever let anyone watch. Grant, inspired, waved his hands over his head and shook them like a Muppet; he had surprising rhythm, as if the music was emanating from inside him, and he swung his hips with an easy, admirable confidence. Maisie moved more timidly, decidedly off the beat, but her smile was all you could really see.
“Get your feet in motion!” Patrick crunched his abdominals and ran tightly in place. Maisie and Grant imitated their uncle and they moved in close until their noses touched, Patrick singing the words, the kids doing their best but not quite nailing it, before they all ran back to their starting places, bursting in joyous motion.
For one fleeting moment this was it, they were the music and the music was them, Wang Chung itself (or, more precisely, huang chung, Chinese for yellow bell), and all of their sadness rang out of their fingertips in radiant sunshine that warmed the darkening sky.
TWENTY-FIVE
Incredibly, Marlene slept through the knock at the door. Patrick wasn’t certain if he was relieved or annoyed she would so easily shirk her responsibilities as guard dog just because she had put in a stint dancing. By the third song on Patrick’s playlist (some Ray of Light–era Madonna), Marlene was a full participant, jumping on her hind legs like a Pentecostal brimming with the Holy Spirit about to burst into tongues. Eventually Patrick and the kids ate cake with their hands; plates, knives, and forks were instruments of other, more solemn people that stood in the way of their joy. They swayed to the music and Grant let Marlene lick frosting off his fingers. The sugar crash that followed hit hard. Patrick was the last man (child, dog) standing, and even he was splayed out on the couch watching Desert Flippers on HGTV, fighting to keep his eyes open. His first thought was that he might have imagined the knocking, that maybe he had drifted off and was dreaming or that it was coming fro
m the TV—the hosts assessing the viability of a rotting home’s framework. He sat upright before realizing the knock was real, and when he finally answered the door he was confronted with a familiar face waiting expectantly on the other side of his peephole.
Emory.
Patrick opened the door slowly to avoid the squeaking thing it did.
“So, I was in the neighborhood.” Emory flashed this full-tooth smile/eye roll combo that looked not unlike that GIF of young Marlon Brando that everyone sends around. When Patrick said nothing in return, he leaned his head in the doorway and pouted with his lower lip.
Goddammit.
“No one’s ever in this neighborhood, which is precisely why I live here.” Patrick leaned on his door and it swung him flirtatiously closer to his guest. “Want to try that again?”
“It’s Coachella,” Emory offered.
“The music festival? That’s in April.”
“Modernism Week?”
“February, I think.”
“Palm Springs Pride.”
“November.”
“The White Party?”
“I forget what that is, but I’m certain it’s not going on now.”
“Dinah Shore?”
“That’s for lesbians.”
“I could be a lesbian.” His glasses were not unlike Rachel Maddow’s.
“Sure.”
There was nothing left for Emory to do but come clean. “Some friends of mine were renting a house in Palm Desert, so I crashed for a few days. Thought I’d stop by my friend Patrick’s and see if he wanted to go for a swim.”
Patrick considered the situation carefully, weighing the odds of waking anyone against his desire for company, and then stepped out of the way to usher Emory inside. “Kids are asleep.”
“They still here?”
Patrick made a face—Of course—but they had never discussed his custodial arrangement, so Patrick had no reason to hold him at fault. “Drink?”
The Guncle Page 27