“She will take care of your uncle until we see him again. We love you, GUP,” Greg said.
“We’ll make you a video,” Maisie managed through her tears.
“Yeah,” Grant agreed. “We’ll make you a video for YouTube!” Both kids broke free and rushed their uncle one last time. Patrick grabbed a stanchion to steady himself.
“See you on YouTube.” Patrick swallowed hard. With the lump in his throat, those were the only final words he could say.
He gave each of the kids one last pat on the head, which culminated in a gentle push, then watched as they slipped through the automatic sliding doors leading to security, and beyond that the gates; he returned their wave when they spun around one last time. He continued to follow them as they were bathed in sunlight in the open-air pavilion between the two terminals, watching as their shadows grew taller and taller until they were swallowed by the second terminal and disappeared out of sight.
TWENTY-NINE
Marlene lapped the yard, frantically sniffing the perimeters as if she were leading a search party in the wake of a disturbing disappearance; she’d even corralled JED’s dog, Lorna, into helping, the two of them weaving under and around the tall ficus that lined the west side of Patrick’s property.
“Hey! Get out of there!” Patrick yelled when they disappeared below the hedges for too long.
“Leave ’em be,” John protested.
“It’s just . . .” Patrick began. “Who knows what’s under there.” He imagined a few desert rats might have taken up shelter. But the truth of it was, he just wanted them to knock it off, even though what they were doing was not at all off-kilter. No one was combing a field looking for clues or specific proof of life, there were no milk cartons, or bulletins hastily stapled to neighborhood telephone poles, but there were indeed two missing children. Marlene, apparently, found the quiet as disconcerting as Patrick did.
Sure enough, when he returned from the airport, a box from the Hollywood Foreign Press was waiting for him on his doorstep. Cassie did not fuck around. Although, require a signature next time, Patrick thought. Inside was a shiny new Golden Globe engraved with his name, wrapped in a kind of new age packing material that both frightened and intrigued him; he squished it in his hands until it left his fingers powdery and with an unusual smell. “Get a load of this,” he said out loud, but there was no one there to hear him. The box included instructions on how to return his old statue, although now he wished he’d had the foresight to send it home with Grant, who always admired it most. A gift, although not from the tooth fairy. Patrick washed his hands and positioned the new Globe on his shelf before settling down for a nap.
When he woke, he slowly took down the tree while playing Dolly Parton’s “Hard Candy Christmas” on repeat, chiming in with a half-hearted effort to sing. He dropped an ornament and it shattered, making him wish he had access to the same packing material as the Hollywood Foreign Press.
Dolly warbled, “I’ll be fiiiiine and dandy,” her voice plaintive yet hopeful. It matched his mood closely enough. After the eighth time on repeat, he got up and called JED—enough was enough. He set the tree, still upright in its stand, in the garage. Actual Christmas would be here soon enough.
“Chicken’s burning,” John said, motioning toward the grill. When the throuple agreed to join him for dinner, Patrick took a Lyft to the grocery store. At checkout he discovered a box of fruit gummy snack packs, the kind Grant liked, which he added to his cart out of habit. He purchased them anyway and ate three of the packs on the ride home before throwing the rest away.
“Oh,” Patrick said, snapping to attention and turning the drumsticks with tongs. He was thankful for the employment to keep his mind occupied, to keep himself from joining Marlene’s careful search of the yard. The smell of chicken for his guests, the slight burn of the sweet marinade, made him both hungry and nauseous.
“It’s ninety-eight degrees outside, you sure you want to stand so close to the grill?” John sat at the far end of the outdoor table, shooing a fly away from the guacamole. He was dressed reasonably tonight, in shorts and a tank top that said day drinking.
“I like the heat,” Patrick replied. What was it he’d told Clara? It was cleansing.
“Suit yourself, crazy man.”
Patrick wiped the sweat from his forehead and moved the corn to the upper rack away from the flames. “Corn’s almost done. Chicken won’t be much longer. Where’d the boys disappear to?”