“I can give them all the attention they need, thank you very much.”
“Wait until they find out they’ll be competing for your attention with you.”
Patrick took a few steps away as this new plan solidified in his mind. He could tell them about their mother. Not the mother they knew, but the woman he remembered. Under a cluster of nearby maple trees, his parents were engaged in conversation with Sara’s, the four of them huddled in a tight mass. Other family milled about, friends hugged, whispering secrets. Everyone sharing memories of a different Sara no doubt, but he knew the real one. And now so could her kids. He turned back to his sister. “Clara, I’ve got this.” He removed his sunglasses entirely to show her he meant business.
“Please. You’re terrified.”
Patrick shook his head.
“You’re not fooling me. You’re not that good of an actor.”
Greg emerged from the crowd, slumped, like he was experiencing a heavier gravitational pull. Patrick put his arm around his brother’s shoulders as Clara looked away. The problem with three is that it’s always two against one.
“I’m going to do it. What you asked.”
“You’re kidding,” Greg replied. His eyes brightened for the first time in days.
Patrick locked eyes with Clara. “I’m not.”
“You’re both morons,” she said.
“It’s my decision, Clara,” Greg told her. “I know what I’m doing.” And then, to Patrick, “Beautiful speech. Thank you. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t have done it.”
“Remember what telemarketers called Patrick when he would answer the phone?” Clara asked, softening.
“Ma’am?” Greg asked.
Clara confirmed. “Uncle Ma’am,” she said, repeating the joke to herself.
The kids ran by on a third loop and this time Patrick nabbed them. He got down on one knee and sat Grant on his leg.
“You’re Uncle Toilet,” Grant charged.
Patrick looked up at his sister, doing his best to mask any regret. He knew this was an audition, a callback for network execs—the last hurdle before landing the role.
“Let me tell you something. Both of you.” He ushered Maisie in, too. “As a professional who has studied comedy. Bathroom humor is cheap. Okay? Guncle Rule number three. Is it an easy laugh? Yes. But it’s lazy. It’s not the laugh you want. But, I think you’ll find if you work harder, dig a little deeper, find the joke that lies beneath the obvious one, that’s when your comedy will really shine. Understand?”
They both nodded.
“Okay.” Patrick slid Grant off his knee and stood up, resting his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. He was loath to employ his own catchphrase, but this situation called for a special exception. “And that’s . . . how you do it.” He winked at Clara, knowing it would drive her a particular kind of insane.
And then Grant had to spoil his triumph by yelling, “You’re Uncle Sewer!” before running off to find his grandparents.
Greg laughed heartily, which caused those standing nearby to turn. “Well, you told him to dig deeper.”
Patrick buried his face in his hands and grumbled. “Commedia dell’farte.” Grant may have won this battle, but Patrick was determined to win the war.
The clouds above darkened in a way they didn’t in Palm Springs. A thunderstorm was imminent. Clara motioned toward the car and signaled her husband that it was time to go. She had no desire to lose an argument with her brothers and get drenched.
FOUR
“Ith that an island?”
Patrick peered across both Maisie and Grant to look out the airplane window at what lay thirty thousand feet below them. “That’s a cloud.”
“It lookth like an island.” It didn’t matter the cards he was dealt, Grant apparently always doubled down.
Patrick turned to Maisie, whose legs dangled below her seat in a way that made it look like she’d grown three inches since takeoff. “There’s only one state that’s an island, do you know what that is?” Maisie raised her hand. “And don’t say Rhode Island, because they just threw that in there to fuck with you.” Maisie dropped her hand back in her lap.
“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.