When he finished, Maisie looked at him like he had two heads.
“That’s Little Edie’s speech from Grey Gardens. You don’t know that, either? It’s on YouTube, you know. Joe and I used to perform that over and over for each other.” Patrick bit his lip, lost in the memory. They would put on the most ridiculous things and march through the house waving small flags.
“Who’s Joe?”
Patrick froze. How had he let that name slip so easily? “He was a friend of mine, a long time ago.” He moved past it as quickly as he could. “Guncle Rule number seven: In this house we wear what we want, it doesn’t matter if it’s for boys or girls. Anything goes, anything you want, so long as it doesn’t have mean words printed on it and it’s not making fun of anyone else. We don’t worry about what others think. Deal?”
“Deal,” Maisie agreed.
“Now, what would you like to wear to swim?”
Maisie touched the caftan’s fabric, rubbing it between her fingers. It was soft, rayon or something, not fancy （Patrick’s lesson on quality things would wait for another day）。 It took her a moment to gather the courage to say, “I don’t like girls’ bathing suits.”
“And your mom knew that, so she let you wear shorts and a T-shirt? But your dad wasn’t thinking and packed an old swimsuit of yours that you no longer like to wear? I promise you it was just a simple oversight. Go find something to swim in for today, and tomorrow we’ll go to the store and get you proper swim attire. That you like. A rash guard shirt, with long sleeves maybe, that would help protect you against the sun.”
A smile spread across Maisie’s face. “I know just the T-shirt.”
“Then that is the best costume for today.”
Maisie threw her arms around her uncle, gathering the fabric around his waist.
“Okay, well, don’t wrinkle it. It’s fashion.” He took her hand and walked her back to find Grant.
“You’re wearing a dreth.” Even through his goggles he could see that clear as day.
“You want one?” Patrick offered. He was even willing to cut one short for him.
“No.” Grant flinched.
Patrick tapped Maisie on the shoulder and gave her a little nudge in the direction of her bedroom. She scampered away to change, leaving Patrick and Grant alone. After a moment of awkward silence, Patrick offered, “This is a caftan, not a dress.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a dreth.”
“It’s a caftan! Do you know who Mrs. Roper is? She’s basically my fashion icon.”
Grant shook his head.
“From Three’s Company? Jack? Chrissy? Janet? SUZANNE SOMERS? Let me guess. You don’t like television, only YouTube. Jesus, you kids are missing everything.”
SEVEN
Patrick didn’t have to knock on JED’s door; Lorna the Labrador started barking the moment he stepped onto their circular drive. Eduardo, the E in their moniker, answered the door wearing some sort of pink wrap that resembled a miniskirt and not much else; it looked downright neon against his beautiful, tanned skin.
“Patrick, mi vecino, my amigo.”
Patrick leaned in for a hug, but not too tight; he didn’t want to crush the intricate dream catcher necklace Eduardo was sporting.
“How was the trip, you poor thing? Come in, let me make you a drink.” He waved Patrick inside, careful not to let Lorna escape. Of the three of them, Eduardo was the most physically fit, and while Patrick was unclear on his age, he suspected by JED’s arrangement that he was older than the late-thirties he looked; it seemed, at least to Patrick, that a throuple was not the sort of something you enter when life still felt full of possibility. But honestly, what did he know?
“Is that Patrick?” John emerged from the living room dressed in a more conventional costume, shorts and a tank top with a pineapple design; the two of them side by side would be a lesson for Maisie in wearing what makes you comfortable. “We were planning our burn. You just have to come with us this year.”
“Your what?”
“Our burn. Burning Man?”
“Burning Man.” Patrick acted as if it should have been obvious. “As much as I would love to,” he added as Lorna planted her face in his crotch. He leaned down to massage her behind the ears. “Scratch that. I would not love to. I’m not cleaning sand out of intimate places well into autumn.” His washlet, even with its mystery hurricane button, would be no match for a week in the windy Nevadan desert. “Besides, I came back from my trip with a bit of a surprise.”