“Like . . . I don’t know. Math. No one remembers math after high school. At least not the complicated kind.” Patrick scratched the scruff on his chin. In the summer he shaved more often than winter, but he’d been lazy the last couple days. He adjusted the jets back to medium. “Why people are so afraid, especially of other people who are different. Hate. I don’t understand why there’s so much hate in the world, but I guess that ties in with fear. That sort of thing. What do kids not understand?”
Maisie thought about this while cupping her hands around the tub’s jets. “I don’t understand why people have to die.”
Patrick turned off the jets entirely and let the water simmer to a placid calm. “That’s an easy one.” He turned to Grant to make sure he was listening, too. “Some people are here for a long time, and some people are only here for a short time. And none of us know. That’s the beauty of it. We don’t have any damned clue how much time we get. So. Guncle Rule number . . . Maisie, what number are we on?”
“Eight.”
“See what I mean about forgetting math? Guncle Rule number eight: Live your life to the fullest every single day, because every day is a gift. That’s why people die. To teach us the importance of living.” Again, Patrick made a face to keep from crying. Not for Sara this time; for himself. He had broken this rule. Over and over again. He reached out for the button that controlled the tub’s lights and cycled through the rainbow of colors. For years he’d convinced himself he hadn’t, that he was in fact living large. First with the show, and then in the desert—buying a home in a neighborhood with a magical name like Movie Colony, of all things, eschewing work and responsibility altogether. But he wasn’t living, he was hiding. From people. From friends. From family. From love. From work. From art. From contributing. From everything that mattered.
“Ow!” Grant exclaimed.
“What?”
“You hit my hand.”
Patrick realized he’d swatted Grant’s hand away when he tried to take control of the lights. “Sorry, bud. I drifted.”
Patrick looked out at the yard as he soothed Grant’s hand in his own. The solar lights were now at their brightest and they were surrounded in soft, colorful radiance. Grant chose the pink filter for the hot tub light, completing the effect; they were now floating in a warm, protective womb. The mountains were a faint echo against the last of the evening’s light, another, larger barrier protecting them, keeping the worst of the world out. Patrick exhaled, gesturing with his cocktail at the horizons around them. “Life is a very precious gift,” he repeated and took a deep breath. “You know what we should do?”
“What,” Maisie asked, genuinely curious.
“Throw a party. To make ourselves feel better.”
“What kind of party?”
“I don’t know. Anyone have a birthday?”
The kids shook their heads. Maisie’s was in January, and Grant’s, March.
“The kind with people. And lights and champagne and music and fun.”
“And kid drinks!” Grant shouted. Patrick had made the mistake the other night of making them Shirley Temples. （Thirley Templeth.） “And kid drinks,” Patrick agreed.
It was time for the hiding to stop.
TEN
Patrick sat on his patio in silence, swiveling gently in a chair, lulling himself into some sort of comforting, mindless space. He’d been there a while, lost in his thoughts, before Lorna’s bark pierced the darkness, followed by a gentle splash. It was John, on the other side of the wall, diving into his pool for his nightly swim; it always drove Lorna mad and she howled from the pool deck like a lifeguard yelling at swimmers from shore. Patrick smiled and swirled what was left of his ice around inside his otherwise empty glass before setting it on the table. He stood up, tapping one of the lights from the string of Edison bulbs that he’d woven through the pergola. He grabbed one of the other patio chairs, one that didn’t swivel, and marched it through the yard.
He secured the chair in the gravel that ran along the back wall of the property, tossed its cushion aside so he wouldn’t get it dirty with his bare feet, and stood to peer over the wall. He waved at John when he completed a lap and came up for air.
“Evening!”
John raised his goggles to his forehead and waved back. “Howdy, neighbor.” It was a typical John thing to say （howdy）， so Patrick didn’t cringe like he normally might; at this point he was inured. “Sit tight. Let me grab a towel.” He leapt out of the pool with a surprising grace and Patrick was relieved to see he was wearing a Speedo; swimsuits were optional in Palm Springs, never more so than at night. He dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist before joining his friend at the wall.