Would it be much different, Patrick wondered, if Joe were still here? Did part of his aversion to cultural absorption stem from jealousy? From being alone? He thought of his friendship with JED. They’d found a way to be together and not the same. Why couldn’t everyone else? “Never mind me. I’m just cranky today. It’s fine. Being normal. Especially for kids your age. As you get older, you will find the freedom to be exactly who you are and eventually no one will care.”
He pulled his phone closer so he could focus on Emory. The sexual tension was palpable; Patrick just wasn’t sure if it was between Emory and the girl on the screen, or Emory and the man watching YouTube in a mountaintop café.
Grant reached up and touched the scar on Patrick’s forehead and held his finger there for longer than Patrick was comfortable with. “You look like Harry Potter.”
Patrick took Grant’s hand and placed it back by his side. “That’s rude.”
“Why?”
“Because Harry was a Gryffindor and I’m clearly a Slytherin.” He hissed for emphasis.
“I’m going to call you Uncle Scar.” Thcar.
“Like Lion King!” Maisie added.
“No.”
“Uncle Thcar!”
“Stop.” He turned to Grant to show he meant business. “That’s homophobic.”
“Why?”
“Because they threw him off a cliff!”
“That was Mufasa!” Maisie crossed her arms, and Grant copied his sister.
“Yeah. Thcar was the lion eaten by hyenas.”
“Oh, yeah, I liked him. Misunderstood.” Scar wasn’t into assimilation, he was simply a power-hungry tyrant. Still, he wanted the attention away from his physical reminder of Joe. “Okay, watch this.” Patrick, the magician, pulling a sleight of hand. “I’m going to show you something else.”
Maisie leaned in, excited, and Grant crawled under the table and popped up on his uncle’s other side with a grin.
Patrick was grateful for the audience. “We’re going to watch a few clips of me.”
EIGHTEEN
It was Rosa who answered the phone. “Mr. Patrick!” She cupped her hand over the receiver as she waited for her employer.
“Who is it?” Patrick implored as he entered the kitchen, two paper bag puppets, one elephant, one dog, over his hands. It was a craft he used to do with Clara and one he was re-creating this morning with the kids; in terms of activities, he was scraping the bottom of the barrel. While grateful for the interruption, no one ever called the house phone except for telemarketers, and Rosa knew better than to bother him with solicitors.
“Tu madre,” she answered, looking worried.
Patrick’s face soured. His mother? What does she want? He tried to clasp the phone with his puppets, but failing, motioned for Rosa to hold the phone up to his ear.
“Don’t be mad,” his mother’s voice echoed through the receiver.
“That all but guarantees I will be.” Patrick hastily removed the puppets from his hands, tearing the elephant’s trunk in the process. He took the phone from Rosa and stood up to his full height. “Don’t be mad about WHAT?”
“Did you get your mail yet today?”
“It’s ten in the morning.” What was this about?
“The important thing to remember is that her heart is in the right place.”
Clara. “What did she do?” He glanced at Rosa, who grabbed a dish towel and busied herself.
“We received a notice. I wasn’t sure at first why we of all people received it, but apparently you’re supposed to notify everyone, and as the children’s grandparents we were on the list. It’s standard procedure, apparently.”
“What. Has. She. Done?” Patrick was being handled by his mother, and he hated being handled. Neal used to do this with news he wouldn’t like, parts he missed out on, or if the studio was dragging their heels on a new contract.
“I’m guessing Sara’s parents received the same notice.”
“Mother!” Patrick could feel his face reddening, his body temperature rising. He wiped his forehead with the back of his free hand, expecting to find sweat that wasn’t there. He was about to scream, Just tell me what’s going on, when he heard a knock coming from the front of the house. “Hold on, someone’s at my door.” Patrick marched through the living room on his way to the foyer.
His mother desperately tried to keep his attention. “Patrick,” she said with a surprising urgency, as if she could will herself through the phone and prevent him from answering the door until she could further explain. He ignored her. The anger rising inside him, the indignation that was fueling his thunderous stride, he was certain would be warranted. He’d have bet everything on it and he whipped open his front door accordingly.