“We’re a fine trio, you, Greg, and me. Law of averages, you’d think there’d be a happily ever after for one of us.”
Clara’s lips vibrated, and she emitted a sound like a hum.
“And your children, stepchildren. They’re Darren’s. You’re worried about losing them.” In an instant, everything was clear—this was transference, pure and simple.
“No,” Clara objected sharply. “That’s not what’s going on.” She leaned in to prosecute her case, but the waiter arrived with their drinks, cutting her short. He placed the drinks in front of them, each on a cocktail napkin, then produced a small tray of pool snacks.
“Is there a room number for the charge?”
“There is,” Patrick began, producing his credit card before Clara could object. “But this is my treat.” He looked at his sister, who kept her intense focus on the ground. “Keep it open.”
“Thank you.” The waiter smiled and bowed awkwardly, as if he were leaving an audience with the queen of England. Patrick reached for his drink and nudged the other toward Clara.
“Down the hatch,” he said, then took a sip and let the slush coat his throat. He pinched the bridge of his nose to combat the inevitable brain freeze, then placed his drink on a side table. “I don’t understand. You’ve been in Palm Springs this whole time?”
Clara nodded.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“You kicked me out.”
“No I didn’t.” Did he? The last few days were already a blur. “You skulked away in the middle of the night.”
“See? This is part of the problem. Seven a.m. is not the middle of the night!” Clara kicked her legs out in front of her, studying how they looked in her culottes.
“You got some color,” Patrick observed.
“My legs look thinner.” Clara was impressed with what some sunshine could do.
“Guncle Rule: If you can’t tone it, tan it.”
Clara frowned.
“That one’s a freebie for you.” Patrick smiled, delighted to be under her skin. “‘Not a suitable environment’？ I have to tell you, that one hurt.”
Clara sipped her pi?a colada. She raised an eyebrow—it was surprisingly exactly what she needed. She took another swig of the drink before setting it on the table and pushing it an arm’s length away. She was here to set the example, after all.
“And did you think about Greg? Serving him with papers in recovery? Risking a setback for him because you and I can’t handle ourselves properly?”
Three kids ran by on the pool deck and together they shouted, “Slow down, it’s slippery,” each equally surprised by the other.
Clara responded, “Greg’s mess is Greg’s mess.” She reached for her drink inadvertently before trying to pass it off as a casual gesture. “They’re not dealing with their grief. Greg thought you could help them. We all wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt.” She leaned back in her chair. “For god’s sake, there’s another video of them on the internet. Laughing.”
Patrick crept his fingers into the sun and waited to feel a familiar sizzle. He bit his lip to keep from smiling. His posting the video had done exactly what he had hoped: gotten a rise out of his sister. “You’d rather see them cry?”
Clara didn’t have the words to explain how they should be, but she knew precisely how they shouldn’t.
“They’re playing a role, Clara. Inventing versions of themselves to mask who they truly are right now because everyone has told them to be strong. And that’s okay. That’s part of it. Part of grieving. Part of growing up.”
“And who is going to prevent them from getting lost in these roles? From losing a sense of themselves?”
“I am,” Patrick said matter-of-factly.
“You are.”
“What do you think gay people do? Have done for generations? We adopt a safe version of ourselves for the public, for protection, and then as adults we excavate our true selves from the parts we’ve invented to protect us. It’s the most important work of queer lives.”
“Patrick, you’re an actor. Enough with the psychobabble.”
Patrick let it go. He would never make her understand the bravery of the arts. The importance of exploring the human condition, particularly for gay people, who did so with gusto, and with the very tool that they were first rejected for: their large, beautiful hearts.
“Men are impossible. You know that? You, Greg, Darren, Grant one day, probably. The whole lot of you. I swear if I get through this divorce alive I’m going to shack up with a woman.” She watched as a father lifted his young daughter out of the shallow end and tossed her a few feet in the air; the girl squealed with delight. Later she might allow herself to think not all men were the devil, but she didn’t have time for such naiveté now.