The Guncle

by Steven Rowley

  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.

  A young Hispanic woman in a white blouse and beige pencil skirt held an envelope. “Mr. O’Hara?” She was maybe five feet tall, harmless enough.

  “Sure.”

  The woman read from the envelope, to make sure she had this right. “Patrick O’Hara.”

  “That’s right.” He kept the phone clasped tightly to his ear.

  “I suppose this is for you.” She handed him the envelope. “Have a good day.” Her task complete, she turned sharply and headed back to the car he could see parked in the street.

  The envelope was plain, business-sized, white. The front had only his name, scrawled in what may or may not have been his sister’s handwriting. It contained multiple pages, folded to fit inside.

  “Patrick, are you still there?” His mother. Patrick craned his neck to hold the phone to his shoulder, freeing his hand to empty the envelope of its contents, forms from the California courts. GC-210(P). Patrick scanned the documents. The headline:

  petition for appointment of guardian of the person.

  And beneath: Guardianship of the person of (all children’s names): Maisie Lauren O’Hara; Grant Patrick O’Hara. He’d all but forgotten Grant was named, in part, after him.

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Patrick, I begged you not to be angry.”

  Patrick took the phone and held it in front of his face like he had forgotten what it was. “I’m going to kill her.”

  “Threatening violence will not help your cause!”

  Patrick hissed at the phone and disconnected the line. He tore through the petition and the supplemental forms until his eye fell across the section he was looking for: 9. The guardianship is necessary or convenient for the reasons given below.

  The children are currently in the custody of their uncle, Patrick O’Hara, in Palm Springs, while their father completes treatment at the Coachella Sober Living Facility in nearby Rancho Mirage. Their mother recently passed away. After observing the children in their temporary home, I believe the environment to be unsuitable to their well-being. The house in question is a party home, with drinking at all hours, no discipline, no set schedule. It’s not amenable to children or the care that they need.

  “Party home”? “Necessary or convenient”? Who writes these things? Patrick couldn’t stomach any more. He found the signature of the petitioner—Clara—at the bottom of the form. The writing was black, a duplicate. His copy was not stamped, but the originals were no doubt on file with the court, or at least well on their way. The young woman at his door had a busy morning of deliveries: Patrick, the courthouse . . . the Coachella Sober Living Facility.

  Greg.

  Patrick ran out his front door and headed right for the street. He looked left, then right, desperate to stop the woman, but it was too late. There was no sign of her; perfect stillness marred only by the screaming of the cicadas.

  Back in the house, he closed himself in his bedroom. He dialed the Coachella Whatever Whatever Whatever and when someone answered the phone he said he needed to leave an urgent message for his brother, Gregory O’Hara. The message? Three words:

  I’m handling it.

  Handle it he would.

  * * *

  The Hyatt in Palm Springs was a bland behemoth, spanning an entire city block. It looked as much like a convention center as a hotel, but in a city of high-end guesthouses it provided necessary rooms at a reasonable rate. And it was exactly the kind of recognizable brand that would speak to Clara, who was uncomfortable with the unfamiliar and the frivolous expenditure of money. Patrick sat in the lobby with its slick tile floors and oversized furniture, perched with a clear view of the front entrance. He prayed he wouldn’t be recognized, or pegged as some sort of creeper. How long could he occupy space in the lobby of a family hotel without drawing the attention of security? His white shorts made it look like perhaps he was just coming back from a game of tennis; he wished he’d had the foresight to carry a racket to complete the disguise.

  After he’d left word for Greg, he tried Clara next; she refused to answer her phone. He imagined having to stake out all of Palm Springs’ hotels, but a quick deduction and a confident call to the Hyatt asking to be connected to Clara Drury was all the detective work that was needed. She didn’t answer her room phone, either, but seven rings was confirmation enough for Patrick that she was there. As he fled out the door to his awaiting ride, Rosa was teaching Maisie and Grant the first several verses of “La Cucaracha” on these cheap tambourines Patrick had ordered one lazy afternoon, thinking maybe they had enough talent to start a band. They didn’t. As much as he was dreading a confrontation with Clara, that it would free his eardrums from certain torture made him feel better about leaving the house. His Uber ride was mercifully silent.

  Patrick lifted his thighs one at a time to peel them from the Naugahyde upholstery, his skin like the fruit leather he had relented and purchased at the kids’ request for snacking. He scanned through his phone. When he’d exhausted his other apps, he opened YouTube to search for his channel. There were now two videos of the kids; after their mountaintop lunch, he’d led them back outside, much as his own father had marched Patrick across numerous battlefields at the height of his own summer vacations. But instead of citing needless facts, the kind that his father had most certainly made up (“There was a pair of Siamese twins who were devoted Confederates, but only one twin was drafted and no one could figure out what to do!”), Patrick taught Maisie and Grant to juggle the enormous pine cones that lay on the ground. Or tried to—they would invariably land on the kids’ heads to squeals of rapturous delight. So much for Maisie’s own theory that their skulls were soft. He had posted that video to YouTube himself (under Maisie’s tutelage) to spite Clara.

  The recommended videos on the app’s homepage were foreign to him. One summer
of handing his niece and nephew control of his phone and he’d lost his own identity in an algorithm of nonsense. Almost. At the bottom of the screen was one suggested video calling just for him—Liza Minnelli singing the title number from Liza with a “Z,” her 1972 television special directed by Bob Fosse. Patrick smiled and hummed to himself—he hadn’t completely been obliterated. He pressed play and watched as Liza expertly walked the microphone over to the stand. Her white blouse cut as low as her white tuxedo pants were high. She was luminescent, iconic in her Cabaret hair and dark eye makeup. Patrick hummed to himself as she spoke to the audience. In his mind he was the one clad in a white tuxedo, wowing a room, leaning into a mic stand and complaining that he had a problem with his name. People call me “Uncle”—WRONG!

  He glanced up from his phone to see if anyone was watching. The hotel was empty, save for a woman across the lobby who stood with a walker, but she was preoccupied, waiting, he imagined, for a van. No chance he was bothering her. He jumped back into the video in time with the music.

  That’s Guncle with a “G” not Uncle with a “U,” ’cause Uncle with a “U” goes UUH not GUH.

  It’s “GUN” instead of “UN,” “CLE” instead of “CLEE.” It’s as simple as can be . . .

  GUNCLE.

  The sound of heels across the tile floor made him sit at attention, dropping the phone in his lap. Alas, the shoes disqualified their wearer. Clara wore more sensible footwear, suitable for walking, breathable for the heat. Patrick glanced and recognized the hotel’s concierge, she’d been back and forth across the lobby a few times now. She smiled at him in passing and Patrick returned his attention to his phone, already playing the next video in sequence: Liza singing “Ring Them Bells.” He searched for his own channel and for the video Maisie had surreptitiously posted. It now had two hundred and thirty-eight thousand views. Patrick lowered his sunglasses to make sure he was reading that number correctly. Almost a quarter-million people cared about some random video with Maisie and Grant? Unbelievable. He scrolled through a number of comments.

  Y’all these kids is cyoot.

  Hilarious.

  Now one with Patrick, please.

  I thought this guy was dead?

  What did I just watch? This is some white people shit.

  I wish Patrick was my uncle!

  And several dozen comments that just read: First. Whatever that was supposed to mean; these anonymous viewers all thought they were Columbus.

  The opinions were endless. He scrolled back through his camera roll, starting to consider what other content he might have. An audience of a quarter million wasn’t nothing. If he were to give in and post a third video, what would it be of? Him? The kids? He was so deep in the quandary, he almost missed his sister as she walked through the lobby’s sliding doors. Clara looked more confident than she had when she’d first touched down in the desert; she had acquired, at least, the proper wardrobe, and her sunglasses remained squarely on her face as if she were attempting a disguise. Patrick shrank in his chair, forgetting momentarily that his purpose here was to confront. He waited until she was right beside him.

  “Ahem.”

  Clara froze in place. Above them, floors of open corridors; a housekeeper running a vacuum across the top-floor hallway filled the open space with a gentle, distant hum. Whether it served to amplify or defuse the underlying tension, Patrick wasn’t sure.

  “How did you find me?”

  Patrick stood, leaving the backs of his thighs on the tacky chair. He ignored the smart of his legs and motioned for his sister to follow him. “Come.”

  Clara drew her shoulders back. “I’m not doing this, Patrick. Not without my attorney present.”

  She has an attorney. He motioned again, this time toward the back door.

  “Oh, no,” Clara said, as if she’d seen one too many episodes of Dateline.

  “I’m not kidnapping you, for heaven’s sake. You can follow me to a second location.”

  “I said, not without my attorney.”

  Patrick stared until Clara blinked, then marched deeper into the lobby toward the pool. He didn’t look back; he knew that she would follow, and lag no more than ten steps behind. She wasn’t the type to leave things unsaid.

  “How did you find me?” Clara wanted an answer. They paused at the sliding doors that led outside.

  “Like it was difficult. You would never stay anywhere without using points.”

  Outside, only a few people were swimming. Families mostly, with kids. It was late July now, not exactly peak season. The city was dead. It was the hardest thing to get used to for a New England native, where the summer months counted for everything. Patrick surveyed the pool deck. A young man in a white polo shirt and shorts approached with a drink tray. Patrick removed his hat and sunglasses, then ran his hands through his hair. For once, he wanted to be his most recognizable. “Excuse me,” he said, stopping the pool attendant. He had an enviable tan. “I was wondering if we could use one of your cabanas.”

  The young man looked back in the direction of the shaded tents. “Those are usually reserved for parties of six or more.” His face softened as recognition set in. Patrick could always sense the exact moment, the release of adrenaline perhaps, or the nerves kicking in. It was a subtle shift, but not an invisible one. A smile crept across the waiter’s face, his teeth sparkling white against his suntan. “But, I don’t see why not. Shall I bring you a couple of drink menus?”

  “What are those?” Patrick pointed to two frozen drinks on his tray.

  “Piña coladas. Doused with a shot of spiced rum.”

  Patrick smiled. Party house be damned. “We’ll take two of those.”

  As they settled in the cabana, Clara wrapped the straps around her bag and set it gently by her side. “Rules don’t apply to you, do they?”

  “What?” Patrick asked innocently.

  “‘Those are usually reserved for parties of six or more . . .’”

  “Clara, it’s the dead of summer. No one’s here.”

  The cabana provided welcome shade and comfortable white furniture that didn’t ask for your skin as the price to sit down. Patrick kicked off his shoes and propped an orange pillow behind him; he wanted to appear casual, nonthreatening, to set the tone. His mother’s voice, Don’t be angry. He was doing his best, for the sake of the kids, if nothing else. He had to be what they needed right now.

  Guncle with a “G.”

  “Clara.” He realized suddenly he hadn’t formulated a plan. “What’s going on?”

  Clara refused his gaze, focusing instead on the design in the outdoor rug.

  “Something’s happening. You’re in a lot of pain.”

  Clara frowned. They sat in silence until Patrick couldn’t take it anymore. There were other things he had hoped to accomplish with his day.

  “Something prompted your visit. You love these kids. But you’re not spontaneous.”

  Clara gritted her teeth, then relented. “Darren and I are getting a divorce.”

  Patrick leaned back in his chair. “Oh, Clara. I’m so sorry.”

  “He was having an affair. Multiple affairs, it seems.” She looked over at the mountains as if it were no big deal, but the betrayal clearly stung.

  “Monogamy is dead,” Patrick observed—casually, he thought, but it clearly hit Clara like a slap across the face. He apologized immediately. “Sorry. That was payback for something. This mess.”

  Clara chewed on her lip and it scared Patrick, the acceptance, the defeat. Clara spent her life raging for everyone, every person maligned by someone else, but she couldn’t summon the fight for herself? He sat perfectly still. Only after what seemed like an interminable silence did he inch forward, placing his hand gently on his sister’s knee.

  “You don’t deserve this,” he added.

  “No. No, I don’t.”


  “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.”