“Sure, I’m not driving.”
“Then how are you getting back to LA?”
Emory gave it some thought, but not much. “I always find a way.”
It was the thing Patrick missed most about youth, the assumption that everything would just work itself out. That and his back not hurting. He shook his head as Emory stepped inside and then motioned for Emory to follow him to the kitchen.
“Whoa,” Emory said when he saw what was left of Sara’s celebration on the counter. “You guys murdered that cake.”
“Yeah, we did a number.” He put some ice in two glasses; it landed with a nice clink that whet Patrick’s thirst. “You know Wang Chung?”
“Gay Chinese place? Over on Indian Canyon?”
“Not even close.”
“Then, no.”
Patrick glared at his guest skeptically. “When’d you graduate high school?”
Emory attempted a quick calculation in his head. “I don’t know. I took a test.” He scratched his chin. “When was Obama president?”
“Oh, god,” Patrick muttered while pouring two glasses of vodka; it was worse than he thought. He tipped himself a little extra before handing a glass to Emory. “Cheers.”
They tapped glasses without breaking eye contact and then Patrick led him back to the living room.
“Still Christmas, I see.” Emory glanced at the artificial tree. Patrick looked up, surprised, startled to see so much pink tinsel. It had sort of faded into the general décor; he hardly noticed it as out of place anymore. The tree had become a strange heart to the home, the white lights nestled deep in its branches pumping a flattering Pepto Bismol glow to their evenings. It was a salve when things felt unsettled.
“It’s sort of a tie-a-yellow-ribbon thing. Their dad gets back next week. I told them they could leave it up.”
“Yellow ribbon? It’s pink.”
Patrick sipped his vodka, letting it warm his throat. “Iran hostages? Yellow ribbons around old oak trees? Tony Orlando and Dawn?!”
Emory shrugged.
“Wang Chung is a band, by the way.”
“Are you sure? Because it sounds made-up.”
“It was the eighties. Everything sounded made-up.” Patrick rattled off a list of bands in his head: T’Pau, Kajagoogoo . . . Bananarama. “People did a lot of coke.”
Emory stared at him blankly.
Patrick cleared his throat. “Not that I’m old enough to remember.”
His guest kicked off a pair of tennis shoes so white that Patrick wondered if he didn’t clean them with Windex. Emory tucked a bare foot underneath him on the couch, leaning into the corner of the sectional. “So, are you like a dad now?”
It was a loaded question, and Patrick was at a loss for a smart comeback. He allowed himself to get lost in Emory’s face. He didn’t have the facial architecture that normally sent people scrambling; his nose was crooked in that sexy broken way, and his eyes were almost too far apart. It was inviting. It worked on him with an effortless ease, as if he’d practiced for years making his features work in concert, then committing it to memory so he could forget it all and project a certain nonchalance. The way he smiled out of one corner of his mouth was a perfect example. He probably learned all this in an acting class, or worse—a class on auditioning.
Is that what he was doing here? Auditioning?
“No, they have a father. I told you. He’s coming home next week.”
“I was talking about your mustache.”
Patrick felt his cheeks redden.
“It looks good. I’ll bet it tickles.” Emory stretched out his leg to give Patrick a gentle kick, then left his foot resting against his shin. He was wearing pants that were part sweat, part yoga with a drop crotch that hid everything and highlighted nothing, and yet were deeply provocative. Perhaps it was the ease with which they could be removed. “Don’t you go stir-crazy out here?” he asked. “What do you miss about LA?”
“Nothing.”
“C’mon.”
Patrick searched for an answer that was both benign and honest. “Everyone seems genuinely happy here. I’m baseline distrustful of it.”
“So, unease is what you miss.”
“Anxiety. Unease. You live in LA long enough, it becomes part of who you are.”
Emory leaned forward to set his drink on a wooden cutout of Cher’s face that people mistook for a coaster. “You’re a mess.”
It wasn’t even that accusatory, the charge. There was even some tacit acknowledgment in the delivery that everyone was a mess to varying degrees, and that much was hard to argue. But in this moment Patrick felt more together than he had in a long time and so he was unnerved by Emory’s words.
“Don’t worry,” Emory said, picking up on the look on Patrick’s face. “I like a good mess. They can be fun to clean up.”
Patrick studied the way Emory sat in front of him, face plastered with a goofy smile. It wasn’t like the diagnosis came from Clara, or someone else whose words would be charged. Still, something about it flustered him. “How are things on The Cracker Barrel?”
“Tillamook?”
“Sure.”
They stared at each other for a long time, until Emory looked down to pick something off his shirt. “Dumb. They’re doing this supernatural story line, which means it’s probably the last season. We start shooting next week. This time next year I’ll be old and washed-up. Just like you.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes. “You’re really good at this.”
“At what?”
“Being a dick, but like in a really attractive way.”
“Does that mean I can stay?”
He raised his hands like paws to beg. Patrick found it impossible to put his finger on Emory’s appeal. He was a chimera constructed of so many gay archetypes—twink, jock, otter, nerd—inhabiting none of them with anything resembling exclusivity. He even gave off some faint dad vibes himself in the way that twenty-seven-year-olds seem to relish growing a whisper of facial hair and anointing themselves with that crown as if three chin hairs transformed them into a Tom of Finland drawing. Emory embraced conformity while eschewing it, all while seemingly floating above it. Patrick didn’t know whether to love him, hate him, admire him, embrace him, fuck him, or kick him to the nearest curb.
“Listen,” Patrick began before glancing back over his shoulder to the kids’ bedrooms. “I would like that. But now’s not the right time.”
“You’re so sad.”
“Pathetic?”
“No. Downcast. It’s different. That’s all.”
Patrick was taken aback. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.” But Emory didn’t wait for Patrick to do so. “It’s just. Gay people have a sad history, but most of us, we overcome it. We’re kicked out of our small-town families, then embrace cities and make new families and build brilliant lives. We were beaten, and so we became strong, and now our bodies are envied. A generation wiped out by a virus, but our lives are still a celebration—we made frosé a thing, for god’s sake. We’re discriminated against, we become a political power. That sort of thing. We thrive, all of us. But you have this sadness. I see it.”
It was a lot for Patrick to absorb. “You see it.”
“I see you,” Emory said.
“You’re confusing me.” Or was it the vodka? He felt warm in the face and dizzy.
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are, I’m confused.”
“You’re not confused, you’re lazy.” Emory leaned in until his forehead was touching Patrick’s, and he rested it there until sweat started to form between them, cementing them together. Patrick grazed Emory’s lips with his own, not kissing him quite, but the difference was negligible and would not stand up to scrutiny.
“Where are you from, Emory?”
&n
bsp; “Boise.” He could have easily said, Dropped from the sky.
“Were you kicked out by your family?” Patrick’s question was barely a whisper.
“Once.” Emory wove his fingers between Patrick’s. “But they quickly welcomed me back.”
They kissed, much like they had the night of the party under the moonlight, when Patrick had pinned him against the stairs of his pool. He reached out and grabbed Emory’s face with both hands, eventually, reluctantly, pulling them apart.
“C’mon. Where’s your bedroom?” Emory asked. “I’ll do all the work. You can just lie there.”
Patrick studied Emory. “Do something with me.”
Emory crunched on an ice cube until it was gone. “I’m trying!”
For Patrick, these were uncharted waters. Did Mary Poppins have a bedroom that we ever saw? Did she ever invite a dirty chimney sweep to spend the night and . . . sweep her chimney clean? Maria the governess had private quarters we were allowed a peek inside. It had lousy curtains and she made them into play clothes. But when she was faced with sexual attraction she ran as fast as she could back to the abbey. Mame took a lover, and sent her nephew off to boarding school to make room for him. Should he hold out a few more days until he had the house to himself? Did any of this matter? These weren’t real people. He was.
“Okay. Come to my bedroom. I need your help with something.”
“I’m not helping you flip your mattress.”
“Not that. Although . . .” There was a sudden appeal to having someone else around. “No. Not that. Just come. You’ll see.”
* * *
Patrick and Emory lay perfectly still in the bed, feigning sleep but keeping a watchful eye on the bedroom door, Patrick aware the whole time of Emory’s warmth and quiet breathing; it was comforting. As if on cue, just after midnight it opened—slowly at first—just enough to let a small crack of moonlight shine through. His eyes partway shut, Patrick could just make out Maisie poking her head through the open door to see if it was safe, a pillow tucked under one arm. Convinced their uncle was asleep, she motioned for Grant and they both crept inside, dragging blankets, one of them carefully closing the door behind them. He listened to the rustling of bedding as they settled themselves. Emory reached his arm over Patrick and squeezed his hand tightly under the covers; it was easy to envision Emory stifling history’s most irresistible smile. Patrick counted to ten, then reached for his bedside lamp and turned it on with a click.
“A-HA!”
The kids screamed; even Marlene barked from her perch at the foot of the bed.
Patrick and Emory threw back the covers and sat upright, causing the duvet to flip sideways. “Caught you red-handed.”
“What are you doing?” Maisie asked, annoyed to be awoken fully, as if Patrick were trespassing in her room and not the other way around.
Grant yawned, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Is that Emily?”
“Emily?” Emory exclaimed.
“What is he doing here?” Grant continued.
Maisie looked at the two of them in bed. “Is he here every night?” she asked, the color draining from her face. It was dawning on her that their nighttime visits might have been more of an interruption than she imagined.
“We knew he wath your boyfriend.”
“Emory, not Emily. And he’s not my boyfriend. We’ve gone over this.”
“I am not your boyfriend?” Emory huffed playfully, delighted in making Patrick squirm.
“Not now,” Patrick said to Emory, who reached for his glasses on the end table. “Also, Maisie. Every night? Are you kidding me?”
“No,” Maisie insisted.
“Wouldn’t you know if he were?” Patrick asked.
Maisie scooped her bedding into a little nest around her, too ashamed to admit in front of company that she slept in her uncle’s room more nights than not. Patrick focused on his niece until he had her attention. She looked at him sheepishly. Patrick held her gaze until her look grew inquisitive, hoping to get his message across without embarrassing her further: You don’t ever have to sneak in here. I’m here for you, always. The silence grew awkward as the message took root, then Masise nodded, as if she understood.
Grant interrupted the moment. “What ith he doing here tonight, then?”
Patrick turned to his nephew. “Didn’t you get my invitation?”
“No.” Grant furrowed his thin, worrisome brow. “What invitation?”
“For the slumber party. Emory, did you get your invitation?” Patrick turned to Emory, who was more than eager to play along.
“I did. Mine was embossed! A real work of art. I particularly liked the card stock. And the stamp!” Emory stuck his tongue out playfully. “Ten o’clock, the invitation said?”
“That’s right,” Patrick agreed. “You guys are late.”
“We didn’t get our invitations!” Maisie protested.
“Emory got his, Marlene got hers!” Patrick threw his arms in the air. “Well, I guess we’ll have to talk to the mailman. Did you at least bring popcorn?”
“Popcorn for what?”
“FOR THE MIDNIGHT MOVIE! Oh, my god. There is a whole schedule of events.”
Emory leaned his head on Patrick’s shoulder, as if the kids would never get it. Patrick reached over and playfully mussed his hair. All summer he thought it would be awkward to show affection with another man in front of Maisie and Grant, but it was surprisingly a nonevent. More so, for years he thought it would feel unnatural to himself, and was shocked to learn that was not at all the case, either.
Emory plumped his pillow and tossed the rest of the twisted duvet to the side. “Well, get up here on the bed with your uncle. You want the middle? I’ll go make the popcorn.” He looked to Patrick for permission—did he even have popcorn? How far were they taking this ruse?
Patrick nodded to Emory, whispering, “Thank you.”
The depths of Patrick’s gratitude seemed to catch Emory by surprise. Patrick worried this would send Emory scrambling, or diminish his enthusiasm for the very unconventional date they were on. But Emory did not startle easily and generally seemed unfazed. Instead, he leapt off the bed with surprising athleticism, landing an impressive dismount that got perfect tens from all three judges.
TWENTY-SIX
By mid-August it had been so hot for so long it seemed like it would never be cool again. Relief wouldn’t come until it was time to set back the clocks; there was almost as much of the endless summer ahead as there was behind them. Eventually the temperatures would break. There would come a time when Patrick would reach for a sweater and heat the pool if he felt like swimming. The warm tub would become a hot tub again. It would rain, this time for longer. There would be new stars in the sky. The air would get downright cold, and in the higher elevations, snow would fall, capping the mountains with elite white powder wigs, transforming them into distinguished elders. Each year he looked forward to it, but now it seemed looming, encroaching—a time when he would be alone again.
Patrick and the kids had taken to long afternoon naps, waking for lupper, then finding relief in the night. Tonight the darkness offered not just comfort, but entertainment—a meteor shower best viewed in the predawn. The three of them dozed wearily on pool floats in the middle of the backyard lawn under a blanket of shimmering stars. As was custom, Grant claimed the Pegasus. Maisie selected the pineapple for her outdoor bed, while Patrick reclined on the lobster. Marlene curled up on a blanket, her claws too pronounced to trust her on something inflatable. It was two hours past midnight, and the kids were fighting to stay awake.
“Don’t close your eyes, Grant,” Maisie implored.
“I’m not,” Grant protested.
“They go by so fast.”
The meteor shower was best viewed farther north, near Joshua Tree perhaps, but away from Los Angeles and the never-dimming lights of Hol
lywood, and under the cover of the desert’s darkness, they had a decent chance of witnessing something. So far, Maisie had counted three streaks of light across the sky. Patrick had only seen two; there was a chance Maisie was inflating her count, on the other hand it was a blink-and-miss-it affair.
A blink-and-miss-it affair. If that didn’t aptly summarize their summer, Patrick didn’t know what else could. “Are you looking forward to going home?” he asked, and the sound of his own voice in the darkness startled him.
The kids didn’t reply, although Grant might have punctuated his silence with a perfunctory Uh-huh that could also easily have been a snore.
Maisie adjusted herself on her float; on the grass it was like trying to find firm support on a dreadful waterbed. “I keep thinking Mom’s going to be there.” And then she added, “It’s silly, I know,” as if her thoughts were girlish and unserious.
“I don’t think that’s silly at all.” Patrick pointed to a quadrant in the sky for her to monitor, a demonstration of his belief in her and how much he understood. In some ways it had been like they were away at some posh summer camp, the dramatic change of scenery itself a serum to keep the worst of life out of reach, at least for small stretches of time—fleeting as they may be.
“You don’t?” Maisie asked.
“Not at all. And here’s the thing: she will be there.” Patrick rolled his head to see if they were listening. “In the kitchen where she cooked for you, in your rooms where she kissed you good night. Some days you’ll hate it. It will feel torturous. You’ll be reminded of the bad things. She’ll be both so close and so far. But other days you’ll like it. She’ll be a shadow on the wall, or a reflection of the light, and she’ll look healthy and you’ll be so happy to see her. And it will feel like a great big hug.”
“How do you know this thtuff?” Grant muttered. Patrick was happy for confirmation he was awake.
“Because I do.” Because of Joe.
“Will you come visit so you can see her, too?”
The Guncle Page 28
