The Guncle

by Steven Rowley

  “She will take care of your uncle until we see him again. We love you, GUP,” Greg said.

  “We’ll make you a video,” Maisie managed through her tears.

  “Yeah,” Grant agreed. “We’ll make you a video for YouTube!” Both kids broke free and rushed their uncle one last time. Patrick grabbed a stanchion to steady himself.

  “See you on YouTube.” Patrick swallowed hard. With the lump in his throat, those were the only final words he could say.

  He gave each of the kids one last pat on the head, which culminated in a gentle push, then watched as they slipped through the automatic sliding doors leading to security, and beyond that the gates; he returned their wave when they spun around one last time. He continued to follow them as they were bathed in sunlight in the open-air pavilion between the two terminals, watching as their shadows grew taller and taller until they were swallowed by the second terminal and disappeared out of sight.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Marlene lapped the yard, frantically sniffing the perimeters as if she were leading a search party in the wake of a disturbing disappearance; she’d even corralled JED’s dog, Lorna, into helping, the two of them weaving under and around the tall ficus that lined the west side of Patrick’s property.

  “Hey! Get out of there!” Patrick yelled when they disappeared below the hedges for too long.

  “Leave ’em be,” John protested.

  “It’s just . . .” Patrick began. “Who knows what’s under there.” He imagined a few desert rats might have taken up shelter. But the truth of it was, he just wanted them to knock it off, even though what they were doing was not at all off-kilter. No one was combing a field looking for clues or specific proof of life, there were no milk cartons, or bulletins hastily stapled to neighborhood telephone poles, but there were indeed two missing children. Marlene, apparently, found the quiet as disconcerting as Patrick did.

  Sure enough, when he returned from the airport, a box from the Hollywood Foreign Press was waiting for him on his doorstep. Cassie did not fuck around. Although, require a signature next time, Patrick thought. Inside was a shiny new Golden Globe engraved with his name, wrapped in a kind of new age packing material that both frightened and intrigued him; he squished it in his hands until it left his fingers powdery and with an unusual smell. “Get a load of this,” he said out loud, but there was no one there to hear him. The box included instructions on how to return his old statue, although now he wished he’d had the foresight to send it home with Grant, who always admired it most. A gift, although not from the tooth fairy. Patrick washed his hands and positioned the new Globe on his shelf before settling down for a nap.

  When he woke, he slowly took down the tree while playing Dolly Parton’s “Hard Candy Christmas” on repeat, chiming in with a half-hearted effort to sing. He dropped an ornament and it shattered, making him wish he had access to the same packing material as the Hollywood Foreign Press.

  Dolly warbled, “I’ll be fiiiiine and dandy,” her voice plaintive yet hopeful. It matched his mood closely enough. After the eighth time on repeat, he got up and called JED—enough was enough. He set the tree, still upright in its stand, in the garage. Actual Christmas would be here soon enough.

  “Chicken’s burning,” John said, motioning toward the grill. When the throuple agreed to join him for dinner, Patrick took a Lyft to the grocery store. At checkout he discovered a box of fruit gummy snack packs, the kind Grant liked, which he added to his cart out of habit. He purchased them anyway and ate three of the packs on the ride home before throwing the rest away.

  “Oh,” Patrick said, snapping to attention and turning the drumsticks with tongs. He was thankful for the employment to keep his mind occupied, to keep himself from joining Marlene’s careful search of the yard. The smell of chicken for his guests, the slight burn of the sweet marinade, made him both hungry and nauseous.

  “It’s ninety-eight degrees outside, you sure you want to stand so close to the grill?” John sat at the far end of the outdoor table, shooing a fly away from the guacamole. He was dressed reasonably tonight, in shorts and a tank top that said day drinking.

  “I like the heat,” Patrick replied. What was it he’d told Clara? It was cleansing.

  “Suit yourself, crazy man.”

  Patrick wiped the sweat from his forehead and moved the corn to the upper rack away from the flames. “Corn’s almost done. Chicken won’t be much longer. Where’d the boys disappear to?”

  “Dwayne went back to get the watermelon salad, and if I know Eduardo he followed to get his weed. Sit down, Patrick.”

  Patrick pointed to the chicken in protest, but John pointed with both hands to the chair beside him and his two hands seemed to overrule Patrick’s one. Patrick walked in a daze over to John and did as his neighbor instructed. He pulled back a chair and fell into the seat cushion. He crossed his legs, letting his Greek sandal dangle off one foot. John squeezed a small amount of sunscreen on the tip of his middle finger and stood behind Patrick. “Close your eyes.”

  “Oh, no.” Patrick was not falling for whatever trick John had up his sleeve.

  “Patrick. Close your goddamn eyes.”

  Patrick relented because it was easier than arguing; whatever was going to happen would be over soon enough. He felt John’s hands on his face, massaging lotion into his skin, starting on his forehead and working their way down. John massaged his temples and Patrick relaxed his head back. John’s hands worked their way from the sides of Patrick’s nose, sweeping outward; it felt like someone wiping away tears that had years ago run dry. Patrick couldn’t believe how intimate it was, how his whole body went limp, or how Marlene’s barking melted into the plaintive cries of the mourning doves that took residence on the power lines in the late afternoon.

  Coo-OO-oo. Coo-OO-oo.

  “You did a good thing this summer.”

  Patrick wanted to get lost in the sensation of lotion being massaged into his skin, but thought it impolite to tell John to stop talking. He made a sound, Mmmmm; his lips tickled. He snapped the grill tongs together a few times and they made a satisfying clack.

  “I don’t even want to think where those kids would be without you.”

  Clack, clack clack.

  “Thank you,” Patrick said. “But that’s not the issue so much as . . . now what?”

  “I’m of the belief that the answer will reveal itself in due time.”

  Patrick dropped the tongs on the table and they made their most satisfying sound yet. “You won’t mind, I hope, if I think that’s bullshit.”

  John smiled. “Nope. I won’t mind at all.” He worked his hands through Patrick’s scalp until Patrick tensed reflexively. “You’ve trapped him in here.”

  “Who?” Patrick asked.

  “The one you lost.”

  Joe.

  John continued. “That’s not fair to him, that’s not fair to you. You can’t hold on so tight.”

  Patrick lowered his shoulders, then the rest of his head, chin to chest, as John moved to the back of his neck.

  “Pain doesn’t lift until you feel it.” And as if to prove a point, John found a knot in Patrick’s shoulder and squeezed until a burning heat shot up and down his side. He did that two or three more times, and just as Patrick was about to tell him to stop, he suddenly felt free of something he didn’t even know he was carrying. “See?” John rested his hands on Patrick’s shoulders as Patrick slowly opened his eyes. “I’m also a licensed massage therapist.”

  “Minister. Grief counselor. Masseur. Is there anything you’re not good it?” Patrick asked as he stood to turn the chicken. Patrick’s sliding glass door opened and Eduardo and Dwayne reappeared.

  “Monogamy,” John answered with a laugh.

  Patrick bellowed across the lawn. “MARLENE!”

  John jumped, startled. Marlene looked up from the ficus.

 
“They’re not in there. They went home.” Patrick shook his head. How was he going to explain to a dog when he could barely explain to himself—he’d spent half the afternoon alone in a house wondering how walls could be so quiet. Patrick pulled a bottle of rosé out of the ice bucket and poured himself a glass. He placed his hand on the base of the stem and turned the glass three times. “Is this what life was like before?”

  “Nice, isn’t it?” Dwayne observed.

  Boring, Patrick thought. How had he done this for four years?

  “You’ll get used to it right quick.” John placed his hand on his friend’s. “Like riding a bike.”

  They sat quietly, the only sound the evening wind, which, for Patrick, carried the echo of Grant’s probing questions: How did cavemen make tools if they didn’t have any tools? How do you kill a ghost? Why do I need a mirror to see my eyes?

  Patrick leaned in to his wineglass. He could barely make out his reflection; the wine gave him a youthful, pinkish hue. “You’re going to have to change into your night-drinking shirt soon.”

  John looked puzzled. Patrick pointed to his day drinking shirt.

  Eduardo finished packing a bowl and held it up to the others. “Any takers?” He slid his lighter toward Patrick.

  “I’m good,” Patrick said, even though he wasn’t sure that was true.

  * * *

  Patrick lay on his couch with his legs splayed, creating his custom nook for Marlene. She’d tired of her search for Maisie and Grant and slept soundly in this nest; sleep wasn’t coming so easily for Patrick. He was exhausted for sure, but too unsettled to fully relax. The house seemed wrong. The only toys on the floor were the dog’s. The Christmas tree was gone. That corner of the room had come to feel celebratory, now it looked dark, like depression, and he couldn’t muster the energy to move a lamp to shine light in its place. Perhaps he should have done a few hits with Eduardo before JED went home. Just to make him sleepy.

  He thought about the hot tub, but instead opened his phone to his YouTube channel. Another slew of new subscribers. He hoped they knew what they were signing up for; at the moment he didn’t see his appeal. Now that the kids were gone, he wasn’t sure what to generate for content. Clips of Marlene, perhaps, snoring as she was now. In the throes of a dream, her legs moving as if she were running, tearing through the grass in the gentle shade of evening. That was good for one video, maybe two—people seemed to post a lot about their dogs. Should he post one of himself? Did anyone really care to see him? He replayed the first video he posted with Maisie and Grant, at Lulu’s with the cotton candy. It had four hundred and eighty-eight thousand views. Four hundred eighty-eight thousand people, he thought, who should find better things to do with their lives. He turned up the volume just to hear their laughter fill the house. Marlene lifted her head, alert, as if she’d been bamboozled. The kids were indeed here, hiding, and it might be up to her to find them. How could she have so easily given up the game? And yet, a quick survey of the living room made it pretty clear it was still just the two of them. No need to get down from a perfectly good perch on the couch. Patrick grinned a stupid grin, as wide as it was involuntary. Perhaps he was judging his new followers too harshly. Maybe they knew exactly what they were doing. Maybe this was the very best thing to do with free time. He watched the video of them from the party, from atop the mountain, and the others that he had posted. He scrolled back to a video he had shared of the final curtain call of The People Upstairs. Sixteen posts ago. Then a four-year gap where he was invisible. What had he done with his life in that time? Without documentation, how could he remember?

  His phone rang, interrupting his dark thoughts. The word agent flashed on his caller ID. He stared at his phone, not quite sure he had the strength to answer. “Martha Mountain-Range?” he asked when he did, imagining it a hyphenated, married name. He’d exhausted his topographical knowledge, so he’d have to find a new shtick. “Do I have to send the dented one back? They would make iconic bookends.”

  “There’s interest,” Cassie blurted.

  It took a moment for those two words to register.

  “Strong interest. It’s TV. Network. A family sitcom. It was going to be a single-father sort of thing—a modern take on Father Knows Best—but they saw your YouTube videos with the kids and they are freaking out. They would change the role to an uncle. Totally open. You meet. You dazzle them.”

  “Gay uncle.”

  “What?”

  “Guncle. Can the uncle be gay?”

  “They want you, Patrick. If all goes well, they would rewrite the whole thing for you.”

  Patrick said nothing. He just held the phone up to his ear and listened to the sound of her frustrated breathing. It was like a meditation app that carefully slowed his pounding heart.

  “PATRICK. In New York.”

  Patrick’s eyes grew red and he tickled Marlene under the chin.

  “This is it. This is what you wanted. Don’t you have anything to say?”

  Patrick took one deep, sharp breath. “That ain’t it, kid. That ain’t it.”

  “THE FUCK IT’S NOT!”

  Patrick sat bolt upright. It had only been a few short weeks, but calling him late at night without apologizing? Bringing him offers? Swearing at him through the phone? Cassie was going to make one hell of an agent. He liked her in this moment more than ever.

  Not that Cassie could see, but he conjured a wry smile. “I just hope I’m not a Dance: 10; Looks: 3.”

  Cassie let fly with an infuriated wail that sang through the phone, as if wondering why she ever wanted this promotion at all. “What are you talking about?”

  Patrick forced himself not to laugh; why was it so much fun to exasperate her? “I’m doing A Chorus Line, Cassie. I’m quoting your show.”

  The frustrated clacking of a keyboard as Cassie continued undeterred. “I’ll see you in Los Angeles. Do I need to come get you? Escort you into the meeting? They want to see you on Monday. Can I trust you to be there?”

  “Los Angeles,” Patrick uttered, confused. “You said New York.”

  “The meeting’s in Los Angeles. The show’s in New York.”

  Patrick paused. He supposed that made sense. All the development people were in LA. “What are you doing? What’s all that typing?”

  “I’m emailing my assistant to get me a copy of that damn musical.”

  Patrick promised his agent he would dazzle; the last thing he did before he fell asleep on the couch was book a flight to LA.

  * * *

  On Saturday Patrick walked his bicycle around the block to JED’s house. As he approached the front door Lorna started to bark. There were no cars in the driveway. Just as well. He’d decided to stay in LA for a time, and had more than his fill of goodbyes. He placed the bike across their front door, popped the kickstand down, and fished a note out of his pocket. Gifting his neighbor a bicycle had been on his mind since John had confessed at the start of the summer that the theft of his own bike had marked the end of his childhood. (If only the kids’ bikes would suit Eduardo and Dwayne, he could have left a gift for all three.) Patrick didn’t see much use for it anymore; in fact, depending on how things went in LA, he could see himself calling JED in a few week’s time, offering them first dibs on more of his belongings. But one thing at a time. It was dangerous to put the basket before the bicycle.

  Patrick tucked his note in the tire’s front spokes. It read: For John. A childhood should never be over.

  It surprised Patrick, their friendship, the deep affection he felt for John. For all three of them, really. He smiled, happy that life could still surprise. Maybe there were still a few good ones out there for him yet. He placed his palm on their front door as a gentle adieu, then walked to the corner to call a Lyft to the bank to withdraw money for Rosa. Advance her some salary to keep an eye on the place. He’d write her a note, too. Invite her family to use the po
ol whenever they liked.

  Everything was happening so fast.

  * * *

  Marlene stuck her head out of the camel-colored leather pet carrier just as the plane picked up speed down the runway, lifting one eyebrow and then the other as if to say, What the actual f*@k? Patrick leaned down to comfort her; they were both in a slight diazepam haze. He’d read a magazine article once, soon after he booked his first show and it became clear that air travel would be part of his new life, about the best ways to combat a fear of flying. His wasn’t so much a fear of flying as a general anxiety about crashing, but still he remembered the article’s tips as if he’d read them yesterday. Not all of them were available to Marlene. Check the turbulence forecast. Familiarize yourself with airplane sounds. Talk to the flight attendants about any specific concerns. But one jumped out at him: hold a photograph of your destination. He reached for his phone in his pocket and opened his camera roll to a photo of Maisie and Grant wrapped in bright towels by his pool. He showed it to Marlene.

  “We’re on our way,” he said. It was a roundabout journey, west before east, but this was the start of their new life. He took a good look at the kids himself before tucking his phone back in his pocket as the plane left the ground and rose upward into the sky.

  THIRTY

  “Patrick.” The man introduced himself as Scott LaBerge, and then went around the conference room saying words that may or may not have been names. Brant. Abner. Dottie. Basil. Sable. Kelsi. Quill. Patrick greeted each face, determined to forget these unfortunate names as quickly as he was assaulted with them. Were there assigned seats? There was a bottle of water in front of each chair, but no name cards; he waited to be told what to do.

  It was downright cool in Los Angeles (at least in comparison to Palm Springs). Cassie had met him at LAX, dressed in an upgraded wardrobe that suited her new title, and spent the ride filling Patrick’s head with encouraging nonsense. They arrived at the studio lot early. She begged to accompany him to the meeting, but he assured her he worked best on his own; she said she’d eagerly wait for his call and left him with time to explore. He strolled past bungalows and soundstages and backlot sets, that one town square that’s stood in for many a whistle-stop, the alley with its urban flexibility, the White House portico (an unexpected sprout, even in a very fertile garden), and the enormous tank you could flood for water scenes. Several faces looked familiar, a few people waved. A foursome on an electric golf cart pointed as they quietly whizzed by. It felt both familiar and strange, home and foreign. Patrick kept his hands in his pockets and made his best attempt to enjoy it; it was like trying on an old sweater to see if it still fit.