The Guncle
Page 33
Patrick glanced at his photo in the program and at those of his castmates. It made him happy, being part of a team. His solo show in the desert had gone on long after it should have closed. He was excited to show the kids what he did, firsthand. GUP. Their guncle. Onstage. YouTube didn’t stand a chance against the magic of live theater.
Knock, knock, knock.
Taylor, one of the stagehands, stood behind him, reflected in the mirror, looking nervous. “Visitor,” he said. “I told her there was no time, but she insisted.” He stepped back to reveal Clara standing in the doorway, holding a bouquet of roses.
Patrick chuckled. “It’s okay, Taylor. Thank you.” It wasn’t his fault. Someone in his position of low authority would never win an argument with his sister.
“For you,” Clara said, handing him the flowers. She took in her surroundings, seemingly unimpressed.
“It’s not The Tonight Show, Clara. The dressing rooms are small.”
“I’ve never been backstage at a theater,” she said. “It’s kind of exciting.”
Patrick hugged the bouquet. “Thank you for these.” He slipped open the card. Inside was a note. Welcome back, it said, and it was signed, Your biggest fans. “From everyone?” Patrick asked, and Clara indicated that they were. He placed the flowers on his dressing table, stood, and kissed her cheek. It was awkward, but forgiving, and Clara seemed to smile. When he stood back, he adjusted his gaudy powder blue suit, his costume. Clara smoothed the wide lapels. “Oh, hey listen. I’m supposed to do press tomorrow. Do you think you could meet the kids after school?”
“I’m happy to,” Clara said, and she was.
They stepped out in the hall and Patrick led his sister down the stairs and then a second set of stairs that led backstage. Break a leg. Break a leg, Patrick. Good show. Break legs. An enthusiastic high five from everyone. “This is your stop,” he said, pointing his sister toward the auditorium door.
“Break a leg, Patrick. We can’t wait to see you onstage.” She smiled before disappearing through the auditorium door.
Alone, he found the quiet spot backstage he liked. When he stood just so he could peek through the set window. Usually it was to watch the rehearsal before he made his entrance; tonight he could see the audience. Greg, Maisie, Grant, Emory, already seated, and then Clara taking her place alongside them, fifth row center. They chatted excitedly with each other, the theater alive with hummed conversation. Maisie wore a bow tie and Patrick melted. His influence.
For a moment he felt out of place. Like he was the audience and not the other way around. An alien on a mission to observe how people live. An advanced being, in some ways, with his own wisdom to share, pioneering cures for what ailed primitive humans. And in turn, they had magical elements, raw materials that were healing to him, too.
The houselights dimmed and the faces in the crowd disappeared. Instead he saw Joe’s smiling down on him. And then, for a fleeting moment, Sara’s.
Their friendship began in darkness. In the pitch-black of a stairwell that led to a roof. And now so did his relationship with her kids, although their darkness was very different. But they, too, had become his light.
“Thank you,” he whispered to Sara, for orchestrating this past summer.
Patrick retreated from his vantage point, taking his place backstage left. Kacey nodded, confirming his arrival; Patrick nodded back. Let’s do this. Chatter on the headset.
“Places.”
Final Guncle Rule. There are two tragedies in life: one is not getting what you want, the other is getting it.
Patrick had lived both; the second was preferable.
A hush fell over the house. The final unwrapping of a candy. The rustling of a coat. The crinkle of a program folded open.
Patrick was exactly where he belonged. An ephemeral thought as the stage light came on, spilling warm light across his face. He loathed it then; he loved it now.
And that’s how you do it.
Acknowledgments
I often say that novel writing is a very solitary occupation, but that’s more of an emotional truth than a factual one. While it can feel very lonely at times, the reality is I have access to incredible lifelines—for support, for company, for motivation.
At the top of that list is my editor, Sally Kim. I previously wrote an entire book celebrating editors and if you knew Sally you’d understand why. Thank you for recognizing the inspiration for my next novel right under my nose. You bring so much magic to the process it’s hard not to think of you as my Auntie Mame. I can all but hear you encouraging me in true Mame fashion to write on a light breakfast—black coffee and a sidecar. (Live! That’s the message.)
In these unusual times when we’ve all felt isolated, my agent, Rob Weisbach, has been a tether to the outside world and I rely on him more than I should. Rob is an extraordinary and generous talent and I’m so lucky to benefit from his immense experience. If there’s a punchline in this book that falls flat, I guarantee he pushed me to find a better one and I was being stubborn.
This book has many friends and they include Michael Peters, Kate Howe, Kathleen Caldwell, Wende Crowley, Harlan Gulko, Trent Vernon, Ryan Quinn, Zac Hug, Nicholas Brown, Chris Neuhaus, Roswell Encina, Julia Claiborne Johnson, and the tireless team at G. P. Putnam’s Sons who never missed a beat in these challenging times: Alexis Welby, Katie McKee, Ashley McClay, Emily Mlynek, Nishtha Patel, and Gabriella Mongelli. They are true professionals and their energy and creativity is infectious.
Stephanie Chernak Maurer, I miss you every day. I think back to the sixth floor and wonder how it could all have gone by in a blink.
Thank you to my parents, Barbara Sonia and Norman Rowley, for being examples of unconditional love.
I am the guncle of five of the most amazing kids, to whom this book is dedicated. I love them for many reasons and as the remarkable individuals they are, but also because they are extensions of my siblings Laura Rowley, Sam Rowley, and Sue Wiernusz. You were my first—and remain my best—friends and it is rewarding to watch you parent.
To the guncles out there and the many LGBTQ+ people raising beautiful kids, I say cheers. You’re inspiring a generation of children to love without prejudice and to celebrate their authentic selves. I’m in awe of what you do.
Finally, to Byron Lane: a thousand times YES. (In the acknowledgments for his novel A Star Is Bored, Byron proposed. In case anyone had read his book—you should—and then was waiting for my next book to see what my answer was, NOW YOU KNOW. At the very least, I wanted my acceptance documented in the Library of Congress alongside the contents of Abe Lincoln’s pockets and a lock of Walt Whitman’s hair.) I’m so damn lucky to spend my life with you.
About the Author
Steven Rowley is the author of The Editor and the national bestseller Lily and the Octopus, which has been translated into nineteen languages. He has worked as a freelance writer, newspaper columnist, and screenwriter. Originally from Portland, Maine, Rowley is a graduate of Emerson College. He lives in Palm Springs, California.
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