“It’s cheese,” says Patrick. “Just a soft house cheese I make sometimes. Goes well with the bread with a little honey on top. It’s not strong tasting.” He holds up his slice of bread and cheese to show us. He doesn’t smile, but his hat is pushed back again and his eyebrows go up and down like Uncle Carl’s do sometimes when he’s excited.
Then he looks out onto the garden and takes a bite.
I do too.
It’s creamy and soft, and saltier than cream cheese. It’s delicious.
Birdie tentatively takes a bite.
A minute later, all three of us are quietly eating, looking out onto the garden.
Birdie is right. The nearly black dirt sparkles under the sun, and the contrast with the stones and bricks makes the yard look like the beginnings of an actual garden. The sun is warm and it feels like a good day.
“Patrick?” I say, after finishing the first piece of bread. “Birdie and me want to go see Uncle Carl. Could you please drive us?”
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look at us. He looks down at the flower bulbs.
“It would just be for a couple hours,” I add. “Not long. We just haven’t seen him in a while.”
Suddenly, I remember the long stretches of time we didn’t see Patrick when we lived with Uncle Carl. Days, weeks, even. Mostly only when he came to help Rosie with the Quesadilla Ship’s engine trouble. Only twice did he come to Uncle Carl’s apartment.
We never asked Uncle Carl if we could see Patrick.
I wonder if Patrick thinks of that time.
“All right,” Patrick suddenly says, crumpling up his napkin. “But I’m picking you up before dinner.”
• • •
Patrick doesn’t come in with us. He just drops us off at the curb and watches us walk up the stairs.
Uncle Carl answers the door after one knock, which totally surprises me.
“I’m not doing so hot,” he says. “Have a giant headache. Things aren’t going well. I’ve been hoodwinked!” He puts out his cigarette and pours himself some coffee.
“Maybe you should drink water,” I say. As we walk in, I immediately see what’s wrong. Marlboro is gone.
He sees me looking at the empty spot on his coffee table.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s almost too horrible to even talk about. I don’t know what to do.” He’s pacing around and picks up his pack of cigarettes. “I go to sell Marlboro to this dude, this animal collector. I met up with him yesterday to show some pictures of her. The guy says my Marlboro has some kind of rare print on her back. Says she’s practically a celebrity dragon and that he’ll pay top dollar for her. And I must be dang crazy because I think this is a great idea! Great plan! He gets Marlboro, I get cash, and Rosie gets the ring of her dreams! It should have been that easy.” He sits down, lights another cigarette, and puts his head in his hands.
He doesn’t usually smoke when we are here.
“What happened, Uncle Carl?”
“This morning I go to meet him, right? A ways out of town . . .” He continues pacing and puffing away. “And that guy took my Marlboro and the money. Marlboro is gone!”
“Call the police!” I say.
“I did! That’s what I was doing right before you guys got here.”
“They’ll get her back,” says Birdie. “That’s what the police is for.”
“They didn’t even know what a bearded dragon was! And I talked to my buddy Rhett at the sheriff station and he just said that they’ll take the report but finding something like a stolen taxidermied lizard is going to be difficult.” He fans himself with a magazine. “And I’m proposing in less than a week! Isn’t stress the number one killer in America? Or number two? Right behind Big Macs or something?” He looks at his cigarette and then is like, “Oh jeez, sorry, guys!” He smashes it on his ashtray and then gets up and starts pacing again.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You’ve still got the balloon tickets. If you want, I’ll make a strawberry cake for when you land. It will still knock her socks off and maybe she doesn’t even want a ring in the first place.”
He picks up his cigarettes again and hits the pack in his hand. “I’m going down to the Stop-and-Go real quick,” he says. “Maybe Juan knows something.” And then he’s gone and we’re left standing in his apartment, not any closer to a finished proposal plan.
“I’m gonna go change,” says Birdie, taking off the black jacket and heading into the bathroom with his backpack.
I say, “What do you mean?” but the door closes and when he comes back out he’s got his old clothes on—his leggings with the rainbow knees, a thin leopard-print skirt, and his purple jacket. And the purple eye shadow.
“Uncle Carl still not back?” he asks, getting out his bow tie supplies and his Alexander McQueen book, which we secretly dried out Friday night with the bathroom space heater. Already Birdie’s eyes are bright and his shoulders relaxed.
“He’ll be back soon,” I say. “We’ll figure this out.”
Birdie looks perfect in his clothes.
Ten minutes later, Uncle Carl is back. And he doesn’t look any better despite having a free cup of coffee in his hand. “Juan reminded me that we only lose what we cling to,” he says, sitting on the couch. He puts his head in his hands and mumbles, “I cling, I lose.”
Birdie nods and pats him on the back.
I think this is the first time Juan hasn’t been able to calm Uncle Carl down. And he can’t go to Rosie, so I’m not sure what will help. Birdie says, “Don’t worry, Uncle Carl. You also have a bow tie. Let’s try it on, maybe?” Uncle Carl sits there, slowly sipping his coffee.
I go to the bathroom to splash water on my face.
When I come back out, Birdie’s like, “So, it turns out that Duke’s neck
