ALSO BY STEVEN ROWLEY
The Editor
Lily and the Octopus
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2021 by Ten Wry Wolves, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Rowley, Steven, author.
Title: The guncle : a novel / Steven Rowley.
Description: New York : G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2021]
Identifiers: LCCN 2020049239 (print) | LCCN 2020049240 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525542285 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780525542292 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3618.O888 G86 2021 (print) | LCC PS3618.O888 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020049239
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020049240
Interior art: Palm tree pattern © Rvector/Shutterstock
Cover design and art: Tal Goretsky
Book design by Kristin del Rosario, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Evelyn, Harper, Emmett, Elias, and Graham
Contents
Cover
Also by Steven Rowley
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Six Weeks Earlier
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
“Never love anyone who treats you like you’re ordinary.”
—OSCAR WILDE
“You said, oh girl, it’s a cold world when you keep it all to yourself.”
—PAT BENATAR, “SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT”
All right, here goes nothing.
Patrick held his phone in landscape mode and waited for the autofocus to find Maisie and Grant. The children looked slight, smushed together as they were, even Maisie, who was already nine. If the camera added ten pounds (and Patrick had spent enough time in front of cameras to know the old cliché to be true), then his was irreparably defective. Maisie brushed her hair out of her face; six weeks with him in Palm Springs and it was already lighter from the desert sun. Grant mindlessly tongued the space where his tooth used to be.
“Sit up,” Patrick encouraged, but it wasn’t their posture so much as their fragility that made his niece and nephew appear small, both of them a bundle of raw nerves eager to be exposed. He smiled as the camera brought them sharply into view. As an exercise, what was the point of the summer if not helping them come into focus? Patrick hovered his finger over his phone before calmly hitting record. “Tell me something about your mother.”
Maisie and Grant turned inward, each willing the other to speak. Patrick had never witnessed such a case of debilitating stage fright in his entire career. The two children negotiated in silence, almost telepathically, the way close siblings sometimes can, and eventually Maisie, the oldest by three years, spoke first. “She was tall.”
Patrick looked out from behind his phone. “She was tall? That’s it? Giraffes are tall. Your mother’s a giraffe?”
“NO!” They were both offended by the suggestion.
“Don’t yell at me,” Patrick protested. “It’s up to you to lead with something better than her height.”
Grant took a swing. “She was strong. One time she lifted the thofa to vacuum under it.”
“CUT.” Patrick stopped recording. Of course he wanted Grant to think of his mother as strong—Sara’s treatment had robbed her of much of the resilience that defined her—and he was even willing to overlook his nephew’s lisp, even though they’d been working on it in the quiet of late afternoons, but he wasn’t about to let Sara suffer the indignity of sharing space in this video with a Dyson upright. “You kids are terrible at telling stories.”
Maisie grew agitated. “Well, what do you want us to say?”
“What do I . . . Being in a video was your idea!”
Grant kicked his little feet in frustration, stubbing his toes on the coffee table.
“Don’t scuff my furniture.” Patrick held his phone out to Maisie. “Here. Record me. I’ll show you how it’s done.” Maisie started to protest, but Patrick wouldn’t hear of it. “Tsk tsk tsk.”
Maisie reluctantly accepted her uncle’s phone and held it up to record him.
“Higher,” Patrick said.
“What?”
“Higher. Stand up.”
Maisie stood.
“Higher!” Patrick leaned forward and coaxed Maisie’s arms in the air. “Honestly, it’s like you want me to have four chins. Guncle Rule—What number are we on? Know your angles. Everyone has a good side. Even children, who should be photographable from all sides but aren’t.” He sat back in his midcentury leather club chair and motioned for Maisie to hold her camera position. “Never mind, we’re getting way off track here. See the red button? That’s record.”
Maisie was losing patience, and the attitude she displayed when pressed was bubbling to the surface. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Stockard Channing’s real name is Susan.”
Maisie lowered the camera, annoyed.
“Well, you didn’t know that, did you? And now you do.” Patrick coaxed Maisie’s arms higher to reclaim his angle. “Susan Stockard. Stockard was her last name.”
“Who’th Thtockard Channing?” Grant asked, tripping over the mouthful.
“Oh, good lord. Rizzo?” Patrick waited to see if that registered. “In the movie Grease?”
Grant shrugged. “We haven’t theen it.”
“What? You’ve never seen Grease? When I was your age I watched it like a hundred times. The way John Travolta swung his hips . . . ?” Blank stares. “It’s fine. Grease 2 has a more progressive message on gender. And frankly, if you want the best of Olivia Newton-John, we should probably
