“Everything you say is nonsense words,” Maisie protested.
“Look, just because you find these to be erudite conversations, I’m simply stating facts. Now, do you want me to show you how to do this, or not? Please. Hit record.”
Maisie did as she was told, if only to speed things along. “Tell us about our mom.”
Patrick closed his eyes and conjured an image of Sara. When he opened them, he looked squarely into the camera’s lens. “Our friendship began in darkness. Your mom asked if I wanted to see the view from the roof of our college dorm and I did. We took the elevator to the ninth floor and then inched up a final, musty stairwell, the fire door slamming shut behind us. Your mom led. She was inclined to do that. I followed, huddled tightly to her as if we were a duo of teen detectives about to uncover some ghastly twist in our case. We were sweating, I remember that, even though it was the second week of October. I must have been bitching about it because your mother called me an ‘artful complainer.’ Now, that was a euphemism if I ever heard one. You guys know what a euphemism is?” Patrick looked to each of the kids; clearly they did not. “It’s a milder, indirect way of saying something that might be otherwise harsh or embarrassing.” He studied their expressions to see if it was sinking in. “You’re both looking at me like you’re a couple olives short of a martini. BOOM. Euphemism for not keeping up.”
Grant scrunched his face. “I don’t like oliveth.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m teaching you two how to tell a story.” Patrick pointed at his ear to get them to listen. “So, the door below had locked shut and the one above wouldn’t open, and try as we might, there was no going up. Or down. We found ourselves stuck in that stairwell for hours with nothing to do but share skeletons. She asked if I was going to tell her my biggest secret, or if I was going to wait and do the whole gay-by-May thing. Your mother had my number, right from the start.”
“What’s gay by May?” Maisie was lost, but to her credit she held the camera position.
“It’s that thing where you wait to come out until sometime in your second semester.”
“How do you share a thkeleton?”
“Skeletons are embarrassing facts you want to keep to yourself.”
“No they’re not, they’re a person of boneth!” Grant was clearly ruffled.
“And they’re both very scary! You know, storytelling is building a rhythm; these constant interruptions are not helpful. ANYHOW. Turns out the door above us wasn’t locked, just stuck, and eventually we found ourselves on the roof, basking in the most extraordinary sunset. I had my camera with me, and I got off a few shots of your mom looking resplendent bathed in pink light. I told her she looked beautiful and she said, ‘You’d think differently if you saw me two noses ago.’”
“Mom had three nothes?”
“Grant! What did I say about interruptions?” Patrick cleared his throat. “That night on the roof she told me life was going to be easy, I remember that. I promised her the same, but she looked at me as if I were hopelessly naive. She said life was different for girls—harder. But she told me I was talented. That I might even be famous one day. I had that kind of head.”
“What kind of head do you have?” Maisie asked.
Sara meant large, but for the sake of the story Patrick said, “The kind with only one nose.”
“You are famouth!”
“Well, fame is measured on a sliding scale, but your mother was right about a lot of things.” Patrick’s eyes glazed, thinking how tragically wrong she was about others. “Eventually, campus police came and told us to move along. We’d tripped an alarm, if I recall.” Patrick paused; it might have been that joint they were smoking instead. “Our friendship began in darkness,” he repeated, remembering the stairwell. “But your mother? She was always my light.”
Maisie quietly pressed stop and lowered the phone to her side. There was indeed a right and a wrong way to tell a story, and her expression said she wanted to know everything that happened next.
“That was really good, GUP.”
Patrick leaned forward to reclaim his phone. He motioned for them to sit back together. “Now, let’s try this again.” He imagined himself Mr. DeMille, the children now ready for their close-up. “Tell me something special about your mother.”
SIX
WEEKS
EARLIER
ONE
At 8:38 a.m., the temperature was already hovering in the high eighties, on its way north of one hundred—unusual perhaps for May, but not unheard of. The desert sky was cloudless, a vibrant cobalt blue you wouldn’t believe was real until you spent enough time underneath it to ensure it wasn’t some sort of Hollywood effect. Patrick O’Hara stood curbside in front of the small airport, lost. The mountains surrounding Palm Springs were herculean; they worked overtime to hold back all kinds of weather—clouds, rain, humidity—everything except for wind, which accounted for the majestic windmills that stood like palace guards at the entrance to the Coachella Valley. The palm trees waved gently in the breeze, but did not so much as bend. In this moment, Patrick wished he had even a fraction of their strength.
An old Chevrolet convertible in robin’s egg blue eased past him, pausing at the speed bump, the driver taking extra care not to scrape the automobile’s low carriage. It hiccuped over the barrier, and then resumed a reasonable speed around the corner away from the terminal, following a line of dignified palm trees toward the airport exit like it was driving into an antiquarian postcard. It’s something Patrick loved about Palm Springs, the city’s timelessness. The days were long, and
