“Where is your better two-thirds?”
“They went to the movies to escape the heat. I opted for a swim instead. Nothing really to see in the summer if you’re not into superheroes and such, people wearing masks.” John took the goggles off his head, his own mask, and played with the elastic strap. “I’m proud of you, Patrick. Talking to the kids. Now, that’s heroic.”
Patrick agreed, but he wasn’t really up for the compliment. “I’m not sure I’m as equipped to handle this as I thought. And I didn’t think I was all that equipped to begin with. It’s hard to get through to them. I can’t get them to relax. Everything I do seems wrong. Not how their mom used to do it.”
“They’re in shock.”
“Still, there was some part of me that assumed they’d be kids. Resilient, you know? They’d grieve, yes. But also fall for my charms and laugh and play in the pool and be . . . free.” Patrick had even hoped that perhaps he might learn from them. That they might know the path out and somehow light the way.
“You could have them talk to someone. A child psychologist, maybe. Someone like that.”
Patrick nodded and added a cough. There was a lump in his throat that he wanted desperately to clear. “They want to know about heaven. So, maybe a priest. If only we knew one.” He smiled, the thought almost ridiculous.
John wiped his forehead. “I was a minister.” The way he tossed it off so casually, solely as information without a hint of boasting, caught Patrick by surprise. He pushed himself back from the wall so hard, he almost fell off his chair. “Don’t look so surprised,” he added.
“How should I look, then? You’re kidding me.” Patrick thought back to their conversation the other day. “A coke-addicted, Burning Man–attending, polyamorous clergyman.”
John glanced down at his feet, kicking some of the gravel on his own side of the wall until it came to a rest near a succulent. “I know you think we’re silly people.”
“Oh, come on,” Patrick protested, but of course it was the truth. They were a throuple with a collective name.
“It’s okay. A lot of people do.” John craned his neck to look back at his house wistfully. “It’s an unusual arrangement we have. We’re the butt of a lot of jokes. We get it. But that doesn’t mean we’re not serious-minded.”
They were silent for a moment. Patrick looked up at the sky, hoping for a shooting star. Instead, the sky was frozen—not even the red lights of a passing plane—although they were enveloped in a warm, gentle breeze.
“What are you doing out here, Patrick?”
“Thought I could use an adult to talk to.”
“No,” John said. He unwrapped his towel from his waist and placed it gently over his shoulders like a capelet. “What are you doing in the desert?”
Patrick rubbed his eyes until he saw shooting stars on the backs of his eyelids. “I needed a break.”
“It’s been four years.”
“Has it?”
“I think you know that it has.”
Patrick bit the inside of his cheek until he thought he tasted blood. “I had a visitor the other day. A young woman. She asked me the same thing, more or less.”
“How did you answer?”
“I didn’t.” Patrick leaned back in on the wall. “I couldn’t.”
“Because you don’t really know.” If Patrick wasn’t going to answer, then John was going to answer it for him. He had better things to do than stand by a wall in the night listening to the cicadas. Like get back to his swim, for instance.
“I had this agent. Neal. Had, have. We were at a party once. The last year of the show. One hundred episodes. One hundred fifty. Something like that. Who even remembers? Everyone was wistful, but restless. Ready to move on, I think; at least I certainly was. But it was a good run and there was no reason to pretend that it wasn’t. Anyhow, Neal was there. I suppose I invited him. Or maybe agents just get invited. There was an enormous cake, I remember that. And somewhere near the end of the night, he grabbed me.”
“What do you mean, grabbed you. Grabbed you where?”
“By the taco truck.”
“No, I meant . . .”
“I know what you meant.” Patrick’s chair slipped in the gravel and he jumped on it twice so the legs would dig in. “He grabbed my crotch.” Patrick exhaled. “We were both drunk. It wasn’t even sexual.”
“Of course it was sexual!”
Patrick was surprised by such a traditional definition from someone whose husbands were on a movie date. “He’s straight. Married!”
“It’s been my experience that doesn’t mean a whole lot. You were assaulted, Patrick.”
“I suppose. It was also a sign of ownership. He owned me. He got me that show and he had me by the balls. And it just made me think, ‘I’m making so much money for this person. WHY?’ It wasn’t fun anymore. And so I just kind of . . . stopped.”
John reached down to pat Lorna, who had snuggled up against his side. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“It’s fine. It didn’t really feel like assault. I mean, it was. But I’m not a victim.”
John swung his arms around a few times like an Olympic swimmer stretching; he caught his towel just as it slipped off his shoulders. “That’s not why you’re here, though.”
Patrick pretended to give that some thought. He didn’t like being so clearly seen. “Do you believe in heaven, Reverend?”
“I do.”
“And hell?”
“I suppose. Do you?”
“Hell on earth,” Patrick said, and he did a few vertical push-ups off the wall. “There was a guy once. I loved him and he died.”
“AIDS?”
“Jesus,” Patrick replied, but he supposed that was the difference in their ages. “Drunk driver.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think I ever healed.” Patrick stopped there, and John didn’t press. They each avoided the other’s eyes.
“Do you miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Acting.”
Patrick thought about it. “I miss him.” The insects were loud tonight. The breeze picked up again and swept Patrick’s hair.
“Yes, but he’s not coming back.”
Patrick was almost blown
