The Guncle

there was no central air. His teacher told the boys that if they were wearing undershirts, they could unbutton their top shirts or remove them altogether. The kid who sat three desks over from Patrick was named Charlie and, man, there was just something about him. He had a twin sister in the other first-grade class—Heather, perhaps, or Leeza—they were the only set of twins in the school, which gave them a certain mystique, and both of their names sounded like low-cost department store fragrances. Charlie was blond. He was tall for his age and the other kids hung on his every word. His shirt was Western-style, popular back then, and had mother-of-pearl-colored snaps. As Charlie undid his shirt, each snap made a sonic boom in Patrick’s ears; he peeled it off and leaned back in his chair in a white Hanes T-shirt, looking like some sort of peewee prototype, a pint-sized Tab Hunter or Marlboro Man. He was effortlessly cool and Patrick knew he would never be that comfortable in his own skin. Not around other kids. As other boys removed their shirts, too, Patrick consciously buttoned his higher, as if removing it would expose him as an impostor. But he looked at Charlie that afternoon with his Steve McQueen swagger and thought, That’s what a man looks like. He remembered that thought distinctly; both of them were at most all of seven.

“Do you like being gay?” Maisie asked. It caught Patrick by surprise.

“I used to.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“It used to be cool. Being gay. Counterculture, you know. Rebellious. Now it’s all gay marriage, gay adoption. Assimilation. And some of that’s good. It’s progress. But I liked it more when it was different. Now everyone’s in a hurry to be the same.” Look at me, Patrick thought. Even I have kids.

“What’s wrong with being the same?”

“Nothing. It’s just not for me.” He reached for the napkin dispenser and held out a napkin for each kid. “You done?” Maisie nodded, and they all wiped their hands.

Would it be much different, Patrick wondered, if Joe were still here? Did part of his aversion to cultural absorption stem from jealousy? From being alone? He thought of his friendship with JED. They’d found a way to be together and not the same. Why couldn’t everyone else? “Never mind me. I’m just cranky today. It’s fine. Being normal. Especially for kids your age. As you get older, you will find the freedom to be exactly who you are and eventually no one will care.”

He pulled his phone closer so he could focus on Emory. The sexual tension was palpable; Patrick just wasn’t sure if it was between Emory and the girl on the screen, or Emory and the man watching YouTube in a mountaintop café.

Grant reached up and touched the scar on Patrick’s forehead and held his finger there for longer than Patrick was comfortable with. “You look like Harry Potter.”

Patrick took Grant’s hand and placed it back by his side. “That’s rude.”

“Why?”

“Because Harry was a Gryffindor and I’m clearly a Slytherin.” He hissed for emphasis.

“I’m going to call you Uncle Scar.” Thcar.

“Like Lion King!” Maisie added.

“No.”

“Uncle Thcar!”

“Stop.” He turned to Grant to show he meant business. “That’s homophobic.”

“Why?”

“Because they threw him off a cliff!”

“That was Mufasa!” Maisie crossed her arms, and Grant copied his sister.

“Yeah. Thcar was the lion eaten by hyenas.”

“Oh, yeah, I liked him. Misunderstood.” Scar wasn’t into assimilation, he was simply a power-hungry tyrant. Still, he wanted the attention away from his physical reminder of Joe. “Okay, watch this.” Patrick, the magician, pulling a sleight of hand. “I’m going to show you something else.”

Maisie leaned in, excited, and Grant crawled under the table and popped up on his uncle’s other side with a grin.

Patrick was grateful for the audience. “We’re going to watch a few clips of me.”

EIGHTEEN

It was Rosa who answered the phone. “Mr. Patrick!” She cupped her hand over the receiver as she waited for her employer.

“Who is it?” Patrick implored as he entered the kitchen, two paper bag puppets, one elephant, one dog, over his hands. It was a craft he used to do with Clara and one he was re-creating this morning with the kids; in terms of activities, he was scraping the bottom of the barrel. While grateful for the interruption, no one ever called the house phone except for telemarketers, and Rosa knew better than to bother him with solicitors.

“Tu madre,” she answered, looking worried.

Patrick’s face soured. His mother? What does she want? He tried to clasp the phone with his puppets, but failing, motioned for Rosa to hold the phone up to his ear.

“Don’t be mad,” his mother’s voice echoed through the receiver.

“That all but guarantees I will be.” Patrick hastily removed the puppets from his hands, tearing the elephant’s trunk in the process. He took the phone from Rosa and stood up to his full height. “Don’t be mad about WHAT?”

“Did you get your mail yet today?”

“It’s ten in the morning.” What was this about?

“The important thing to remember is that her heart is in the right place.”

Clara. “What did she do?” He glanced at Rosa, who grabbed a dish towel and busied herself.

“We received a notice. I wasn’t sure at first why we of all people received it, but apparently you’re supposed to notify everyone, and as the children’s grandparents we were on the list. It’s standard procedure, apparently.”

“What. Has. She. Done?” Patrick was being handled by his mother, and he hated being handled. Neal used to do this with news he wouldn’t like, parts he missed out on, or if the studio was dragging their heels on a new contract.

“I’m guessing Sara’s parents received the same notice.”

“Mother!” Patrick could feel his face reddening, his body temperature rising. He wiped his forehead with the back of his free hand, expecting to find sweat that wasn’t there. He was about to scream, Just tell me