His mother desperately tried to keep his attention. “Patrick,” she said with a surprising urgency, as if she could will herself through the phone and prevent him from answering the door until she could further explain. He ignored her. The anger rising inside him, the indignation that was fueling his thunderous stride, he was certain would be warranted. He’d have bet everything on it and he whipped open his front door accordingly.
A young Hispanic woman in a white blouse and beige pencil skirt held an envelope. “Mr. O’Hara?” She was maybe five feet tall, harmless enough.
“Sure.”
The woman read from the envelope, to make sure she had this right. “Patrick O’Hara.”
“That’s right.” He kept the phone clasped tightly to his ear.
“I suppose this is for you.” She handed him the envelope. “Have a good day.” Her task complete, she turned sharply and headed back to the car he could see parked in the street.
The envelope was plain, business-sized, white. The front had only his name, scrawled in what may or may not have been his sister’s handwriting. It contained multiple pages, folded to fit inside.
“Patrick, are you still there?” His mother. Patrick craned his neck to hold the phone to his shoulder, freeing his hand to empty the envelope of its contents, forms from the California courts. GC-210(P). Patrick scanned the documents. The headline:
petition for appointment of guardian of the person.
And beneath: Guardianship of the person of (all children’s names): Maisie Lauren O’Hara; Grant Patrick O’Hara. He’d all but forgotten Grant was named, in part, after him.
“Unbelievable.”
“Patrick, I begged you not to be angry.”
Patrick took the phone and held it in front of his face like he had forgotten what it was. “I’m going to kill her.”
“Threatening violence will not help your cause!”
Patrick hissed at the phone and disconnected the line. He tore through the petition and the supplemental forms until his eye fell across the section he was looking for: 9. The guardianship is necessary or convenient for the reasons given below.
The children are currently in the custody of their uncle, Patrick O’Hara, in Palm Springs, while their father completes treatment at the Coachella Sober Living Facility in nearby Rancho Mirage. Their mother recently passed away. After observing the children in their temporary home, I believe the environment to be unsuitable to their well-being. The house in question is a party home, with drinking at all hours, no discipline, no set schedule. It’s not amenable to children or the care that they need.
“Party home”? “Necessary or convenient”? Who writes these things? Patrick couldn’t stomach any more. He found the signature of the petitioner—Clara—at the bottom of the form. The writing was black, a duplicate. His copy was not stamped, but the originals were no doubt on file with the court, or at least well on their way. The young woman at his door had a busy morning of deliveries: Patrick, the courthouse . . . the Coachella Sober Living Facility.
Greg.
Patrick ran out his front door and headed right for the street. He looked left, then right, desperate to stop the woman, but it was too late. There was no sign of her; perfect stillness marred only by the screaming of the cicadas.
Back in the house, he closed himself in his bedroom. He dialed the Coachella Whatever Whatever Whatever and when someone answered the phone he said he needed to leave an urgent message for his brother, Gregory O’Hara. The message? Three words:
I’m handling it.
Handle it he would.
The Hyatt in Palm Springs was a bland behemoth, spanning an entire city block. It looked as much like a convention center as a hotel, but in a city of high-end guesthouses it provided necessary rooms at a reasonable rate. And it was exactly the kind of recognizable brand that would speak to Clara, who was uncomfortable with the unfamiliar and the frivolous expenditure of money. Patrick sat in the lobby with its slick tile floors and oversized furniture, perched with a clear view of the front entrance. He prayed he wouldn’t be recognized, or pegged as some sort of creeper. How long could he occupy space in the lobby of a family hotel without drawing the attention of security? His white shorts made it look like perhaps he was just coming back from a game of tennis; he wished he’d had the foresight to carry a racket to complete the disguise.
After he’d left word for Greg, he tried Clara next; she refused to answer her phone. He imagined having to stake out all of Palm Springs’ hotels, but a quick deduction and a confident call to the Hyatt asking to be connected to Clara Drury was all the detective work that was needed. She didn’t answer her room phone, either, but seven rings was confirmation enough for Patrick that she was there. As he fled out the door to his awaiting ride, Rosa was teaching Maisie and Grant the first several verses of “La Cucaracha” on these cheap tambourines Patrick had ordered one lazy afternoon, thinking maybe they had enough talent to start a band. They didn’t. As much as he was dreading a confrontation with Clara, that it would free his eardrums from certain torture made him feel better about leaving the house. His Uber ride was mercifully silent.
Patrick lifted his thighs one at a time to peel them from the Naugahyde upholstery, his skin like the fruit leather he had relented and purchased at the kids’ request for snacking. He scanned through his phone. When he’d exhausted his other apps, he opened YouTube to search for his channel. There were now two videos of the kids; after their mountaintop lunch, he’d led them back outside, much as his own father had marched Patrick across numerous battlefields at the height of his own summer vacations. But instead of citing
