“Pegasus is the symbol of wisdom and fame. Just like your uncle. Wise and famous.”
“He’s not that famous,” Maisie scoffed.
“Pegasus was also a fountain of inspiration for poets,” John added, leaning farther over the wall. “Some people called him the horse of muses.”
Patrick took full opportunity of John’s distraction to rub more sunscreen on Grant.
“You know, we wrote a limerick about you when you first bought the house,” John offered.
“Oh, really.”
“‘There once was a man named Patrick; who moved in just over the brick. We looked over the wall; he was standing quite tall, with quite an impressive—’”
Patrick covered Grant’s ears. “Okay.”
John laughed. “I was going to say picnic.”
Sure you were.
“A friend gave us one of those floats for our pool, too. Pegasus was the son of Poseidon, the god of the sea. According to legend, wherever Pegasus would strike his hoof on the ground a spring would appear from the earth.” John had Maisie’s and Grant’s rapt attention. “Palm Springs is known for its springs, as well as its many swimming pools, so a Pegasus seemed like a symbolic gift. At least according to my friend.”
“Wow, cool.” Grant turned and splashed and looked at his uncle through his green lizard goggles. Patrick massaged the last of the lotion into Grant’s skin and gave him a little push.
“Did you hear me before? Don’t get your bandage wet.”
John looked on, impressed. “You know, Patrick. You’ve become quite adept at that.”
“What?”
John glanced at the sunscreen. “When we babysat the other day, I had an awful time with the stuff.”
What was once the bane of Patrick’s existence, making sure every inch of the kids’ skin was coated with hellish lotion, now had become de rigueur.
“Huh,” Patrick said.
Maybe he was more capable than he thought.
After John returned to his gardening, Patrick took up residence on the pizza slice and he tethered the three of them together by placing a foot on each of their floats. They lazily sipped their smoothies, dazed in the midday sun. Greg had entrusted him for a reason. It was time to share his experience.
“Hey,” he began, but had to clear a frog from his throat. “Do you guys know why your dad wanted you to stay with me?”
Grant looked up at him blankly; Maisie focused on the sky.
“Because you have a pool?” To Grant, that was reason enough.
“Because Daddy is close by.” Maisie, in character, was giving this more considered thought.
“Because you were friendth with Mommy,” Grant added, as if unwilling to concede rational discourse to his sister.
“Well, all that is part of it. I do have a pool. And your father definitely didn’t want to be far away from you, and your mom was very special to me. But it’s more than that.” Deep breath. “You had an uncle Joe, once. Or, I had a Joe. He would have been your uncle, too, had he lived.”
“He died?” Maisie was immediately hooked. Patrick had observed her all summer in a quiet search for meaning; she was adrift without her anchor. The pictures she drew, the questions she asked, the stories she requested be told. One shiny lure and she bit hard.
“He did.” Patrick swallowed the rock he felt in his throat. It was hot, as it had been lying all summer in the sun. “I loved him and he died.”
“Was he your brother?” Grant asked.
“Was he Dad’s brother?” Maisie added.
“No, what? Gross. Why?” With all due respect to Greg, this was already a mistake. “Oh. Not your uncle by blood. He was my . . .” Patrick suddenly struggled with the word, although he wasn’t sure why. They knew exactly what the G in GUP stood for, what guncle meant. He wanted to convey everything that Joe was in a way that they would both understand. Partner seemed confusing, like they ran an investment firm. Lover seemed antiquated, although they had no context to understand why. “Boyfriend.” Out loud it seemed not enough.
“How did he die?” Grant’s preoccupation with death was different than his sister’s. At six, his search wasn’t so much for meaning as it was for grisly detail. It had taken Patrick weeks to understand it was to calm his own fears about dying. The more bizarre the circumstances were, the less likely they would happen to him. At bedtime each night he liked to list elaborate ways to bite it. Last night’s death involved falling down a mountain while skiing, being mauled by a panther, hitting a half-dozen trees, catching on fire, and then tumbling into some sort of wood chipper.
“He was driving.” Patrick led with that to ease Grant’s anxieties; it was no being launched out of a cannon into a cheese grater before having your bits filtered through a pod of baleen whales, but Grant was still a good ten years from climbing behind the wheel of a car. “And he was killed by a drunk driver.”
Grant sucked through his straw, slurping his drink and making an awful racket. Jesus, kid, Patrick thought. I’m ripping my heart out here.
“Were you in the car with him?”
Patrick nodded.
“Is that why you have your thcar?” Grant set his cup in the floating drink holder they’d bought their uncle for Christmas.
Patrick touched his forehead between his eyebrows gently, as if after all these years it might hurt. “Sadly, as much as I’d like it to be otherwise, I’m just not a boy wizard.”
“When was this?” Maisie asked.
Patrick had to do some quick math in his head. “Before you were born.” He reached out and intertwined his fingers with hers, further anchoring them together. “So, I’ve been at this grief thing a while.”
Maisie fiddled with her helmet, sweeping her hair back underneath so it wouldn’t stick to her brow. “When does it get easy?”
He thought about lying, but what was the point? Greg didn’t send his children to Palm Springs to be lied to, and even if he had they deserved better. Instead, he squeezed her hand and said, “Any day now.” And then
