Patrick didn’t want to be included in this diagnosis. “Maybe he’s comfortable in here.”
Greg offered a dismissive shrug. “Trapped, nonetheless.”
And it was true. The bird didn’t belong inside. There might have been comforts—air-conditioning, a Starbucks where people bought muffins that crumbled and left behind delicious, bird-sized treats—but it was ultimately out of place. An airport was not where a bird belonged; even the man-made birds needed to pull back from their gates to pick up speed and fly. The only way out was the sliding door. The bird, high above them, would have to sink lower in order to make its escape.
Patrick heard thundering footsteps with no sign of slowing. Maisie hit her uncle’s legs with such force, Patrick took three steps backward to avoid toppling over. She wrapped her arms around him. “Bye, GUP.” She didn’t let go.
Grant arrived with a second, less forceful, thump, adding to their hug by gripping his sister, his little hands just reaching Patrick’s leg. “Bye,” he said, and added something in Grant-speak, something like Thee you thoon.
Maisie wore one of her rash guard shirts, as if the airplane might have a pool. Patrick smiled. He crouched to roll the sleeves up her forearms. “This is the best costume for today,” he started.
Greg looked puzzled.
Maisie lifted her uncle’s chin and replied, “And I can always take off the skirt and use it as a cape.”
“Maisie, you’re not wearing a skirt. You hate skirts.” Greg scratched his chin. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re doing a bit,” Patrick replied.
“It’s from Grey Gardens,” Maisie added.
“What’s Grey Gardens?” Greg was totally confused.
Maisie sighed. “It’s a 1975 documentary by the Maysles brothers. We watched it while you were gone.”
“I gave these kids an education,” Patrick said. It sounded like edu-gay-tion.
Greg smiled. No doubt he’d be hearing about it for weeks.
Patrick’s eyes burned; he stood, pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile effort to get it to stop. As angry as he had been with Greg for leaving his kids with him, he was now twice as angry at his brother for taking them away. He hugged them tight to his leg. “I need you to remember something. We’ll call it Guncle Rule sweet sixteen: I want you to really live. To live is the rarest of things. Most people merely exist.” It was another lesson cribbed from Oscar Wilde, but often what kept families apart was the unbearable thought that other people shared our own faults—and Patrick did not want to be responsible for the children sharing his.
Greg pulled Patrick in close; in all his life, Patrick could not remember being hugged this tight.
“Come home,” Greg whispered.
Patrick flinched. He kicked his leg slightly to free himself from Maisie, taking a step backward until it was only Greg’s fingertips on him, and then another step until he was just out of reach. “You’re going to miss boarding.”
Maisie frowned, then started to cry. Greg put his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. This was just their uncle’s way.
“You’ll take care of Marlene?” Maisie sobbed.
It had been Greg’s idea that Marlene stay in Palm Springs. He told a reluctant Maisie to think about her uncle. How he would be all alone once they were gone. How Marlene would be good for him, and how they would all be back to visit. “I will,” Patrick agreed, but he wasn’t certain he’d said the words aloud.
“She will take care of your uncle until we see him again. We love you, GUP,” Greg said.
“We’ll make you a video,” Maisie managed through her tears.
“Yeah,” Grant agreed. “We’ll make you a video for YouTube!” Both kids broke free and rushed their uncle one last time. Patrick grabbed a stanchion to steady himself.
“See you on YouTube.” Patrick swallowed hard. With the lump in his throat, those were the only final words he could say.
He gave each of the kids one last pat on the head, which culminated in a gentle push, then watched as they slipped through the automatic sliding doors leading to security, and beyond that the gates; he returned their wave when they spun around one last time. He continued to follow them as they were bathed in sunlight in the open-air pavilion between the two terminals, watching as their shadows grew taller and taller until they were swallowed by the second terminal and disappeared out of sight.
TWENTY-NINE
Marlene lapped the yard, frantically sniffing the perimeters as if she were leading a search party in the wake of a disturbing disappearance; she’d even corralled JED’s dog, Lorna, into helping, the two of them weaving under and around the tall ficus that lined the west side of Patrick’s property.
“Hey! Get out of there!” Patrick yelled when they disappeared below the hedges for too long.
“Leave ’em be,” John protested.
“It’s just . . .” Patrick began. “Who knows what’s under there.” He imagined a few desert rats might have taken up shelter. But the truth of it was, he just wanted them to knock it off, even though what they were doing was not at all off-kilter. No one was combing a field looking for clues or specific proof of life, there were no milk cartons, or bulletins hastily stapled to neighborhood telephone poles, but there were indeed two missing children. Marlene, apparently, found the quiet as disconcerting as Patrick did.
Sure enough, when he returned from the airport, a box from the Hollywood Foreign Press was waiting for him on his doorstep. Cassie did not fuck around. Although, require a signature next time, Patrick thought. Inside was a shiny new Golden Globe engraved with his name, wrapped in a kind of new age packing material that both frightened and intrigued him; he squished it in his hands until it left his
