“What’s right with it? It sounds like cankle.” Patrick flipped down his visor to catch Maisie’s eyes in the mirror. “Calf and ankle,” he said before she had a chance to inquire.
Greg threw the car in reverse, looked over his shoulder, and backed out of the driveway.
“You don’t have to do that, Dad! There’s a camera.” For the first time Patrick recognized a little bit of himself—the know-it-all—in his niece.
“Yes, he does. I’m going to teach you some things while I’m here. That’s Guncle Rule number one. Okay? If we must? Cameras are your enemy as much as they’re your friend. Scratch that. That’s Guncle Rule number two. Guncle Rule number one: Brunch is splendid.”
* * *
The restaurant hostess smiled when Patrick entered holding the kids’ hands. People tended to do that when he was with them, he noticed. Smile. No one ever frowned with concern that he’d kidnapped two children; not one person’s facial expression the equivalent of an Amber Alert. Couldn’t they see how unnatural this all was for him?
“Three, please. Or, two and a high chair.”
“I’m too old for a high chair!” Grant screamed.
“Jesus.” Patrick sighed audibly. “Three, please.”
The hostess smiled even wider. “Three it is.”
“Are you still serving brunch?”
“Of course! Brunch is our most popular meal.”
Patrick shot the kids a look. See?
“Follow me.”
She led them to a corner booth and left them with menus, which they studied with great interest. “What looks good?” Patrick asked.
“I can’t read, stupid,” Grant declared, although “stupid” came out more like thtupid. He put his menu down and swung his feet back and forth, kicking the table.
“No kicking,” Patrick said, but in truth he was relieved at least Grant wasn’t screaming.
“Who are you again?” Grant asked. He wasn’t entirely sure of Patrick’s authority in this situation.
“He’s our guncle!”
Patrick looked down his nose at his niece. “Don’t make me repeat myself. That word is unpleasant.”
“You’re unpleasant,” Maisie observed.
Patrick sneered like an old black-and-white-movie villain. “You have no idea.”
“But who are you?” Grant implored.
“I’m your father’s brother and I was your mother’s friend. Got it? You came to visit me once at my house in California.”
“We did?”
“I have a pool,” Patrick said, as if that would settle it once and for all. “Now, focus. What looks good?”
“I like bacon,” Maisie announced.
“We don’t eat bacon.”
“Yes we do.”
“No we don’t.”
“Yes we do.”
“Bacon is pigs and pigs are our friends. Do you want to eat your friends?”
Without hesitation. “If they taste like bacon.”
Patrick set his menu down. “I’m a vegetarian. Lacto-ovo. Well, pescatarian, to be more precise. And maybe you should be, too, while I’m here helping because I can’t buy all that stuff from the grocer. You know. Morally.”
“What’s pethca—?”
“Pescatarian. I occasionally eat fish. Do you like sushi?”
“I like hot dogs.” Grant perked up just enough to take the conversation backward.
“What? That’s like the worst parts of the pig. Like lips and buttholes and . . . I shudder to even think.”
Grant laughed.
“Why do you eat fish but not pigs?” Maisie asked.
“Because fish are dumb and delicious. Now look at your menu.”
“Yes, but our oceans are overfished.” Patrick felt a shadow fall over the table and he looked up to see who was speaking. An older man with graying temples smiled at him while opening a small pad with his pencil. “So there are environmental concerns at play.”
“Don’t flush the toilet for three months, don’t shower for six months, or don’t eat one hamburger. I’m from California, where there’s always a drought, so I’m more concerned about the environmental effects of factory farm—I’m sorry, who are you?” he asked the man.
“Patrick. It’s me.”
“Me, the . . . waiter?”
“Me, Barry.”
“Barry . . . ?” Patrick was pretty certain he didn’t know any Barrys.
“From high school.”
“Barry from high school.” We’re the same fucking age, is that what you’re telling me? “Of course.” Patrick said Of course even though it was still fuzzy. There was only a handful of people he remembered from high school; in most respects, his life began with Sara. “These are my brother’s kids, Maisie and Grant. Guys, BARRY.”
“It’s really great to see you. I haven’t heard anything about you since the show went off the air. What was that, four years ago? How are you?”
“Ummm . . .” Patrick stalled, desperately wanting out of a conversation that really had yet to begin.
“You should do another show. You were very good.”
“Thank you. That had never occurred to me.” Patrick soaked his reply in so much sarcasm it might as well have been a teenager experimenting with cologne.
“Although I thought that last one was a waste of your talents. Remember when we did Brigadoon in high school? You were so good!”
Shut up, shut up, shut up.
“So, what brings you back to Connecticut?”
“Our mom was sick,” Maisie said, coming to her uncle’s rescue. “She died.” She and Grant looked at the ground. Patrick winced, surprised to hear a years-long battle summarized so succinctly, then covered his shock with a grimace. He put one arm around each of them and joined them in looking down. They were mourning, you see. Something best done in private.
“Oh,” Barry said, his ability to get chummy shut off at the valve. “I’m very sorry.” He awkwardly tapped his pencil on his pad as Patrick luxuriated in the silence. “Get you started on some drinks?”
“Kids?”
“Bacon!” Grant perked up, a little too quickly.