Patrick sat in his dressing room backstage at the Belasco Theatre, taking a long look at himself in the mirror. It reminded him of high school theater, specifically a production of *The Diary of Anne Frank*. Their English teacher, who doubled as the director, had taught them the art of old-age makeup. They used a sponge to stipple on a sallow-toned foundation, then drew age lines with eyeliner pencils. Under the hot stage lights, a dark line blended with a lighter one beneath it created the illusion of deep wrinkles. Young Patrick would raise his eyebrows to crease his forehead, draw flat lines in the folds, and then move on to crow's-feet.
No such techniques were required now. He was more or less the same age as the character he was playing. A young person in old-age makeup looks exactly like what they are: a child playing dress-up. He and his school castmates used to laugh in horror at how they might look given the ravages of time, never knowing that horror might one day turn into pride. Now, with just a little stage makeup, Patrick looked devilishly good. He was almost remiss to remove it.
A knock on the dressing room door interrupted his thoughts. It was Adam Rucker, who played Putzie.
"Did you see David? Heather says she saw him last night disappear into a mirror."
"Heather drinks."
"No, she doesn't."
"She vapes, then. Or takes pills."
Just then, Heather, a world-weary woman from wardrobe, snatched Patrick's costume from the back of the door. "Heather does none of those things," she muttered in her own defense. She was responsible for cleaning the costumes between shows, and with a matinee the next day, she had no time for gossip.
"Good night, Heather!" Patrick called after her.
"No, seriously," Adam stressed once she was out of earshot. "She saw David walk into the big mirror out in the hall and—poof—disappear."
David was David Belasco, the long-deceased Broadway pioneer known in some circles as the Bishop of Broadway for his penchant for wearing cassocks and clerical collars. Not that his identity much mattered. Almost every theater had its rumored ghost, every opera house its phantom. These spirits would moan at night after the shows were done, turn on lights, or drop sandbags from the rafters. Belasco was no different. It was part of the lore of doing theater.
"Heather huffs glue."
"I think *you* sniff glue," Adam corrected. He stood there looking both awkward and up to no good. "You huff bath salts."
"What?"
Adam looked just beyond the doorframe and whispered, "Not you," presumably to Heather, just as Patrick registered the opening notes of the mournful dirge they all knew as "Happy Birthday." If looks could kill, Adam would be a goner.
One by one, the cast crowded around his dressing room door, a decked-out Cassie among them holding a cupcake. *Et tu, Brute?* Patrick mouthed, feigning disappointment, but in truth, it was good to see her. At least the cupcake—red velvet, if he was right—only had one candle, its flame reflected in Cassie's sequined top.
The song finished on a high note, quite literally, as his castmates jumped an octave to harmonize. It reminded him of his time with the kids on the *Sound of Music* tour alongside Jam and Bread. The thing was, the cast seemed absolutely thrilled to celebrate him. There wasn't a hint of pity humoring the old man. He may have come in as an elder statesman, but the entire production team had been so kind, immediately embracing him as one of their own. They looked up to him and were entertained by his stories. More than that, they listened until he was worn out—no small feat, as Patrick, like most actors, enjoyed talking about himself. This cast of young artists was raised watching a golden age of sitcoms, including *The People Upstairs*—the show that made him a star. Patrick had worked the jobs they themselves dreamed of booking, even if the sitcom itself was dying.
"Thank you," he said, doing his best to mask his discomfort. Cassie thrust the cupcake forward, and Patrick made his birthday wish. He wet his thumb and forefinger and pinched out the flame, just as he remembered Palmina doing to put out her lit cigarette; he hoped it looked half as cool.
Someone in the back began the second verse—*How old are you?*—but was mercifully shushed by Adam.
The musical's director, Juliane Ford, stepped forward from the bunch and flipped through notes on her clipboard. "Once again during the hand jive, you crossed downstage and walked in front of every single dancer, blocking them."
Assorted giggles rippled through the cast.
Patrick winced; it was a note he'd been given before. "I'm sorry. I don't even realize I'm doing it."
"Keep doing it," Juliane said. "We only have you for six weeks; we might as well get the most bang for our buck. Besides..." She flipped her pages of notes flat against her clipboard. "...It's exactly what the character would do. Good job."
Adam followed her out with the others, all shouting various birthday wishes, before remembering why he had stopped by Patrick's dressing room in the first place. It had nothing to do with ghosts. "Hey, are you coming out with us after? The usual place."
Patrick smiled in the mirror so Adam could see. "Will Heather be there? I hear she has all the good drugs."
"You're incorrigible," Adam laughed.
"I heard that." Heather stuck her head back into the dressing room one final time and handed Patrick a manila envelope. "Andy wanted me to give you this. It was delivered to you at the box office."
Patrick took the envelope and thanked her. He turned to Adam. "I'll meet you there."
Adam tapped the wall twice—*Goodbye for now*—and disappeared into the hall. Only Cassie remained, and he thanked her. Not only did she show up time and again for him, but she did so with advice that was right. This was exactly the break that he needed, which is to say, not much of a break at all.
"Happy birthday, Patrick," she said, kissing him on the cheek. She left a print of her lipstick like Marilyn Monroe. "I'm here all week, if you'd like to grab dinner."
"I eat dinner at five o'clock," he said. "And sometimes again at eleven." It was the life of an actor on Broadway.
"Five is fine," she agreed. "It's two in LA, so I'll think of it as lunch."
"Or lupper," he said.
Cassie laughed. "Yes, yes. I know. All your meals are portmanteaus."
She left, and things fell quiet again. A light bulb outside his dressing room flickered and dimmed. Not that it spooked him. To Patrick, all ghosts were friendly, and he liked knowing that they were nearby. He took his time wiping off his makeup. He enjoyed being one of the last to leave the theater, when the crowds outside had thinned and the younger kids had had their fill of glory. He was here as a guest, after all; it wasn't his show.
He reached for the photos on his dressing room table. Him and Sara splashing in the waves the summer they spent at the beach, acting like John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John. Patrick and the kids in Paris. Patrick and Emory, dancing on the terrace at the Grand Hotel Tremezzo the night of their wedding. He took a moment to cherish each one, then grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and bounded down the stairs to the alley.
There was loud cheering when he came out the door, which startled Patrick, catching him off guard. It was Greg and Livia, Clara, Maisie, and Grant, jumping up and down, making fools of themselves. Patrick almost didn't recognize them, bundled as they were for the unseasonable cold. Patrick was not ready for winter; since their return from Italy, he once again craved warm weather.
"I never took you for stage-door Johnnies," he grumbled. "What are you doing here?" He signed programs for the few people waiting who weren't related to him by marriage or blood.
"We thought we could use a night in the city," Livia explained.
"But it's a school night."
Maisie and Grant exchanged looks and giggled. They might as well be getting away with murder. He prayed they, too, were not about to burst out in song.
"Seriously, am I the only responsible one here?"
Livia and Greg parted as someone thrust a last program between them for him to sign. He scribbled his name without looking up, and when he heard the familiar voice, his Sharpie skidded off the program's edge. "What good is a launt if she can't get her niece and nephew excused from a day of school?"
Patrick grimaced. Mischief like that used to be squarely the purview of a guncle.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" they exclaimed, except for Palmina, who said, "Buon compleanno."
"Palmina, what are you doing here?"
"Palmina's in town for a jewelry expo," Maisie explained.
Patrick cocked an eyebrow. "Who's taking care of your bird?" he asked, trying to sound as dismissive as he possibly could. He leaned in to pose for a selfie with a fan who added his own *Happy birthday*, and then at last it was just him and his family.
"We took Palmina to see your show!" Grant exclaimed. He then looked up at Livia's sister. "Who is taking care of your bird?"
Palmina took Grant's hand. "Bruna and Carla and Zita."
The Robert Palmer girls.
"Flavia is in good hands."
"You were really good, GUP," Maisie exclaimed.
"Yes," Palmina purred. "You were very good at giving the... hand jive." She winked at Patrick playfully; she'd been messing with him all along.
"Thank you. It's all in the wrist." He winked back, and she laughed.
"Did you always want to be an actor, GUP?" Grant asked. "Maybe I should be one, too."
"When I was your age, I thought I would be a weatherman. The weatherman was always the most handsome man on TV."
"I've already been in a movie," Grant continued. "Not a lot of kids can say that."
"You've been in a what?" Greg asked, always a step behind.
"Oh, did we not tell you?" Patrick asked. He mouthed *Whoops* to Maisie and Grant.
"Kids, you may be missing school, but you still have a bedtime. You can tell us about it as we head back to the Plaza."
"Can we walk?" Maisie asked. "Despite the cold, it's such a nice night."
"Certainly," Livia said, and she took Maisie's hand. "But first say good night to your guncle."
The kids threw their arms around Patrick, hugging him tight. His phone vibrated. Emory.
"It's my husband calling," he announced. "I should probably..."
Greg motioned for him to go.
"My last show is the third week of November," Patrick called after them. "You'd better set two extra seats at Thanksgiving." He waved as he jogged backward a few steps down Forty-Fourth Street, watching them get smaller as they walked in the other direction.
He answered just as he heard Palmina ask, "Is that the one with turkey?" She then instructed her sister to set a place for her, too. Patrick groaned into the phone.
"That's a fine greeting," Emory said.
"Sorry, that wasn't for you. How's LA?" Emory was there for a few weeks on a job.
"Great. I love the director; she has such a vision. How was the show? Did you get my envelope?"
"Envelope?" Patrick asked. That's right, he'd been delivered an envelope and had shoved it right in his bag. "Hold on." He fished in his messenger bag. The envelope was lumpy and had an odd heft.
"I hate not being there for your birthday."
To Patrick, it wasn't such a big deal. This year had already given him so much. He found the envelope in his bag's outside pocket.
"Listen, I did something," Emory explained. "Don't be mad." If it was possible to hear a smile through the phone, Patrick could.
"Is that what marriage is? Us doing things and telling the other not to be mad?" He ripped open the envelope, and a set of house keys spilled into his hand. "Keys?" he asked, confused. Patrick took a right on Sixth toward Bryant Park just as an ambulance went by. "Emory?" he asked when the siren had died, and then checked his phone to make sure they hadn't been disconnected.
"Okay, but you have to promise not to be mad."
"I promise," Patrick said. He was even pretty sure it wasn't a lie. He pinned his phone between his ear and his shoulder and blew on his hands to warm them. How was it this cold in October?
"Okay," Emory said. "Here goes. I couldn't think what to get you for your birthday. So I bought us a house in Palm Springs."
Patrick froze in the middle of a crosswalk and laughed. It dawned on him: a final Guncle Love Language gift, wrapped in the words of Rosemary Clooney: *Come on-a my house.* Grant could have presents. Patrick would take real estate. A place for his whole family to gather.
"Patrick?" Emory asked, making sure his husband was still there.
"Maybe you should have had me sign a prenup," Patrick said, and they both laughed, although Emory laughed too hard for his liking.
The walk sign started blinking an angry red hand, and Patrick skipped to the far side of Sixth. So much for dreading winter; there was about to be a great thaw.