Teddy
Even after washing down a Lexapro with one of the airline-sized bottles of vodka I always keep hidden, well, everywhere, I
sweep down the hall and into the living room, my silk caftan billowing around me.
I texted the other Golden Gays and told them to go outside to avoid any blood splatter. The queens are now holding court on
the patio overlooking the pool and the city, trying hard not to stare, though they are pressed against the glass like old
cheese in a deli window. God help a gay man: We love to witness a spectacle.
“Now that’s an entrance,” the girl says.
“How lovely,” I say. “My sister and her teenage streetwalker are still here. Uninvited. I guess I wasn’t hallucinating.”
“Me either,” the girl says. “You’re still old.”
“And you still have an STD, by the looks of you.” I glance at Trudy. “This is your granddaughter?”
She nods.
“Great job.” I applaud and bow. “You’ve always had great nurturing instincts. God does have a wicked sense of humor after
all, doesn’t He?”
The girl laughs. “I’m Ava.”
“I’m Teddy.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“My sister doth speak of me? Without fear of being struck by lightning?”
Ava laughs again. “She didn’t tell me you were so fucking hilarious, though.”
“Language, Ava!”
“I bet you say that a lot around her.”
“She does.” Ava nods.
“Unfortunately, I’ve never heard of you,” I say, smiling at my sister. “Trudy has always been a secret keeper. We haven’t
spoken since stamps were fifteen cents.” I look at Ava. “Stamps were like dial-up but slower.” I take in her blank look. “Nothing?
I’ll explain what both of those are later.”
“Hello, Teddy,” my sister finally says. “You look very Liberace in that caftan.”
“Remember when Daddy thought he was just a showman?” I laugh and look down at what I’m wearing. “The gays and the Golden Girls
have always loved a caftan.” I smile at my sister. “And an RSVP if a guest is coming.”
“Where does an old queen buy something like that?” Ava asks.
“She knows her homophobic slang at such an early age! Well done, sis.” I turn back to Ava. “One can buy such a fabulous piece
at my shop, Dorian Gay.” I eye her. “I could teach you a thing or two about fashion. Right now, you look as if you raided
a Five Below and got everything for way below that dollar amount. First impressions are everything.” I look my sister up and down. “To wit.”
Trudy is wearing some sort of nonflammable sweater with a giant glittery cross on the front that states I Will Not Be Shaken! Psalm 16:8.
“For instance, I have a similar sweatshirt,” I say. “Except mine has a giant martini on the front standing defiantly with
its hands on its stem, which makes it so much more ironic. Oh, and mine is not made of aluminum.”
“This is quite the place you have.”
Trudy is not taking the bait.
“Isn’t it?” I say with an even bigger, faker smile. “Found a home even after getting kicked out of mine. This one is big,
though, and filled with love. Oh, and I don’t get the shit kicked out of me when I put on a dress or kiss a boy.”
Ava’s face contorts in confusion, and she looks back and forth between me and her grandmother as if she’s watching a tennis
match.
“The hardest thing about living in the desert,” I continue, “is that sometimes filthy rats manage to find their way inside
despite all of the hard work we do to keep them from finding us.” I take a step toward Trudy. “Because once they do, they
will eat you alive.” I take another step. “Now, shoo, rats. Shoo!”
Trudy doesn’t budge. Her face doesn’t flinch.
“It’s good to see you, Teddy. And it’s good to see you haven’t changed. You’re still funny.”
“Funny, ha-ha, or funny weird?” I ask.
“Give me a hug, Tedster.”
That nickname gives the icks, more so than kissing a woman.
Trudy moves toward me in the living room. She opens her arms strangely, like a marionette being manipulated by a puppeteer.
I take a big step back.
“Good God, woman. You look like a creepy doll from a horror movie,” I say. “Just cut to the chase, Trudy. What are you doing
here?”
“I came to see you.” Her voice is too chipper, like a costumed character. “We haven’t seen each other in ages.”
“Your choice.”
She stops in her tracks.
“You didn’t answer my calls,” she says.
“And you never acknowledged the death of my husband!” I suddenly yell, tired of our repartee. “Nor did you take my calls after
our father kicked me out of our house. I was a child, you monster!”
My voice echoes through the house.
Trudy drops her arms. Her round head follows, doughy chin drooping into the folds of her neck. She shuts her eyes and mouths
a prayer.
“You’re my brother,” Trudy says. “I just missed you.”
“You don’t have a brother. You lost that privilege a long time ago when you sided with our devil of a father.” I stare at
Trudy’s sweater and shake my head. “You want an appropriate Bible verse? How about what God says about rats? ‘You are allowed
by God to kill it—not for the pleasure of killing—but for the protection of your household.’”
Trudy’s eyes grow as wide as the inflatable round rainbow floaty spinning in the pool beyond.
“Yeah, I can preach some shit, too, sis. I learned from a PK. The gays got some faith, too, believe it or not.”
The patio door slides open, and Ron sticks his head inside.
“Everything okay?”
“Peachy!” I yell. “Our guests were just leaving.”
Ron actually looks displeased at my pronouncement, but he shuts the slider.
“Just tell him why we’re here, Grandma, so we can get the hell out of assisted living. God, I hate old people. They give me
the fucking creeps.”
“Watch your fucking language, Ava!” Trudy yells. “I will not warn you again.”
I lean my head back and roar with laughter. I look at my sister.
“Perhaps you have changed,” I say. “Cursing. Yelling. It’s like I’m having a séance with Dad.”
“I’m sorry, God,” Trudy whispers, eyes raised to the ceiling. Then she looks at me. “I’m exhausted and stressed from the trip . . .”
She stops herself from finishing.
I follow Ava’s eyes as they pivot to Zsa Zsa’s wide windows facing the pool and mountains. Ron, Sid and Barry are watching
the scene as if they are on safari and just waiting for the lion to kill the adorable Ohioan antelopes.
“Are you okay, Grandma?” Ava asks.
She is able to express genuine emotion?
Trudy nods. “Vintage Teddy.”
“Ah, hell to the no! Liza and I call bullshit!”
“Who’s Liza?” Ava asks, looking around, confused.
“Liza Minnelli, you sad child. I have so much to teach you! We have both endured hard lives, and we do not play games. She’s
always with a gay man when he needs her most!”
I jab a finger in Trudy’s direction. “You don’t get to turn this around on me, Trudy, and rewrite our entire history simply
because it suits your narrative,” I continue. “You and Daddy made my life a living hell, remember? You told me to buck up
and wear long sleeves after I tried to cut my wrists, remember? You ratted me out to Dad every time I tried to be myself,
remember? You refused to allow me to come home, remember? You never returned my calls, remember? You cut me out of your entire existence, remember? You didn’t come home when Mom was dying, remember? You
didn’t reach out when my husband died, remember?
And now that you’re in my home, you conveniently choose not to remember any of this, and I’m vintage Teddy?
Hell to the no, honey, you are vintage Trudy, and that will never change.
I may wear a caftan and a touch of concealer, but I’m not the one living in
drag, sis. You are.”
Ava stares at her grandmother as if seeing her for the first time. Her face is scrunched in confusion and pain. She is a tiny
thing, more Olivia Rodrigo than Taylor Swift, with a mass of luminous raven hair, dark eyes and huge lips. She is a raven.
“Is this true?” Ava asks.
Ravens are fierce fighters.
Trudy nods.
Ava turns and looks me in the eye, and—for one moment—I see . . . me. My heart cracks because I was once this young girl: fiery, funny, fabulous, trapped.
Trudy tries to grab Ava’s hand.
“Don’t touch me.” She jerks away.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Ava. “Truly, I am. My anger isn’t with you, child. You shouldn’t even be witnessing this. This is our past. It has nothing to do with you.”
Ava turns back to me, head still high.
“Oh, it does,” she says, finally looking me in the eye. “Just tell him why you’re here, Grandma. Please.”
“You remember that Mama and Daddy’s house was left to me according to the will.”
“Daddy’s wishes,” I sing like a child.
“Well, as executor, I also ended up with Mama’s credit card and medical debt. The real estate agent in Michigan thought once
I sold the house, I’d probably break even.” Trudy attempts a conciliatory smile. “Turns out a family farm down the road ended
up buying our acreage—and all those around us—for a bit more than we had imagined. My husband invested the remaining money
into a stock account, and it grew over time, and . . .”
“And, what?” I ask, cutting her off. “You came to rub it in my face? Congratulations for kicking me out of my childhood home
and then cashing in on my pain.”
“Just tell him, Grandma!”
Ava’s shout makes me stop and turn. Trudy stares at me, her plump cheeks quivering. She looks at the ground. A tear plops
onto the terrazzo.
For some reason, the song “It Never Rains in Southern California” pops into my head. We could use a soundtrack right now.
Something dramatic and cheesy to make Trudy’s emotions actually seem real.
“My husband . . . Ralph . . . died,” she whimpers. “Unexpectedly. Widow-maker.”
“Well, that makes sense,” I say. “Lucky man.”
“You are horrible,” Trudy says, her voice a hiss. “Still so vicious.”
“Now, that’s the girl I remember,” I say.
“We’re leaving,” Trudy says. “I knew this was a mistake.”
“Time out!”
I turn. Ron rushes inside, along with Barry and Sid.
Ron, ever the peacekeeper, even after his own emotional exit has been postponed by my sister, of all people, settles between
me and Trudy. “Let’s all just take a deep breath.”