Teddy #2
Trudy wipes her eyes, collecting herself.
“Go on, Trudy,” Ron says.
“My son, Ted, and daughter-in-law, Laura, are in England with my grandson this semester. Ted is a professor at Ohio State . . .”
“They have professors there?” I ask.
Ava chuckles. Trudy ignores me.
“. . . and he’s teaching a study abroad semester. My grandson is a sophomore at OSU, and he went with them. Ava was staying
with me and Ralph, and we were planning to see them in London over this winter break. Ava came home from school last week
and found Ralph dead in his favorite chair.” The tears begin anew. “My kids couldn’t make it home, and I just couldn’t take
the trip without Ralph, so we had a small funeral, and I didn’t know where else to turn. I just had to get out of that empty
house. I saw him everywhere.”
Trudy collapses into a real Real Housewives weep fest. Ron puts his arm around her, and I try not to roll my eyes. Ava watches the scene without emotion as if she’s
behind a wall of glass. I’m not buying any of this bad acting.
“So you came to Palm Springs on winter break to see a brother you haven’t spoken to in decades and despise more than Obama,
because your husband died and you were sad to be home alone?” I ask. “Oh, and you wanted to tell me about some money you invested
fifty years ago? I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, I am, but I am still not buying a word of it.”
“He did die,” Ava says, voice low. “That’s all true.”
Ava glances at me, and I try to read her eyes behind all that dark eyeliner and attitude.
“Ralph’s estate requires that I divide the money I inherited from Mama and Daddy’s house,” Trudy says. “The money was placed into a joint account with both of our names.”
My eyes grow wide. “Why would Ralph do that?” I ask.
“He didn’t do that, Teddy. I did. It just happened to be in his name, like everything else.” She continues. “But our attorney—like
us—is on winter break right now with his grandchildren.”
“Who’s your attorney?” I ask. “Matlock? Do we have to show up at a courthouse in Savannah and sign papers under a magnolia
tree? There’s a thing called Docusign.”
“He’s out of the office until the end of the week,” Trudy says.
“Of course he is,” I say. “And I’m Timothée Chalamet.”
“Maybe Timothée Shallow-gay,” Ava says.
Barry laughs, hard. “I like you.”
“She bites,” I say with a wink.
“And, remember, I’ve always loved you, Teddy,” Barry adds.
“You’re not getting a cent, Barry. You still owe me twenty dollars. With interest.” I turn to Trudy. “Get a hotel, and we
can talk in a week, okay?”
“Hold on. This is my house, too, Teddy,” Ron says. “I’m putting my foot down! They can stay. As my guests. I insist. Sometimes
a person should be given grace when they’re trying to make amends. At least Trudy is trying.” Ron shoots each of us a calculated
look. “Trudy and Ava can have my room. I can move onto the sleeper sofa out here.”
“Ron—”
“Teddy,” he warns. “And I have another suggestion, Trudy. Why don’t you stay for church?”
He is simply trying to agitate me now.
“You go to church?” Trudy gasps.
“We do,” Ron adds sweetly. “And after we eat and all feel better, maybe Teddy will come around and agree with me that you
should stay the week to rest a bit.” Ron eyes me as he does when he prays, urging me to be calm and present. “I’m sure you’re
exhausted from your loss and the travel.”
“I will never forgive you,” I say to Ron.
“Yes, you will.”
“Can I get in the pool?” Ava asks.
“If you wash your face and take an antibiotic,” I say with a smile.
She laughs a fake laugh and shoots me a fuck-you smile.
“You are so kind, Ron,” Trudy says. “Where do you go to church?”
“Right here,” Ron says.
Trudy looks out, scanning the yard and the mountains.
“I don’t see a church,” she says.
“Would you care for a cocktail, Trudy?” Ron asks, not answering her question. “I think you could use one.”
“Oh, she doesn’t drink,” I say. “Do you, Trudy? Tell him. Drinking is evil.”
“Oh, I do now,” she says. “Even Jesus drank wine.”
I lift a brow at her.
Ron heads to the kitchen, Trudy following like the baby quail that run through our yard.
“Could you be a dear and retrieve our luggage, Ava?” Trudy calls in a now happy tone, wiping her brow with a Kleenex she pulled
from the sleeve of her hideous sweater. “The Uber driver just dumped it out in your driveway.”
“How did you find me anyway?” I ask, teeth clenched.
“It’s called Google, Grandpa,” Ava says.
“Call me Grandpa again and I will kill you in your sleep,” I say. “I am not joking.”
Ava quickly heads toward the door.
How did Trudy find me, though?
Has Ron secretly been conversing with her? Did he confiscate my cell and give her our address after listening to her sobbing
voicemails? And why is she really here? My sister is a riddle wrapped in an enigma swaddled in a blue-tinted old lady perm,
polyester sweater and a shade of eye shadow not found on a color wheel.
But most importantly, how the hell do I get rid of them? They’re the last people I want to be around before I die. Or they kill me like Ralph.
“Wanna help me with the luggage?” Ava asks me at the door.
I glance at her. “Do I look like the help?”
“You look like you need help.”
Ava glares at me. I roll my eyes at her.
I finally realize that I, too, am but a teenage girl.
Ava flips her hair, and I watch my mini-me walk out the front door.