Ron #2
“Save your crocodile tears, Trudy,” Teddy scoffs. “The only time I’ve seen you really cry is when you caught me wearing Mama’s
wedding dress and realized it not only fit me better but that I looked better in it than you ever would.” Teddy takes a step
toward her. “As I told you, I’m not the one living in drag, sis. You are. And you will never fully know yourself until you
remove that mask you wear to please the world.”
“You’ve always tried to wound me, Teddy. We used to be so close.”
For a long moment, there is only the dead calm silence of the desert, a whisper of a breeze through the palms.
Trudy stops dabbing her eyes. She places the napkin on her lap and smooths it nervously.
Then her eyes narrow. She picks up the napkin as if it is a snake and tosses it onto the table, where it lands face up.
The napkin features an image of Jesus before a rainbow-colored world. His cloak is emblazoned with a big heart. Above His
head, it reads: Ah, Men!
“Do you believe in Jesus, Teddy?” Trudy asks, her voice clear, high and steady as if she has begun to sing a hymn.
I am in hell already.
“I’m not doing this, Trudy. I played this game for too long.” Teddy stops. “Actually, do you want to know what I really believe?”
“Please, enlighten me,” she says.
“I believe a wonderful man walked this earth and was probably killed by haters who didn’t understand his purpose in life,
and, sadly, that has not changed much over time. But I do not believe that you or I are any more righteous or right than Jews,
Muslims, Catholics, Methodists, Unitarians . . .”
Trudy laughs. “Unitarians believe in nothing.”
“I’m done,” Teddy says. “You think your faith is the only appropriate way to believe. That shows you have no ability to change,
much less think for yourself.”
He turns to leave once more but stops again.
“I believe you weaponize your faith against people like me. I believe you live your life out of fear instead of joy. I believe
you hate yourself. I believe you don’t believe half of what you say you do. And I believe you’re the reason your husband probably
died. He couldn’t take living with you anymore.”
My breath hitches in my chest.
Trudy squares her shoulders. Her face morphs into steel. She raises one eyebrow at Teddy.
“And I believe your husband killed himself because he was sick, inside and out,” she says without an ounce of emotion in her voice. “The difference between them is that my Ralph is living in eternity in the Holy Kingdom, and your John is burning in eternal damnation.”
My breath catches again. My chest aches. Angina.
Teddy stands as still as the Marilyn Monroe statue in downtown Palm Springs. I wait for him to toss his drink into her face.
I wait for him to slap her. Instead, Teddy says very quietly, “Don’t you ever utter his name again.” Teddy shakes his head
pityingly. “Do you even know what love is, Trudy? Real, true, unconditional love for another human being?”
She does not respond. Teddy continues.
“True love is the way John reached for my hand every night before he fell asleep and said, ‘Time for beddy, Teddy. I love
you to the moon and back.’ True love is how I’d smooth his cowlick even after he’d styled his hair. True love is the way he
held doors open for people who would likely let them shut in his own face. I know true love because I had never received it
in my life before John. I wish I had his capacity to forgive, but I do not and cannot. That’s what I mean by true love, Trudy.
I loved every single thing about that man, but it wasn’t enough to save him, and I will live with that—and without that love—for
the rest of my life, so do not talk to me about hell, because I’m already there.”
Teddy takes one unsteady step to the left, pulls his spine straight and walks away.
This time, I can feel my heart shatter in my chest, as if a stained glass window has been dropped from the heavens.
“I will not allow you to speak to my family this way, Trudy,” I say. “I invited you into our home, and with that invitation
comes a requirement to respect those I love most in this world. That was below my family’s standard of respect. Do you understand?”
Trudy casts her eyes my way.
“Your family?” she asks.
“My family,” I say. “That man you call your brother is more mine than yours. All of these men are my family, maybe not in blood,
but in blood spilled.”
Trudy thrusts a finger at the napkin, the table, the house and, finally, me.
“You are making a mockery of God,” she says, “with this . . . this lifestyle, this so-called church, your lack of morals.”
“No, you are making a mockery of God with your judgment,” I say. “And this is not a lifestyle. Our sexuality was never a choice. If
you believe in God, why would He create us to be imperfect? Why would He make us this way?”
“To reject it.”
I smile.
“Ah, the old playbook and double standard. Why have you not rejected a lifestyle of cruelty? Do you not think you will be
judged for your lack of compassion?”
She shakes her head at me.
“Let me explain something to you. Most of my friends, including myself, tried to kill ourselves at one point in our lives
because of the shame we felt, the rejection from family, the desire to love and be loved but believing we didn’t deserve it.
Most importantly, we were secret keepers, Trudy, unable to share our true selves and light with the world. I cannot imagine
a world—or a heaven—without these men in it. Not only would it be wrong, it would be horribly boring.”
“But—” Trudy interrupts.
“No, I want to finish.” I continue. “You believe that we desecrate God by not attending church when we have been the target
of hate from organized religion for centuries. Just a blink ago, our own country dehumanized us, refused to give us equal
rights, literally made it impossible for a gay man to walk into a church with our heads held high, and you think we are making a mockery of our faith? We should be lauded for gathering and believing in not only a higher power but also in
each other. That, Trudy, is a real miracle considering all we’ve been through. That, Trudy, is true faith.”
Trudy pushes her chair back.
“Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead,” I say. “Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by my deeds.”
“James 2:18?”
“Yes,” I say. “I listened to my father, and I listen to my Father.”
Trudy remains seated.
“One more,” I say. I spread my arms like the wings of a raven circling the mountain. “‘The righteous will flourish like a
palm tree . . . planted in the house of the Lord.’ It is easy to have faith when life has not challenged you. But when you
have been outcast, when you have nothing and no one, that is when true faith materializes.” I reach out and touch Trudy’s
arm. “Why are you really here, Trudy? I’ve never seen you. I’ve never spoken to you. You’ve never called or sent a holiday
card. Even after John’s death.”
Trudy looks away.
“I know why you’re here, Trudy.”
She looks back quickly, her face conveying a million emotions.
“It’s why we’re all here. It’s why we created this sanctuary for one another,” I say. “You are filled with shame, you have
been rejected by family, and you doubt if you’ve ever been loved in your life and whether you’re even worthy of love, including
God’s. But most importantly, Trudy, I believe your brother is right: You are a secret keeper, unable to share your true self
and light with the world.”
My voice reverberates in the still of the desert, and in those vibrations I can hear the voice of my father, my mother, my
shame, my pride, my faith, my family and God.
I see Trudy’s mask finally slide for a moment.
One big fat tear slides down her face. Trudy suddenly gasps. It is a horrible gasp that shatters the silence. It is a shudder
so hideous—one that I and so many of my friends have let escape from our bodies when we could no longer contain our shame
or pain—and yet it is as familiar as a hymn.
I know immediately: Trudy does have a secret. A very, very big one.
“Is there something else on your mind?” I ask. “Is that why you’re here, Trudy? Do you want to talk about it with me?”
She looks at me as if she’s been caught stealing, but shakes her head until she must be dizzy.
“No!” she says. “Please. No!”
“Then shall we pray?” I ask, extending my hand.
Trudy grips it and unleashes a torrent of tears.
“Amen,” I say.