Teddy
My sister is waiting for me in the kitchen Monday morning.
“I knew you’d need coffee,” she says. “You drank coffee even as a boy.”
“Someone had to get up and take care of the family. I barely slept for years.”
I make my way around my sister without touching her, a feat considering her ample behind. She already has a cup by the machine,
waiting. It’s a favorite mug of mine featuring Dorothy from The Golden Girls saying, “No, I will not have a nice day.”
“Thank you,” I say, nodding at the mug. I fill it with a shaking hand.
“You drink too much, Teddy.”
I shake my head.
“And you judge too much.” I turn and look at my sister. “I have vodka, you have holy water. Each impairs our judgment. At
least my addiction only harms myself. Yours has killed my community.”
“Please, I don’t want to fight, Teddy. I just want to talk.”
“Then talk.”
I lean against the island.
“I’m sorry for what I said about John. It wasn’t my place.”
“No, it wasn’t. You don’t even know why John killed himself, do you? Why it’s so hard for me to forgive you?”
She shakes her head.
I sigh.
“After the last election, we were walking in downtown Palm Springs, me and John, where we’ve always felt safe, and someone
screamed, ‘Faggots!’ at us. John collapsed on the street. That single word on a sunny day in a safe haven broke him because he felt he’d never
feel safe again. He believed the world was coming after him after all the years of finally feeling protected. Do you know
what that is like? To not feel safe?”
“I’m so sorry, Teddy.” Trudy is quiet for a moment. “And I do know—whether you believe it or not—what it’s like to not feel
safe.”
“Right.”
“Do you remember when we used to wake up early on Saturday morning and eat cereal and watch Saturday morning cartoons?” Trudy
asks. “We loved Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner. We went as them for Halloween.”
“I do,” I say.
“That was the last time I felt safe, Teddy,” she says.
Trudy takes a breath to continue, but her phone trills. “Oh, it’s Nina from church,” she says. “I’m sure she’s worried about
me. I didn’t tell her I was leaving. I have to take this.”
God and image, one, Teddy, zero. That’s my sister.
As Trudy slides into the living room, I think of what she just said and the letter I never sent to her when I left Mama’s
house for the last time. I close my eyes and can still remember every word. They are scorched in my soul, largely because
I still read the letter every month.
“Sorry about that,” Trudy says, coming back in.
“I found a picture at Mama’s of us from Halloween when we were all dressed up,” I say. “In those hard masks. I should have
kept it.”
“I still remember,” she says. “I could barely breathe in that thing.”
Trudy walks over and refills her mug. She looks out at the mountains through the windows.
“I always imagined the desert would look more apocalyptic,” she says as if to herself. “Brown. Dead. But it’s so lush . . .
so alive . . .” A cloud slides away, and the mountains dance in sunlight and wind. The wildflowers—purple sand verbena, yellow
brittlebrush, brown-eyed primrose—glow. “I never dreamed it would be so colorful.”
My sister is saying this to me, you understand. She just can’t say it to me.
This is her version of apologizing without apologizing.
I wait silently for her to rephrase her thoughts in a more personal way. I’ve waited my whole life for this. Instead, Trudy
sips her coffee.
“Why are you really here, sis?” I ask. “You could have waited to wire me the money. Sent me a text to let me know your attorney
needed to talk.” I look at her. “I’m touched you did this for me. But we haven’t been family in decades. You have your family,
I have mine. Let’s not pick at old wounds, okay?”
I look into my sister’s eyes. They are hazel, but—right now—they just look dead to me.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” she says with a small shrug.
“You have a home. You have friends from church. So why pack up and come to Palm Springs to connect with a brother you haven’t
spoken to in years and whose existence you’ve never approved of?”
“My husband just died, Teddy. I couldn’t be in my house, my church, my town without seeing my past. I had to get out of there.”
She steps back to lean against the kitchen counter. I cannot stop myself around my sister when anger takes control. She was
supposed to protect me. I was never safe.
“I’m sorry, but where were you when I got kicked out of the house?
” I ask her. “Where were you when I was sleeping alone at truck stops? When I was shattered, broke, starving and prostituting myself to survive? Where have you been, Trudy?” I spread my arms. “Where?
Your recent acquaintance with grief, pain and loneliness does not suddenly wash your
soul clean and allow you to waltz back into my life and seek the comfort, love and forgiveness you never gave me.”
“Teddy . . .”
“Just be honest with me, for one damn time in your life,” I say, holding up my hand.
“Well, Ava is interested in studying design. She’s even talked about going to college in California. She needs a mentor. She
doesn’t look up to me or her family.”
“She’s a stranger, Trudy. I can’t be a mentor to a stranger.”
“And I needed to see you, too, Teddy. I . . . I . . . Can’t that be enough of a reason? A sister wanting to see her brother?”
“No, it can’t,” I say. “You’re a stranger, too. And if you came for sympathy, you will not get it from me, and I certainly
don’t need your pity, or want your acceptance. I deserve your love and respect. You used to tell me that God makes no mistakes,
and yet that’s how you’ve always seen me.”
“Teddy, Jesus walked with prostitutes and lepers.”
I laugh.
“You will never get it, will you?” I ask. “Still equating me as someone defective, ill, sick, less than. I’m not. I’m more than, Trudy. And, believe me, I am not worried about my one-on-one with God. I’ve changed this world by being me. Who are you,
Trudy? Sixty-eight, and you still don’t know.”
“I don’t. But I’m trying. Teddy, look at me. Please.” I lift my eyes to meet hers. “I’ve changed, Teddy. God knows I’m not
perfect, but I’m still evolving. Please. Give me the benefit of the doubt. I never understood your lifestyle.”
I shake my head.
“It’s not a lifestyle, Trudy! A lifestyle is when you decide to walk more for your health, cut back on your sugar or give up smoking. I’m gay. I didn’t have a choice in the matter from my first breath.”
“I keep saying the wrong things. I know I messed up. I know I was a bigot for so long. I don’t mean to say the wrong things.”
“It’s too late, sis. But I’ve had a great life.”
I don’t catch myself quickly enough and see those words floating in the air: had a great life. Past tense.
“I haven’t Teddy. I’ve had a miserable life.” Trudy’s voice quivers. She steps forward and leans two shaking arms against
the island. Her voice is a whisper.
“Do you want to know why I really came here?” Trudy asks.
She clamps her eyes shut, and her face contorts in agony. She opens her eyes. A tear rolls over her cheek just as Ron saunters
into the kitchen.
“Good morning! I didn’t mean to break up your coffee talk. But I’m glad to see everyone is playing nicely.” Ron nudges me
as he walks past.
He fills his mug. I look at Trudy. Her face is flushed, but she wipes her eyes and puts on a smile.
“I came because I was thinking of how Mom and Dad rented that old fishing cabin every summer on Suttons Bay. Remember? We’d
take the pontoon over to Gull Lake?”
“What?” I ask. “That’s why you had to see me?”
“Yes,” she continues brightly. “I thought it might be possible to have another vacation like that. As family. Here in Palm
Springs.”
She will never be honest with me.
I look at Ron. He is giving me that be nice! look.
Who am I to judge? I mean, I’m not being honest with him either. I’m no better than my sister when you get down to it.
And I do need the money. For medical bills. Maybe even to pay it forward when I’m gone, help those who have helped me so much.
That would be nice, to leave it to my family when I’m gone. I smile at Ron.
“You can stay the week,” I say. “Just stay out of my way.” I pat Ron’s back. “She’s your responsibility until Friday.”
I take my mug and walk out of the kitchen.
“Teddy—” Trudy calls after me.
“One week!” I yell. “Keep her busy and out of my hair. Maybe get a new ’do, Trudy. You wanted her here, Ron, you got it. You
two can be bosom buddies. Read the Bible together. Talk about how to fix me. But leave me out of it. I already have enough
problems.”
I head down the hallway.
“And don’t you dare fuck with my happy hours!” I call. “They’re supposed to be happy!”
“Are you okay? I think you were having a nightmare.”
I rise slowly, my head throbbing.
There is nothing worse than sobering up the same day you got drunk.
I went for drinks at Streetbar after work. I couldn’t have a happy hour—much less a magical minute—with my sister watching
me down a martini.
Someone is talking, but I see only darkness, and at first I think I have gone blind. Then I reach a hand to my eyes and pull
off my sleeping mask.
As the world fuzzily comes into focus, I see two black ravens perched on the breeze block wall that separates our yard from
the surrounding mountains. They are staring, heads cocked, peering into my soul.
My thumping headache makes the birds look as if they are in 3D, chests pumping to the heartbeat in my temples.
I should not have asked Mario for doubles.
I blink.
When I open my eyes again, I realize that there is only one raven on the breeze block. Ava is seated on the white Herman Miller
Eames molded chair Ron has placed by the sliding door, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders.
“I was having a nightmare,” I groan. “And it’s real: You and your grandmother are staying all week.”
Ava laughs.
“What are you doing in my bedroom?” I ask.
I am too tired to sit up.