Teddy
The living room slider opens.
Trudy walks out and heads for one of Ron’s beloved Knoll patio chairs. Although these mid-century wire frame chairs make designers
and MCM lovers swoon at their minimalist beauty, they make the average joe reach for Preparation H when they take a seat on
the kitchen grater that calls itself a chair.
I want to save her before it’s too late. My sister has endured enough pain in her life. But God, does evil Teddy want to see
her take a seat in that chair and then try to extricate herself without Two Men and a Truck.
“Why don’t you sit on this chair?” I say, patting the striped cushion. “It’s a bit more comfortable.”
I’ve gone soft in my old age.
“Next to you?” she asks.
“I still want the money.”
She laughs and takes a seat.
“That’s actually why I came out,” Trudy says. “My attorney sent the paperwork. It should be in your in-box. You just need
to Docusign, and the money will be in your account first of the week after we leave.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“I’m sure.”
“Thank you, Trudy.” I reach out and grab her hand. “For saving my life.”
Trudy keeps her eyes focused on the mountains in the distance, clouds forming shadows on the peaks, playing leapfrog over
the valley like the two of us used to do in our front yard. When she looks at me, I realize she appears entirely different.
The mask is gone.
“Speaking of saving your life, I’m glad Ava convinced you to get the surgery. The world needs you in it, Teddy.”
“It does,” I say with conviction. “You, too, sis.”
“I hope the money will come in handy for medical bills and things like that. I know it must be expensive.”
“Thanks, but my friends said they will cover any outstanding expenses,” I say. “Barry’s loaded now, Ron is rich and Sid is
set. I know how to pick ’em.”
As I say this, I tighten my grip on her hand and give it a shake.
“What will you use the money for, then, if you don’t mind me asking? Travel?”
“I already live in paradise with my best friends,” I say. “I was thinking I just might pass the money on to someone.”
Trudy turns, her face morphing into confusion.
“You?” she asks.
“We’ve taught you the art of sarcasm, I see? Don’t act so surprised! I’m not that selfish and awful.” I wait a beat. “Am I?”
“You wanted me to sit in that wire chair,” my sister says. “I know you.”
“I do love physical humor,” I say. “Actually, I opened a new account. The money is going into a CD. It will make a little
interest. I plan to chip in a bit more around here with the house, but if you ever wanted to look at moving out to the desert,
or if Ava needed some help with college, let’s just say the money would be available for that.”
“Teddy.” A smile engulfs her face as she shakes her head in amazement at my generous gesture.
“It’s hard being so fabulous.”
“What are you drinking?”
“Martini,” I say. “A Palm Springs classic, as beautiful and dry as those mountains. One is enough, two make me look like Hugh
Jackman and three will have you howling naked with the coyotes tonight.”
“Why don’t I start with one?”
I make our drinks at the cocktail bar on the patio, skewering three blue cheese–stuffed olives and settling them into a martini
glass.
“This cocktail is like liquid sunshine,” I say, handing it to my sister.
She takes a sip, and her eyes water.
“This cocktail tastes like gasoline!”
“I made it right, then!” I take a seat, grab my martini and hold it out. “Cheers!”
“To a new start!”
We clink glasses.
The edge of the mountain is tinged in light. Candy-color clouds drift among the peaks.
“Remember that oil painting Mama won at a church raffle that hung over the sofa in the living room?” Trudy finally asks. “Light
splaying from behind beautiful clouds hugging a mountain, and Mama always said the plume of sun that rose toward the heavens
was Jesus lighting our way.”
I see it clearly. That painting hung over Daddy every night as he raged, a comical juxtaposition. Mama stared at that cheap
stained rendering in a warped frame every night before she fell asleep in her rented hospice bed. I stared at it as a kid
praying I could find a place that looked like that. I finally did.
“I remember.”
“The sky looks like that tonight,” Trudy says.
“It certainly does.” I sip my martini. “Your hair looks good, by the way, Trudy.”
“Keep drinking,” she says with a chuckle. “You’re getting nicer.”
Ava emerges onto the patio in her swimsuit, headed to the pool once again. She stops when she notices us.
“I’m going to miss this when we leave tomorrow,” she says.
“The pool?” I ask. “The weather?”
“No,” she says, nodding at me and her grandmother. “This.”
Ava takes off racing across the patio and yard and leaps into the pool. A resounding splash echoes off Zsa Zsa.
“So, this is happy hour?” Trudy asks. “I like it.”
“Are you happy?” I ask.
“I think I finally just might be,” she says.
“Me, too.”
We clink glasses again, and watch as the sun slips toward slumber.