Teddy
“Hi, John. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m sorry it took so long.”
Trudy and I are standing in a cemetery that sits at the base of the mountain. John’s grave is situated at the far end of the
cemetery in the full sun.
“He always hated to be cold,” I explain.
“You’ll keep him warm one day,” she says, nodding at the plot of earth beside John.
“I will,” I say. “With my fiery charm and wit.”
“These are for you, John,” Trudy says. She places a bouquet of yellow roses against his granite headstone. “I hope you will
forgive me.”
“He already has. John was kinder than me.”
“A charging bull is kinder than you.”
“I’ve taught you well,” I say.
Our eyes meet.
“I brought you a gift, too,” we say at the same time, before laughing.
“You first,” I say.
From the pocket of her jacket, Trudy produces a quart-sized Ziploc bag.
“Is that weed?” I ask. “You are becoming a Californian.”
“No, it’s some of Mama’s ashes,” she says. “I never knew exactly what to do with them.” She smiles. “I do now.”
“So you just kept them in a Ziploc all these years?”
“No, Teddy, I had them in a pretty jar on a shelf on the fireplace mantel in my basement,” Trudy says. “Mama would’ve hated
to have her ashes scattered in Ohio. You know how Michigan feels about Ohio.” Trudy looks at the bag. “I just thought she
might like to be here now . . . with us . . . forever.”
“I like that, Trudy,” I say. “I think she would, too.”
“She deserves a little peace.”
“We all deserve a little peace.”
Trudy and I walk toward the base of the mountain. Trudy opens the bag, and we each grab a handful of ashes. Trudy says a prayer.
“Would you like to add something, Teddy?” Trudy asks when she finishes.
“Yes.”
Trudy bows her head in prayer.
“Thank you, God, for granting me a spontaneous erection last night,” I say. “Teddy’s back in the game!”
“You know how to ruin a moment, don’t you?”
“It’s a gift,” I say. “Love you, Mama.”
Just as we toss her ashes into the sky, a gust of wind catches them and blows them back into our faces.
“I just ate Mama,” Trudy says, coughing and spitting.
“She always had a wicked sense of humor.”
We return to John’s grave. I pull a box from the pocket of my jacket.
“My turn,” I say. “This is for you.”
She opens the box, and her eyes grow wide.
“This was Mama’s Bakelite,” she gushes. “Where did you get it?”
“It’s the only thing I took from the house,” I say.
“But why are you giving it to me?” she asks.
“Oh, I no longer wear costume jewelry,” I say dramatically. “Only diamonds and pearls when you reach this age, my dear.”
I help Trudy place the bracelet on her wrist.
“Look!” I say, as soon as I finish, pointing toward the mountain.
I hold Trudy’s arm against the sky, the colors of the sunset matching her bracelet just like the first night I arrived back
in Palm Springs after Mama died.
“Excuse me, please!”
I snap my fingers to stop the clamor at the Church of Mary. The crowd quiets. I adjust my patriotic bonnet and continue.
“I understand that Barry is now a star . . .” I stop to audibly gag when I say that final word. “I know that everyone is excited
to see Ava and Trudy again, and you all are ready to eat, but Ron’s dishes won’t be getting cold in this hundred-degree heat,
and there is no Church of Mary without my dish, so may I proceed? Thank you!”
I clear my throat.
“Well, Patty O’Furniture took me to Ride A Cowboy, that new gay country and western bar downtown, and I ended up two-stepping
with some military boys from Twentynine Palms who were, let’s just say, curious about our lovely town.”
Barry salutes me.
“And one of our nation’s fine soldiers asked me who was singing the tune we were dancing to, and since my Cher debacle—and
thanks to Ava’s help—I’ve brushed up on my pop music and knew instantly it was Sabrina Carpenter.”
Ava applauds.
“Thank you. I deserve those accolades after my Chappell Roan debacle this winter,” I say.
“Any-hoo, this adorable young man—who I believe was hiding a rifle in his jeans—thought I said the Carpenters. I didn’t have the heart to correct this man of service, he had zero interest in pop culture, it was the sweetest moment, and—long story long—I think I’ve fallen in love with a military man. ”
“Uh-huh. What was his name?” Ron asks. “John Wayne?”
“Actually, it was.”
The table explodes into laughter, and it dawns on me that I was duped in the name of lust.
“Hope you enjoyed your dance,” Sid says, “but I think the love of your life was just a closeted one-night stand.”
“At least my gun finally discharged,” I say.
“Language!” Ava yells at me with a laugh.
“Alexa,” I call to our outdoor speaker, “play ‘We’ve Only Just Begun.’”
Church of Mary groans.
I reach for the food, but Ron slaps my hand.
“Not until we pray,” he scolds me. “Everyone, hold hands and bow your heads.”
We do as instructed.
“Thank you, Lord, for allowing us all to be together at the Church of Mary on this beautiful summer Sunday.”
“It’s going to be a hundred and fifteen degrees today,” I say. “Move the prayer along, Ron, before someone melts or dies.”
“After that long-winded tall tale of yours!” Trudy says to me. “Ron, take as much time as you want.”
“Thank you. Lord, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted . . .”
“Amen!” the table yells, at once shutting him down.
Ron sighs dramatically and tips his Uncle Sam hat toward heaven. Per our church’s dress code, we are all wearing red, white
and blue bonnets. I am sporting a vintage white felt bonnet trimmed with red lace—an American flag in the shape of a heart
on the back—that Betsy Ross herself might have made and worn.
Especially if she were going to brunch with a gaggle of gays.
“Amen,” Trudy adds, giving Ron a wink.
“Thank you, Trudy,” he says.
“Pass the pancakes!” Barry yells.
It is the Fourth of July in the desert, which means it’s hotter than a firecracker even in the shade at nine in the morning.
Ron has created a red, white and blue brunch bonanza: blueberry pancakes topped with fresh strawberries and powdered sugar,
a towering trifle of fresh berries between layers of homemade whipped cream, and patriotic cocktails including a strawberry
frosé, a blackberry bramble and a red, white and blue(berry) margarita.
Ron brings me a margarita.
“None for me,” I say.
“A sign of the apocalypse,” Ava says.
“I haven’t had a drink since Barry’s celebratory champagne,” I say, eyeing Barry. “I’m trying to go a day at a time. It’s
better for my health right now. And I feel better. I like waking up each morning feeling . . . happy again. Although it is
not easy to walk into a gay bar sober.”
“Well, I’m so psyched to stay a week out here to go on college visits and house hunt for Grandma,” Ava says.
“Pool at sunset only, or you will scorch in this heat,” I say. “And I want you in the shop with me learning more tricks of
the trade when we’re not spending your grandma’s money.”
“Does everyone have a tux for the TV premiere in September?” Barry asks. From underneath the table, he produces a copy of
Variety and proudly displays it with a huge smile like a ring girl does in a wrestling match when she shows the sign displaying the
number of the next round. There is a huge article about all the buzz surrounding The Golden Gays. “It was fast-tracked due to all the positive reviews.”
“And the fact that all the stars are old,” I say. “By the by, I’m wearing a vintage strapless gown.” I look around the table.
“I’m not joking. Have you seen the new Queer Eye, guys? It’s very in right now. I have one from my shop. I thought the attention would be good for my business.”
“I have my tux,” Ron says seriously. “Custom-made Mr Turk, of course.”
“We do, too,” Sid says, grabbing Leo’s hand. “Matching.”
Everyone, even Trudy, groans audibly. I am so proud. We have taught her well.
As Barry and I predicted, Leo has moved into Zsa Zsa with Sid. Miriam and Sid made amends after she got to know him better
and his fight at the library made national news and him a local hero (a surprise visit to Miriam from Esther didn’t hurt either,
I was told), and Leo’s parents took on his lease and plan to stay in the desert through the winter to spend time with him
and Sid.
Barry clears his throat to get the attention of the table again. He points to the headline of another Variety article, this one just below the piece on his new show.
Kyle Moses’s Maybach Vandalized in Palm Springs
“I take it everyone has alibis?” Barry asks.
Everyone’s heads swivel toward me as one.
“Hey, don’t look at me!” I say. “I’ve been infirmed. I wouldn’t have the energy to do something like that. I could barely
two-step without assistance.”
I glance at Sid and Ron.
“This old broad won her fight,” Sid says.
“And I have a reputation to uphold,” Ron adds.
Trudy holds up a hand. She has a sheepish expression.
“Guilty,” she says.
The table howls.
“Grandma!” Ava yells.
“I followed him to Counter Reformation and pretended to be a valet,” she says much too casually. “I might have had three martinis.
I should have listened to you, Teddy, and stopped at one.”
“Who have you turned into?” I ask.
“One of you,” she says. “A friend does anything for her friends, right?”
Barry covers his ears. “I don’t want to know.” He looks at Trudy. “But thank you.”
We eat, play croquet and take naps in the AC until dusk. Then we head to the pool and swim in water that feels like a warm bath. We position ourselves on the patio for the Fourth of July fireworks, and watch them light up the mountains from our perfect perch overlooking downtown.
When they’re over, I hand out sparklers to everyone just like my mama used to do in Michigan on the nation’s birthday.
We light them and dance around the yard, four old men giggling.
I stand to the side and watch my friends and family dance.
My life flashes before my eyes in blurs of light like the sparklers.
Life is pretty damn simple when you get down to it: We need friends who not only love and accept us but love and accept us
just as we are.
We need friends who allow us to shine brightly in the world so our light can be seen.
When it does, we can be our true selves. We can show our faces without shame, without bruises, without masks.
Here is the thing about those of us who are different in this world: You can hate us, beat us, spit on us, laugh at us, demean
us, take our rights away, but we will never disappear. Our light is too bright to diminish. We are—just like these sparklers,
just like these old, dancing men—what the world needs to be just a bit more interesting.
Life is not a sitcom, but it’s pretty damn close—three acts and a finale—so let me impart this last piece of advice, my dears,
while I’m still around and in a giving mood:
You better learn to laugh at yourself early in life; you better learn to forgive yourself midlife; and you better have friends
late in life, or you will not survive.
And I want you to survive. We need you to make this dramedy called life a spectacular one.
I light another sparkler and spin around in the yard until it goes dark and I grow dizzy. Then I fall onto the cool grass and watch my friends dance around the yard and laugh with unbridled joy like the children they were never allowed to be but rediscovered as old men.
We all deserve such a finale in our lives, which brings me to my last piece of advice:
It’s a gift to grow old.
* * * * *