Alright, alright,
Mickey's a mouse, Donald's a duck, Pluto's a dog. What's Goofy?”
– Stand By Me
Will left The March, and emerged to a beautiful, early
summer night outside. The warm day
had been a bit of a secret down at The March, sequestered away in a basement as
it was. But its sister tavern,
Scottie’s, with its enviable street level access and its ceiling-high windows
opening to the outdoors, enjoyed the illusion of a charming al fresco bar from
the inside. On these gorgeous
summer nights, seats by those windows were at a premium.
Teddy’s normal table, on the other hand, was never at a
premium. It was a rare evening
that he walked into Scottie’s to find it occupied. His was a lonely, away table, visited only en route to the
cigarette machine or the men’s toilet.
Will came in to find Teddy sitting at this table, papers
strewn out in front of him, his ashtray half full of smoked-to-the-filter
Camels, a 10 oz mug of Old Style almost empty. Will sat down at the table and guardedly initiated a conversation.
“I’ve just found out something about my mother,” said
Will. “And I want to talk to you
about it.”
Teddy sighed.
“Stories about your side of the family are all so distressing and
fraught. I’ll be glad to be done
with them.”
Will marshaled his patience. “After this, you will be,” he said. “I’m less interested than you in
carrying on this relationship. But
this concerns you so just shut the fuck up and listen.”
“Carry on then,” said Teddy. “And try to avoid lengthy narrative.”
Will swallowed his irritation, or at least the part of it
struggling to make its way out.
“My grandmother evidently had an affair with the man,
Bulstrode, who owns this bar and The March and a whole bunch of other,” began
Will.
“Everyone knew that,” said Teddy. “She was silly and too interested in male attention. It drove my mother crazy.”
“You know what, Teddy,” asked Will, anger boiling over
despite his best efforts. “I
didn’t know that. I didn’t know
any of it and no one in our fucked up family could be bothered to tell me. Just like no one could be bothered to
tell me any more about my mother than what shit she was or any more about my
grandmother than what a silly whore she was. But, you know what, I loved my mother. And I bet I would have loved my
grandmother if anyone had given me a chance.”
“Your mother and grandmother…” began Teddy, ready to launch
into the litany of embarrassment and outrage he’d inherited from his mother.
“Fuck it, Teddy,” said Will. “For the rest of this conversation, let’s just take it as understood
that your mother was a sainted vessel of self-control and financial
judiciousness which she has handed down to you. My mother and grandmother
lacked her obvious virtue. Can we
just take that as understood and move fucking on?”
“Fine,” said Teddy, also irritated.
“When my grandmother got sick, she asked Bulstrode to find
my mother,” said Will. “To settle
her estate. Did you know that?”
“I knew he was involved somehow,” said Teddy. “But, of course, there was no money.”
“Yeah, except there was money,” said Will. “A pretty good chunk of it. And Bulstrode never tried to find my
mother.”
“She dropped off the face of the earth,” said Teddy. “She lived in that hippie commune. Who could have found her?”
“The hippie commune,” said Will. “Wasn’t off the face
of the earth. It was listed in
the motherfucking white pages! No
one tried to find her. Bulstrode
didn’t try to find her and you didn’t
try to find her.”
“She died, Will,” said Teddy. “And I took care of you. I never knew of any money left from her estate and I did the
best I could by you.”
“Pity, huh,” said Will. “If you’d tried to find her, if anyone had tried to find
her, than I wouldn’t have needed you to take care of me. I wouldn’t have needed
your money.”
“Well, you took enough of it anyway,” said Teddy.
Will gave up.
“Look, John Farebrother is going to write a story about James Bulstrode
and his connection to our family.
I thought it was right to tell you that the story was coming out. Get your blessing since it’s our
family. But, whatever. I don’t care about your blessing”
“I don’t care either,” said Teddy. “Your side of the family is not my family. My mother and her sister had little to
do with each other. I couldn’t
care less what’s written about my desperate aunt and her hippie daughter.”
“I have one more thing to tell you before I leave,” said
Will.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, what now?” said Teddy.
“I’ve got a pretty good legal claim for half the value of
that beautiful apartment you live in,” said Will.
“Of course you don’t,” said Teddy.
“Of course I do. It belonged to your mother and my
grandmother equally,” said Will.
“It might not be crystal clear anymore, but I bet with just a little
effort I could go full on Bleak House
trying to get that property away from you.”
“What do you want, Will,” said Teddy, icily.
“You don’t mention Brooke or me ever again,” said Will. “You
don’t tell anyone about any promises she may or may not have made to you.”
“She did make me that promise,” said Teddy. “She did promise
not to get involved with you.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” said Will. “Brooke and I aren’t together and won’t
be. You’ve salted the earth there.
But you encouraged people to think things about her that you know aren’t
true. And I want it to stop.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” said Teddy. “I’ve told no lies and it was my relationship not yours to
discuss. But I don’t care. If it’ll keep you out of my life, I’ll
pretend that the whole thing never happened.
“Fine,” said Will.
“I’ll get enough money from what Bulstrode owes me to pay for school, to
start me off. And I’ll finally be
done with all you bitter, mean-spirited, evil old men.”
With that, Will stood up from the table and left.
Before Will had even made it to the door, Teddy had
re-engaged with the work before him. Without looking up, he began scribbling on
the untidy mess of papers in front of him, scribbling the same heartless, banal
judgments that were on every other piece of paper he’d scribbled on in bars for
the last 30 years. If you laid
those papers down side by side, they’d cover the breadth of Chicago, they’d
bury Illinois and teach no one a thing, change nothing. They’d be as insignificant as the mark
Teddy left on the world.
He lifted a hand up and gestured to the bar for another
beer.
And that’s it for Teddy. We won’t visit him again. We’ll leave him there on his barstool, with his mug of beer
and endless, barren pages of research.
He’ll have no special comeuppance, Farebrother’s story will be
published, but it won’t expose or embarrass him. Teddy won’t even be in it. He’ll pass what years are left to him alone at his sad
table. The young men and women
that work at Scottie’s will find him increasingly distasteful, but also
innocuous. When he leaves of an
evening, they’ll mock him as a terrible tipper with poor personal hygiene. And then they’ll chatteringly giggle
about that waitress at The March who totally did it with him. Ewwwww. But come the next night,
they’ll bring him his beers and leave him to sit at his table alone, joylessly
anticipating an apocalypse.
Teddy abides in the life he’s created for himself. He will never be beloved, and should
never be forgiven. But, pity’s
cheap. And about all we can give
him.
