Hot Tea

by Sheila Horgan

  Her furniture is pretty simple.

  It’s the walls that get your attention.

  We borrowed an overhead projector from the library and did our best impersonation of a home improvement show.

  We found a very art deco type picture of a man and woman, had it copied onto a transparency, and projected that on the dining room wall. We did a silhouette, first tracing their outline, and then filling it in. Normally people do that kind of thing very black and white. Not Teagan. We painted the wall a really pretty deep putty color and did the silhouette two shades lighter. It is actually subtle, or stark, depending on the time of day and the amount of light in the room.

  On the wall with the over grown TV, she went geometric. It’s a weird shape that feeds into itself. Can’t really put it into words. It’s the pattern off of some famous piece of fabric that was popular years ago. We copied the puzzle-like pieces of the shape, brought them to the copy shop. Had them copied onto heavy card stock, and made templates out of it, or is that considered a stencil? It was a pain, but turned out amazingly well. Thank God she only wanted it on one wall, or we’d still be painting.

  Again, it’s the color that changes everything. Instead of using the bright colors that were used in the fabric, Teagan decided to paint the whole wall the color of the silhouette, the one two shades lighter, and then use a glaze for the pattern. The tinted glaze made it a tiny bit darker and gave it a bit of sheen. It came out looking really sophisticated.

  For her bathroom, she took the leftovers of all the paint, taped that thin plastic cover sheet stuff on everything she didn’t want painted, took the stir sticks from the paint store, dipped them in the paint and splashed paint on the walls. At first, it looked kind of like an experiment in blood spatter patterns for a CSI show, with an alien as the victim, since all of the dots and splashes were in shades of beige, but we kept at it, and by the time we were done, it looked fantastic. We, on the other hand, just looked like the victims of an explosion at a paint factory. We’d been very careful to mask off all the stuff in the bathroom, but didn’t even bother with a painter’s cap for ourselves.

  Believe me, it takes a long time to wash dried paint out of red hair.

  I was thinking about all that as I drove over. I was ready to use shared memories as ammunition if I needed to resort to that. Grown up memories. This situation called for some finesse.

  Teagan’s car wasn’t in the driveway. She never parks in the garage, unless it’s raining really hard when she drives up, and it hadn’t been raining last night or this morning. Not a good sign.

  Although a garage parking place is part of her rent, the man that owns the house, an older guy, has a workshop in the back of the really oversized garage, and Teagan likes to leave him as much space as she can.

  The thought crossed my mind that she might be hiding from me, so I parked, got out of the car, and headed up the side stairs.

  Her landlord called out to me before I’d made it more than a few steps.

  “She’s not home.”

  I tried not to let my disappointment show, no use in getting Mr. Johnstone involved in our drama. “Thanks Mr. Johnstone.”

  “She took off. Said you were mean to her and she was going to do the rest of her vacation as a road trip. She said she would be home in time to go back to work.”

  “Crap!”

  “Sounds like you girls had quite an argument.”

  “No, I’m just an idiot.”

  “She said something like that.” He gave me a kind smile.

  “Did she say when she’d be back? When she has to report back to work?”

  “Didn’t say. My guess is she’s calling in to the office from time to time to see if there have been any disasters they can’t handle without her. If they can keep the thing afloat without her, she’s finally gonna use up some of that comp time.”

  “Well, thanks Mr. Johnstone. I’ll keep calling her.”

  “You do that honey. Me and my brother had a blow-up, been about 23 years ago. Haven’t talked since. Don’t let that happen to the two of you.”

  “Oh, that won’t happen. Mom would kill us both before she would allow us not to talk.”

  “Good to hear. A close family is a rare thing in this day. I wish mine were more like you and yours.”

  I’d have to remember to invite Mr. Johnstone to a family dinner. He might change his opinion. A close family and all the obligations that go with it can be a pain in the butt.

  I admit, even with all the drama, I wouldn’t change anything. I know, most people think this kind of interdependent, enabling, co-whatever-the-hell, old-fashioned family stuff is dysfunctional, but the truth of it is, the only reason they think that, is because they’ve never experienced it. They’ve never known the feeling of having your family be your best friends. If they had, they wouldn’t trade it for the world. True, when things go ass over teakettle, it is ugly for a bit, but what a blessing even that is. To know that you have something of such value to lose, makes you hold onto it all the stronger. It’s hard to describe for someone that hasn’t experienced it. My family means everything to me.

  Speaking of which, I drove straight over to Mom’s house.

  Mom was at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes. Not good. She was armed. Had a knife in her hand. She looked up with a smile that immediately faded, “Lord love a duck Cara, what have you done? I’ve not seen your face that long since you stepped on that wee little lizard during your short lived attempt at jogging.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone this time.”

  “What have you done?”

  “Teagan took off on a road trip. She’s so mad at me she doesn’t want to share the same city streets.”

  “She’ll be fine, in time. Maybe she decided to take off out of town with that young man it is rumored you were both fawning over at the restaurant the other night. Could that be it?”

  She searched my face to make sure that I knew that she would know if I lied.

  I chose to ignore the bait, “No, Mom, that isn’t it. I’m just an idiot. I pissed her off and she took off.”

  “There’s no need to be talking that way to your mother, Cara Siobhan. Tell me, where did your sister go?”

  I had the good grace to look completely pathetic, even my mother was taking pity on me. She let the questions about AJ settle for another time. “Mr. Johnstone said she took off, but he didn’t say where she was going. He said he figured she was going to burn the rest of her comp time on a road trip. She even mentioned to him that she is mad at me. That isn’t Teagan’s style at all. She must really be mad.”

  “Oh my darlin’ girl, anger is a motivator for the shallow of heart. Teagan is not shallow. She must be hurt, not angry.”

  With that I burst into tears. Again.

  “There’s no need for tears Cara. If they make you feel better, then pour them out, but I doubt that is what will happen in the end. In the end, all the tears will do is make your nose red, your eyes swell, and make the unenlightened feel sorry for you. You would be better off to laugh or to work. Your sister will be fine. Sooner or later she’ll calm down and call you. I’m certain of it.”

  “You saw her?”

  “Why do you say that, Love?”

  “Because if you didn’t know where she was and what she is doing; if you didn’t see with your own eyes that she is whole and alright, you would have me drive in one direction, and each of your other kids in another, till we tracked her down. One of the advantages of having so many kids is that none of us can get very far without you knowing where we are or sending the rest of us out on a sibling hunt.”

  “I haven’t sent you to look for your sister since you kids were still riding bicycles. Why do you exaggerate so?”

  “The only reason you haven’t sent us out searching is because there’s been no reason. You know full well that if Teagan was really missing, you would send us out looking for her. That means she isn’t missing. That means you know where she is. Where is she Mom?”


  “You’ll watch your tone with me young lady. I’ll not be spoken to as if I were the fishmonger’s wife. I do not know where your sister is, but she did stop in to tell me that she is off on an adventure for the rest of her vacation. She’ll not make herself available to you for your new entrepreneurial endeavors. It would seem you are on your own for that.”

  “Is she really miserable?”

  “Knowing that she is driving you crazy will lift her spirit a bit. I’m sure when she gets home, and you’ve taken it upon yourself to find a way to apologize properly, she’ll come around.”

  “Will you talk to her for me?”

  “I can’t sort out your problems for you Cara. You are a grown woman. You do not need your mother in the middle of your affairs.”

  “Can I quote you on that later?”

  “Don’t be sassing me young lady. Dinner is at five-thirty. Will you be back in time?”

  “Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry? Are you shoving me out the door Mom? And why are you peeling potatoes so early in the day?”

  “No Cara, I’m not shoving you out the door, but you have much better things to do than stand here talking to me. You have a business to get underway. You can’t afford the luxury of standing here gossiping.”

  “I don’t gossip Mom. I chat. Besides, in the history of you, you have never told me to leave. Just what’s going on with you?”

  “If you must know, your father is home, and your brothers and sisters are not. Your father and I were planning …”

  I covered my ears and la la la’ed my way to the front door. You don’t end up being parents if you don’t have a bit of passion in your life now and again. Since my parents are the proud parents of eight, I have to assume they have succumbed on at least eight occasions. Still, someone else’s passion in the afternoon is not something one wants foisted upon them, especially when that someone is their parent.

  Sheesh. Getting those visuals out of my head is going to take some work.

  I headed straight back to the apartment to start my eulogy business.

  When I walked in the door there was a note taped to the fridge. In the middle of a big sheet of yellow paper was a really bold – T. That was all. That was enough.

  Ok, so my mom trained us well. Teagan didn’t leave town without letting me know that we’re ok. She might be mad, but if a bus hits one of us before she comes back, at least we didn’t part as enemies.

  How blessed I am to have my parents? They brainwashed us into being a nice close family, with siblings as our closest friends, respect for our elders, and the exact proper balance of fear of Mom, and fear of God. Not in a scary brimstone and damnation kind of way, but, in an I love you and I’m always watching, kind of way.

  I sat at the desk trying to decide the best way to approach my new business. I got on my computer and went to my search engine. I typed in ‘eulogy’ and got a bunch of responses. There are places you can buy a canned eulogy for less than twenty dollars. A canned eulogy? I guess maybe people use it as a jumping off place. I guess you buy the canned one, use it as a template, and add your own touches. I can’t imagine a eulogy read just as it came, with no personalization. At that point why not just let the person conducting the ceremony do the eulogy? Of course, I go to mostly Catholic stuff, being Irish and all. Maybe other groups do things differently. I’d have to check into that too.

  You can get a ‘fully custom’ eulogy for less than thirty dollars, and have it in your hand in less than 24 hours. If that’s the case, then this might not be such a great idea for me after all. I don’t want to be tied to a computer 24/7 and get paid almost nothing.

  Do the math. Let’s just round it off to thirty dollars for a full custom eulogy. If it takes me thirty minutes to write a eulogy, then that is a dollar a minute, and I’m making sixty dollars an hour. Damn good money. Problem is, I can’t write a eulogy in thirty minutes; so let’s say it takes me an hour to write it. That means I’m getting paid half as much, which means thirty dollars an hour.

  But the truth is, if I have to collect information about the person and check my emails, and write, and edit, I’m really looking at a lot more time for each eulogy. Shit, I’m getting paid about minimum wage, and that’s if I’m busy all the time.

  If I only get one request a day, the good news is I’ve got all day to do the eulogy, the bad news is I only make thirty dollars a day. How much is that a month? If I work six days a week, that’s less than seven hundred and fifty dollars a month. That won’t work.

  Of course, just because there are other people out there charging thirty dollars doesn’t mean I have to. You can buy shoes at Wal-Mart for twenty bucks, or you can buy Jimmy Choo’s shoes for hundreds. You pay for quality, right? There’s nothing wrong with Wal-Mart shoes, but you aren’t going to get Jimmy Choo quality there. I need to be the Jimmy Choo of eulogies.

  I made myself a cup of tea and worried the point a little longer.

  Should I write a query letter and send it out en mass to all the funeral homes in the area? That seems pretty impersonal for a very personal service, but then again, the funeral home director is in business, and would understand the need for me to generate business.

  The only samples I’ve got of ‘my work’ are eulogies for family members. Mom would kill me if I used those as examples.

  I could make something up. How do you write a eulogy for a person that doesn’t exist? You have nothing to start with. Then again, if there’s no real person, you can pretty much write anything you want, and you’ll be right on the money. I sat for a while staring into space. Truthfully, I was procrastinating. I can’t even take credit for daydreaming because my wee little mind was blank.

  I reminded myself it doesn’t do any good to have a really good idea if you aren’t willing and able to follow through on it and make something of it.

  If I’m not willing to take this step, write a few eulogies, a query letter of sorts, maybe make up a brochure, then I should just go find a job somewhere.

  Normally, I’m the idea person, and Teagan is the implementer, but she went and abandoned me, right when I needed her, and I have to do this all on my own.

  Fine, if that’s how she wants to do this, then that’s how we’re going to do this. She can sit in that stupid office she works in, where she does all the work gets none of the glory, and they don’t pay her one tenth of what she’s actually worth, and I’ll become a eulogy writing phenom, and show her that I can do it alone.

  First things first, I need to create a dead person.

  That sounds a little ghoulish. What I need to do is create a fictional character that I can write a eulogy for, as an example of my ability to do this work.

  Piece of cake.

  I sat at the computer for a while. Had a couple of false starts. I didn’t realize it would be so difficult to write for a fictional character. It’s like writing a eulogy for a chair.

  Brilliance struck. I went to the obituary section of the local paper and picked out a couple of people. I’d change their names. I’d use their details as a foundation for a eulogy. I’d try again.

  The first one I ran across was a guy in his 60s. They had quite a write-up about him. He was a nurse. He’d been in the military. He was preceded in death by his sister. He left behind a long time companion. They said he’d been taken quickly and young. They listed off all the relatives. No funeral arrangements listed, but they gave an email address to contact them about a future memorial service.

  I thought about that for a second. They said he’d died young, but he was 60. 60 isn’t young. It is, however, young to die. If I only live to 60, then 30 would be middle aged. Damn!