The bull in the china shop
“I pimped myself out to Father Anthony,” i say when my sister opens the door to her beautiful suburban home. I gently take off my shoes organizing mine and hers.
My sister and I were best friends until about 10 years ago. She was diagnosed with an illness no one ever heard of. I was insensitive she told me. I would not disagree with that. I would probably use guarded more than insensitive. My sister would stop talking to me for years. When she was not silent, she would rage text me.
“If you get sick do not ever call me. Do not call my kids. You will be alone. You turned into white trash, and you will die white trash.” That is a benign example.
“Dad is making me go to lunch with Father Anthony to beg for new tiles, a marble bench, and whatever the fuck else dad wants…….….”
My sister is always thoughtful when she speaks. She takes her time. She would make a great poker player. My sister never shows emotion.
“We have to get him wi-fi so he can get his Italian stations back. He needs to be distracted. He has too much time to think.”
I never thought about that. He has too much to think. Too much time to think about how he has lived in a country he never wanted to be in. Spent 30 years at a job he was too smart for. He made so many sacrifices when he followed my mother to the United States. My sister is the china. I am the bull.
“Please go with me. Father Anthony is weird,” I say like a desperate teenager.
“Oh alright. It’s no big deal. We will take Father Anthony to lunch. He gets a free lunch and nothing will change.”
My sister was right. Nothing will change.