Tea With Death

The old man winced, his tired and line-creased face contorted in pain as a slow shiver crept up his twisted spine. His fingers – once long and graceful, now claw-like and skeletal looking – drew the shabby flannel robe snugly about his stooped shoulders. The crumbling mansion had become drafty over the many years and the fire that raged in the once grand marble fireplace barely kept the chill from seeping into his arthritis plagued bones.

Poor cataract eyes gazed around the unkempt library. Elongated shadows spilled about the room and cast an eerie glow onto the aged and yellowed books that filled the dozens upon dozens of shelves which lined the other three walls of the room. The library had once been a grand place, a place of refuge for him and his family once upon a time. The entire mansion had once been filled with the happy, now haunting sounds of laughter and voices. However, the halls had long since lost the happy echoes of life. Not so long ago it seemed to him that he had been a happy, healthy young man with his entire life before him. But now, seated in front of the rarely lit fireplace, time seemed to have caught up with him and he felt as old as he appeared.

A large grandfather clock, which stood in one corner, began to play the Westminster chime signaling that it was eleven o’clock. Outside the night was deathly silent as though even the nocturnal creatures knew something was amiss about the night. The old man picked up a delicate cup and saucer from the antique mahogany table on his right. Carefully, though absently, he took a drink of the tea. The steaming liquid soothed his chills for a moment and helped to ease his rising tension. As he set the fainted floral patterned china down, he gazed with pale blue eyes into the flickering flames. The crackle and pop brought back once forgotten memories. The thinly gay haired man settled back into the discolored high backed winged chair and let his weakening mind wander into the past.

He was younger, years younger and healthier. He stood in front of another blazing fire; one tuxedo clad arm resting on the cool marble mantle. In his other hand he held a brightly floral patterned china cup. Slowly he sipped from it, the scalding tea burning down his throat to his stomach. With forced patience he obediently waited in the manly decorated library while his wife finished getting ready in the large suite they shared upstairs. His brilliant blue eyes glanced down at his spit-shined shoes and then strayed to the grandfather clock in the corner. Taking another sip from the cup, he thought to himself. They’d have to leave seen if they were going to make it to tonight’s theater on time.

Draining the last of the tea, he slowly walked to the recently polished mahogany table, which stood, next to his favorite winged chair. He gently set the cup and its matching saucer down then began to meticulously smooth down his jacket. His strong yet graceful fingers straightened his bow tie and then gave each perfectly pressed cuff a short tug, the gold cufflinks twinkling richly in the fire’s light.

From the corner of his eyes he saw the heavy doors open and he turned toward them. Dressed stunningly in crushed black velvet that draped to the floor, his wife glided into the room. Her chestnut hair was twisted elegantly into a French twist and diamond studs gleamed from her ears. Around her graceful neck was a matching diamond necklace and her fingers were adorned with diamond rings. A dainty bracelet dangled from her slender wrist.

In a way that made his heart skip a beat she tilted her head slightly and smiled winningly up at him. Her green eyes sparkled. “Fashionably late as always, I know.”

He cupped one porcelain cheek in his hand. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured into her ear.

Her smile broadened and she snaked her nimble arms around his neck. “You’re not so bad yourself, love.” They embraced and he stole a sweet kiss from her full, soft lips before he took her tiny hand in his much larger and whisked her from the room. They never made it to the theater.

The grandfather clock chimed loudly, startling the old man from his reverie. He looked at the clock – it was now half past eleven. He looked once more to the blaze and sighed, remembering. Just a few short years later his wife had suffered a series of strokes and passed away. A dull ache began under his ribs as he remembered the hospital visits, the doctors, and the false hopes he had tried desperately to believe in.

Shaking his head as if trying to shake away the thoughts, he stood and slowly ambled around the room. He came to a stop in front of the large closed library doors. Staring at them he thought he heard someone knocking softly on the other side. From far away a muffled voice seemed to call out to him to enter.

He was nervous, very nervous. His heart was beating a little faster than normal and he could swear that everyone around him would be able to hear the blood ringing in his ears. He stood outside the library doors. He paused briefly to make sure everything was in place – straightening his bow tie and buttoning his tuxedo jacket before he raised a slightly unsteady hand and rapped three times on the dark wood. He grimaced slightly as the knocks seemed to be amplified and echoed loudly through the house. From somewhere inside a soft voice beckoned him to enter. He grasped the brass handles and pushed them open slowly. He stepped hesitantly inside the room and stopped short in the doorway, his eyes falling on the sight before him.

She was the spitting image of her mother and beautiful. His daughter, dressed in a long flowing silk and lace gown, turned to face him, her blue eyes, so much like his own, lit up at the sight of him. A dazzling smile brightened her face.

“Well? What do you think?” she asked him.

At first he thought he wasn’t going to be able to respond so overcome with emotion was he. But then he cleared his throat deeply where a lump had suddenly lodged and stepped forward to hug her. “You look just like you’re mother when we were married,” he managed to choke out.

When he stepped back there were tears glistening in her eyes although the smile was still there. She reached down and picked up the lace veil that was sitting on the mahogany table. She turned around and he helped place it on top of her soft brown curls.

“Ready?” She asked when she turned back. He nodded silently then offered his arm to her. She slipped her own thin arm through his and together they started for the doors. As they reached the entryway she paused looking up into his handsome face. “I love you, Daddy.” He smiled turning away, tears momentarily clouding his vision. He slowly led her from the room and into the hallway to give her away to the man she was about to marry.

Tears had formed in the old man’s eyes as the memory played itself out in his mind. Reaching up, he brushed them away with a swipe of his hand. With painstaking steps, he returned to his chair and slumped into it. The dull ache that had started in his chest earlier now ached a little more as he remembered how his daughter died. She and her family were on their way home from visiting him one night when a drunk driver had smashed into their car. Everyone involved was killed.

He laid a frail hand over his heart and looked up. Almost instantly his eyes fell on the mantle and the dusty old conductor’s cap that sat to one side. A small smile formed on his lips and for the last time his mind wandered into the past as the soft sound of a train whistle filled the room.

Whoot! Whoot!

The sound of the train whistle filled the library. It reverberated off the tall walls and spilled out of the room to echo softly throughout the house. He stood in the doorway watching silently. His young son sat Indian style on the brightly designed Oriental rug in front of the fireplace. A twelve-car train set – complete with a bright red caboose trailing behind – was chugging circles around the small boy. The father walked over, his hands suspiciously hidden behind his back.

“Isn’t it just neat, Dad!” the young boy – a tiny replica of his handsome father – beamed up at him.

“It sure is, son.” He nodded in agreement then sat down beside the boy. He reached out and ruffled his son’s unruly brown locks. Grinning as his son made a face he said, “I have a surprise for you.”

A smile almost brighter than the sun illuminated the boy’s face. “What is it?” he demanded.

His father reached behind his back and pulled out the stripped conductor’s hat. He placed it on the boy’s tussled locks – the same dark brown as his own. The boy’s beautiful blue eyes were all aglow with joy as he reached out his small hands to tentatively touch the cap.

“Wow,” he whispered in awe. He turned his wide eyes toward his father. “Thanks!”

Sitting Indian style like his son, he watched as the train circled around them. Pushing a button on the train’s remote control the train’s whistle began to shout. Father and son grinned as the train’s whistle echoed once again through the room and out into the hall. Only a year later the boy would catch scarlet fever and die.

The clock began to strike midnight. The old man looked up with his tired eyes. He was ready. It was time. He slowly, painfully leaned over and picked up the delicate china cup and drained the last few cold drops from it. He looked up at the tall wooden library doors as the last of the chimes died away. Slowly the doorknobs squeaked as they turned and the doors creaked open. As the shadows became exaggerated, the old man’s eyes widened and glazed over. His frail arm shot up and his gnarled hand clutched his shirt over his heart. Memories of happier times played out in the flickering shadows of the fire as the china teacup fell to the floor and shattered. All was deathly silent in the crumbling mansion but outside the night was once again alive and busy with activity.