Hot Tea

by Sheila Horgan

  I didn’t know quite what to do or say, so I took a gulp of my drink and smiled.

  We talked about the eulogy business, and Suzi, and Liam and Morgan.

  How could it be that talking to this man about nothing, is more intimate than anything else I’ve ever done?

  I was in my bed alone. Well, mostly alone. I looked down and saw AJ checking my ankle, by the light sneaking in from the hallway. He had his hand on my leg, between my ankle and my knee. I can’t say it was a bad thing.

  “What time is it?”

  “About four-thirty.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yep.”

  “What happened? How’d I get in here?”

  “You had a Screwdriver.” He chuckled. “You really are a light-weight. Not when you’re really relaxed and flopping all over the place while I’m trying to carry you down the hall, but when it comes to drinking, you’re a light-weight.”

  “Oh Dear Lord please help me.” I closed my eyes and let my arm come down across my forehead. Very 1940s. It suited the nightgown.

  “Is it your ankle? Do you have a hangover? Do you need some aspirin? What is it?”

  “Nothing a bullet won’t heal. Let’s call it terminal embarrassment and leave it at that.” Fade to black. I’m sure I was asleep before he got to the door.

  SIXTEEN

  I hobbled up the drive at Bernie’s house early in the morning. Contrary to what everyone seems to believe, I’m actually a morning person. I do well in the morning. I’m cheery.

  This morning I was reminded of the very best thing about morning. I know, I know. It’s a guy thing to be all hot and bothered in the morning. Girls don’t like being friendly in the morning. Everyone says girls think they look like crap and their teeth have fur. Well, it may be primarily a guy thing, but I’m here to tell you at least a few of us girls like mornings. I do. I like to slip out of bed, go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, slap on a little smelly good stuff, go back to bed, and pounce.

  No pouncing this morning. Unfortunately. By the time I got out of bed and got moving, AJ was long gone. There was a note on the fridge saying that I should take it easy and if I needed anything at all, call his cell. I limped around for a while, trying to decide if my ankle is just sore, or if it’s actually damaged. I decided that I’d live through the experience, that all I really needed was some support for it, and a good shower.

  I took my shower, shaved everything important, just in case I ended up at the ER after all, and called Teagan. She came over and taped up my ankle. She’s a sports nut. She has injured herself more than I have. She actually brought a bunch of stuff over with her. She started with some soft gauzy stuff, then tape over that, so that it won’t hurt so much when it is time get rid of the bandage. She pointed out that we could just put tape on skin, kind of like a shortcut to waxing my ankle, but when she saw how beat-up my ankle was, she took pity on me and did it the right way. She was going to cover it with people colored tape, but I like the white stuff. If I’m going to be in pain, I want people to notice that I’m bandaged. Maybe they will be nicer to me. It could happen.

  After Teagan decided that I was good to go, she said she was going to stop off at Baker Bob’s Donuts and pick up some cinnamon rolls, purely medicinal mind you, and would meet me at Bernie’s in 30 minutes. We’d promised Mom we would get started going through Bernie’s stuff as soon as possible.

  All the times I’ve come to this house, to pick someone up or drop someone off, I’d never really taken the time to appreciate it. Since Teagan hadn’t arrived with my cinnamon roll yet, I allowed myself the luxury.

  Bernie’s house looks like something out of a magazine, or maybe an old-fashioned movie set. It’s a tiny little house, resplendent with an English garden and white picket fence. Of course, Bernie would never cop to an English garden, she would insist that it’s Irish, but there is a difference, subtle though it may be.

  From the front sidewalk is a crooked little stone walkway that ends in two steps up to the wrap around porch. I’m pretty sure the porch was an add-on, but it works.

  The house looks hundreds of years old, but since it is right here in Florida, someone must have worked hard to make it look that way. Truth be told, not a lot of stuff in this area has been here for all that long. Post WWII is about it, or at least that’s what I’ve been told.

  Bernie’s house looks like it has been here for centuries. Think Hansel and Gretel with a better roof.

  The porch has a white wicker rocker with a little table next to it, still holding a paperback that’s starting to show that it has been sitting in the humidity for a while now. The sight of it made me sad.

  I walked around to the right side of the house; the porch wraps nearly all the way to the back, with roses climbing up pillars that look like haphazardly stacked stones. The pillars support railings wide enough to sit on.

  The hide-a-key was attached under the lip of a protruding rose-colored stone that has a dent in the underside; the dent is just large enough to hide the key. I wondered if that was planned, or a happy accident.

  The sound caused by ripping the key from it’s hidey-hole seemed loud, even if it’s just Velcro. Such a modern sound in such an old fashioned realm was a bit disconcerting.

  Also, it hadn’t escaped my psyche that on the other side of the house was the garage, where they’d found Bernie sitting in her car. I’m not afraid of death, or dying, or anything like that, but still, it was a little bit oooky to be here alone. Something just wasn’t sitting right.

  That was when I heard the laughter of little kids, probably from next door, but I couldn’t really tell where it was coming from. You know how sound bounces around in the evening. It bounces on steroids in Florida at all times of the day; my theory is complex, but involves sound and humidity. Ok, so it isn’t complex. It is so humid even sound can’t escape, so I couldn’t tell where the sound was created, but I was thankful that it was there.

  I said, very quietly, as I always do, “Thank you, God.”

  I believe in thanking God when he smiles down on me. He does it often. I’m not overly religious, but I am spiritual, boy is that an over used phrase, but I know that I have had lots of help in this life. Some from God, some from the cosmos, lots from my parents. I give credit where credit is due. Sometimes I even allow myself a pat on the back.

  I also believe that laughter is healing.

  It is my firmly held belief that aging starts in earnest when laughter is not free flowing. People who laugh loudly and often are young at a hundred. I know this. I’m Irish. I’m related to more than one person who has celebrated the century mark; Bernie is only one of many examples I could site.

  The laughter worked. I was beginning to feel like me again. Enough philosophizing. Time to get to work.

  The front door is in a little pokey out place, I have no idea what it’s called, but a little area, like a foyer, poked out from the front of a very flat house facade.

  Now that I actually take a moment to look closely at it, the porch follows the outline of the house exactly. The approach makes the whole thing very custom and expensive looking. My guess would be the expensive appearance is probably due to the attention to detail. Then again, it could be because this lovely little house doesn’t look like every other house in the neighborhood.

  You can still do that in Florida. Build your custom house right next to someone else’s cookie cutter home. You see million dollar homes next to trailers in Florida. Not in the new subdivisions, but out where things are still a little countrified. Where deer and armadillos wander.

  The little pokey out place had a big heavy door, with ornate lights on either side.

  I took a deep breath, used the key to open the door, and walked through a portal back in time. As cheesy as that sounds, it’s the only way to describe it.

  My grandmother would describe this lovely environ as a wee little house. I think my term would be a cottage. We would agree that the word beautiful applies, and would proba
bly be an extreme understatement.

  The house smelled delightful. Being that Bernie was somewhere between 168 and 203, I expected that old people smell that you sometimes run into, especially since the house had been closed up for a little while now. That was definitely not the case. The lovely smell, lemon and something, was a pleasant surprise for my nose.

  I’d have to remember to hunt down the source of the smell. I’d love for my wee little apartment to smell like this house when I open my door.

  I walked into a parlor. A parlor! I don’t know how else you could describe it.

  I’m repeating myself. That’s never a good sign.

  The little house has lots of nooks and crannies. Each filled with something more lovely than the last. The house is full of treasures; some of them might actually be of monetary value, but I don’t know anything about that sort of stuff. It is obvious each of these treasures was very dear to Bernie.

  There were hand made doilies and little porcelain figurines. There were picture frames made by little hands, holding a place of honor right next to exquisite works of art made of heavy silver, meant to house the finest portrait, but instead, snuggling a drawing of this very house, obviously drawn by a loved child.

  Another frame of gathered bone-colored lace, smocked, accented with little flowers and tiny little bows caught my eye. I looked closely. It was a picture of my mom as a child. Why hadn’t I ever noticed that before? Why did Bernie have a picture of my mom as a kid displayed in her house?

  Sitting with great ceremony was a little porcelain box, with hand painted English Roses around the edges. In very fine script it read: ‘Keep no more secrets than will fit in here. Allow this box to hold your fear. With your secrets and fears both stowed away. You are blessed to live life to the fullest each day.’

  Great way to live your life. I’d have to write that one down.

  It was dawning on me that there was much more to Bernie’s life than I’d ever known. I’d been to her house before, but I’d always been in a hurry. I was picking her up for one reason or another, dropping Mom off, or shuffling crap back and forth between Bernie and Mom. Basic errands that were always rushed and taken for granted. When I visited with Bernie over the years, she’d always come to us. It is easier to move one Bernie than all the members of my family.

  I’m beginning to think I may have missed out on a great opportunity in life. I consider myself to be pretty established, as modern American life goes. I’m blessed to have my family around me, and generations of us gather on a regular basis, but maybe I’ve taken that blessing for granted. Maybe I haven’t taken advantage of the gifts I’ve been given. What else have I taken for granted would always be there? What else could leave me unexpectedly without my having taken the time? I’d have to think about that.

  First things first, I walked from room to room, checking to make sure that each window was closed and locked, and that nothing looked disturbed. About the time I came wandering back from Bernie’s bedroom, Teagan showed up with our sustenance.

  We found paper towels in the kitchen, and had Pepsi and cinnamon rolls standing at the kitchen counter. Bernie had a microwave and butter, to warm them up and serve them the usual way, but it seemed kind of oooky to use them. Normally, I’m sure she would have offered a nice hot cup of tea. Everything, exciting to tragic, is centered around a cup of tea when you’re blessed to be Irish.

  Teagan, always organized, brought paper and pens, some cardboard boxes, and some of those yellow envelopes to sort important papers. We’d need to get more, but as always, Teagan was implementing a really good start. That’s why they love her so much at the office; she is the queen of getting things done.

  I had to ask, “Are you ever going back to work?”

  “You won’t believe it, but they still owe me 27 sick days, my regular two weeks vacation, 4 personal days, and 122 comp days.”

  I was shocked, “What? 122 days? How did that happen?”

  Teagan laughed. “Remember when my boss had that whole meltdown after his divorce. I was working close to 16-hour days. I was working 6 days a week. I put in almost a thousand hours of overtime. I didn’t even have time to get my nails done or my hair highlighted for the better part of 4 months, and even when it got better, I still worked a bunch of hours.”

  “I remember, Mom was about to put a hit out on your boss.”

  Teagan shook her head, “Yeah, I missed one too many family things, Mom wasn’t amused. Anyway, I kept the business going and Mr. Fisher said he would give me a comp hour for every hour of overtime I’d put in, plus he threw in some sick time. I guess he figured I’d only really use the sick time, since no one in the office had ever kept track of their overtime before. An hour here and an hour there, you just kind of donate to the cause, but I kept that place running for months. It was more than a goodwill gesture. He almost had a heart attack when he found out I’d actually documented my time.”

  Anyone that really knows Teagan would know she is smart, capable, organized, and generous to a fault. It’s completely unlike her to take advantage of someone when they’re down. But she’s not an idiot either; it’s about balance.

  I asked, “Were you going to ask for the comp time?”

  “No, I just document everything at work. You know the old saying, ‘He who has the most paperwork wins.’ Pretty much the rule of thumb for everything these days. With computers being what they are, documentation is easy.”

  “Good point. So how did the whole documentation thing turn into this windfall of time off?”

  “Mr. Fisher offered thinking that he could come off as the good guy. He thought I was too dumb, or busy, or unthinking to have documented it. I hate it when people underestimate me, so I showed him the documentation. Since he’d made the offer in front of everyone, what could he do? I’ll probably never use all the time, but I thought I’d at least use up my vacation hours and a few extra. Turns out Liam talking me into buying that laptop for ease of note taking was a really good idea.”

  Teagan started toward the front door, “Speaking of which, my laptop is out in my car. I think if we just sit down and inventory everything first, we will be better able to get this place under control.”

  “I bow to your superiority.”

  Teagan rolled her eyes, “Unless you’re willing to bow to my superiority in all things, that is an empty gesture at best, and a very poor attempt at manipulation is probably a better description.”

  “Moi? Manipulate the master? I’m not stupid Teagan.”

  “That much is true. I’m going to go grab the rest of the stuff out of my car. Would you walk around and see where you want to start?”

  “I want to start in Bernie’s bedroom.”

  “Why there?”

  “It’s the room with the least amount of stuff, and it’s in the back of the house, I figured we’d start at the back of the house, work our way to the front door. Then we could make Liam come help us with the garage.”

  Teagan looked confused, “Why Liam?”

  “Lots of reasons. I haven’t heard any more about the wedding, which is supposed to be on Mom and Dad’s anniversary. We need to find out what is going on if we’re going to get anything done. There is probably heavy stuff out there, and we can make him do the grunt work. There’s the whole oook factor. Bernie was there for a while before anyone found her. But the real reason, there’s probably bugs.”

  “Bugs. Yep, sounds like a job for Liam. I’ll call him when I get home tonight.”

  Teagan came into Bernie’s bedroom. It’s a lovely room, very girly, and Irish. Dark carpet with a flower pattern covered the floor. I wonder where she even found that. The duvet cover was a different pattern, but light and a little frilly. There was stuff everywhere, most of it looked centuries old, which didn’t make a lot of sense, since Bernie came over to the United States with virtually nothing. It wasn’t like she was holding on to generations’ old keepsakes. Right? Bernie never seemed like the type to invest in stuff that would become hei
rlooms. Besides, isn’t the whole point of an heirloom to pass it down to someone, and Bernie didn’t have anyone to pass anything down to. Bernie only really had us. We always treated her like family, but there is just no reason to think she would want us to have anything of hers.