Status: Freshly revised and perhaps permanently finished.

Thursday Morning Tea

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In Germany, they called it Leutebeobachten- sitting down at a corner pub with a frothy mug of the house brew, to watch the passer-bys make their way to work, school, or on a particularly exciting day, the police station down the block. Here, Hans soon learned, they called you an alcoholic if you drank before noon, and a pervert if you stared for too long in any one direction. Well, perhaps they called you a people watcher if they felt kind.

As Hans began to wake, he felt the dream realm of his quaint pub morph into dust. The murmur of the street crowd faded, and his beer lost its froth, before dissipating entirely into the mauve wallpaper adorning his bedroom. The joints of his body creaked in unison with the iron frame of his bed as he sat up, alone.

Forcing a few coughs, the fibers of Hans’ hardening lungs stretched, enough to allow him to breathe for the moment. Hans grabbed his glasses off the crooked night stand, and his robe off the handle of the bedroom door. The worn cotton had lost its texture, but Hans recalled Linda gave it to him one Christmas because it was so particularly plush. You settle for the memory, Hans thought, when reality disappointed.

A simple trip down the stairs in the morning posed a grave threat to Hans. Some mornings, Hans fell, and remained there for hours, until he could finally pull himself up with the aid of the banister. Thankfully for Hans’ failing knees and back, this was not one of those mornings.

After securing the final step, Hans stopped to cough, forcing air through his disobedient lungs. Violently, his lungs lashed back, expelling dense, black mucus into the palm of his hand. The sight hardly disgusted Hans, perhaps because of the familiarity, and he made his way into the kitchen to dispose of the mess down the sink.

Above the sink, a faded cabinet door rested just out of alignment, and Hans reached up to carefully open it without further damaging the lower hinge. Inside, a rusted tea kettle sat alone on a shelf. At one point in time it had been a brilliant shade of violet, but the copper underneath the varnish oxidized, leaving behind the dull green of forgotten penny.

Regardless of the appearance, Hans knew the kettle heated water as well as any other tea pot, and filled it below the brim and set it on the stove. He turned on the burner, allowing the flames to lick up the sides of the kettle for the moment. Part of Hans wanted to leave the burner on full blast, to prove to Linda nothing was proximate enough to catch on fire, and the water would boil faster. Still, Hans turned the burner down.

A few steps from the stove, Hans retracted into an aged wicker chair near the dining table. Once the chair had been a shade of lavender; a shade hand-picked by Linda to match her wedding china. Now most of the sun-bleached paint had flaked off, contributing to the layer of grime coating the floor and furniture. As Hans scanned the kitchen, he made a point of not looking into the corner behind his chair. There, the ivory bones of a rat lay in a misshapen pile next to a now defunct rat trap. After the rodent met its untimely death, Hans observed other rats picking through the carcass, making meals out of spare kidneys and entangling their claws in intestines. Rats are disgusting creatures, Hans thought.

The kitchen to Hans almost seemed foreign now. When Hans thought of his kitchen, he imagined frying pans searing, yeasted bread in the oven rising, and Linda singing along to whatever burst from the radio. Her voice rang shrilly, yet Hans loved listening to Linda sing, and enjoyed the simplicity of sharing stories across the breakfast table.

Not all of Hans’ mornings were simple, however, and the complicated mornings seemed to be all he remembered as he aged. The mornings after Linda lost the baby were particularly vile, and forever engraved in Hans' mind. A once young and vibrant woman sank into dirty bed sheets. The house was mostly silent, broken only by Linda's periodic sobs and agony. Her crying episodes were sparse, but when she let go, her wails rang throughout the house, shaking the proverbial foundation beneath Hans' feet. Hans did not drink tea those mornings, and instead escaped into a flask of whiskey.

The kettle began to scream, jarring Hans from his morbid nostalgia. Adjusting once more to the grey and dust of his kitchen, Hans pried himself out of his seat. A ragged towel draped across the wicker chair served as a makeshift pot holder, allowing Hans to poor the steaming water from the kettle into a chipped mug. Sliding open a drawer adjacent to the sink, Hans grabbed a tea stained spoon and an individual bag of peppermint tea. Hans dunked the bag of tea in the mug, releasing an aroma that smelled just like Christmas, just like his robe and just like sweet Linda.

A curved black jar sat alone on the counter, reflecting the image of peeling linoleum, crumbling below Hans’ feet. Removing the lid, Hans spooned the contents of the jar into his tea cup, and watched each particle dissolve into the blackness of the tea. Hans truly hated watching the particles vanish, but each reassuring sip let him know the granules were still there. Armed with his tea, Hans was ready to watch the world go by.

Dust coated the carpets in the house, already a putrid shade of yellow- except the carpets forming the path to Hans’ rocking chair. Hans wore that particular segment flat, exposing the beige padding beneath in some areas. The rocking chair sat in front of a bay window, overlooking the cul-de-sac and the surrounding houses. Hans crafted the chair years ago, as well as one for Linda, and he was damn proud of how well they held up all these years. Not a nail loose, or a board split, he would say when anyone inquired about them. Years ago, both chairs rocked comfortably on the stoop in front of the bay window, but not anymore. Hans used to joke with his neighbors that you couldn’t leave a bag of rotting trash outside anymore without expecting someone to steal it. After someone stole Linda’s chair, Hans moved his chair inside, to live among the suffocated and plastic wrapped couches.

Hans enjoyed sitting in his rocking chair in the morning, which is precisely where he hobbled to after preparing his morning tea. Hans gripped the arm of the chair with one hand, while carefully balancing his tea cup in the other. He lowered his hips into the seat as though placing the final card atop a delicate tower. Once confident in the security of his hips, Hans took a deep breath and relaxed his muscles, relying solely on the chair for his support.

From the bay window, Hans peered through a coating of filth to watch a moving van pull into the driveway of the little bungalow across the street. As long as he could recall, no one lived in the house for more than a year, the current couple being no exception. Two burly men emerged from the truck and slammed the doors, which irritated Hans. No one treated automobiles with respect these days. He wondered when the last time someone even bothered to change the oil on the poor vehicle. He shook his head, what a shame.

The lumberjack twins clabbered up the sidewalk, and banged on the door. The doorbell, Hans knew, was broken. On still mornings past, Hans could sometimes hear the doorbell play its light-hearted tune when the milk man rang announcing his delivery. But it must have been years ago, the last time Hans heard that song. The doorbell broke, and not one of the many tenants of the old bungalow bothered to repair it. That, or perhaps society became too urgent for doorbells. In fact, Hans couldn’t think of a single doorbell person besides himself, and of course Linda.

Hans finally saw the young lady living across the street answer the door, inviting the two moving men inside. As though she were expecting Hans, she smiled across the street and waved. Hans nodded his head, and lifted his arm back at her. The young lady treated Hans very well, he thought. On Sundays after church, she always invited him in for dinner with her husband. Hans always declined, politely, knowing the young lady would bring him over a slice of lasagna or piece of casserole anyways.

Perhaps Hans liked her so much because she reminded him of Linda. Hans pressed the teacup against his cracked lips, and remembered how Linda used to twirl her hair around her finger just like the young lady did now. Seeing the young lady making the move from the little bungalow was difficult for Hans, but he would be happy to see her good for nothing husband leave.

The man always slicked his hair back, like some goddamn greaser, Hans would complain to Linda. All he did was talk about being a lawyer, and working so hard, and what a difference he made in the world. As far as Hans was concerned, helping murders and rapists get off the hook in court was despicable, and the lawyers like him ought to be in jail. And he turned down right mean when he would drink. Hans hated to think about what he did to that poor young lady if she said the wrong think after a night drinking.

The tingle of the minty tea still lingered in the back of Hans’ throat, coaxing him to relax and recline back into his chair. Hans recalled a particular night not long after the couple first moved into the little bungalow. Linda shook him awake- in the middle of the night- claiming a burglar must be trying to beat down the front door. Hard of hearing, Hans told her she was having one of her nightmares, and that was what she got for drinking that herbal tea before bed. Eventually though, Hans agreed to go look around, to put Linda’s mind at ease. Sure enough, by the time he coughed and walked his way down the stairs, he heard the banging and shouting too.

To his surprise, the noise Hans heard was the young lady across the street shouting, screaming Mr. Weber over and over again, as though she knew no other words. Hans fumbled with the lock, finally opening the door to reveal the frantic young lady with a bloody lip and scrapes on her arm. Hans remembered the sight of her tangled hair and wrinkly pajamas startling him. This was not the pristine young lady Hans admired from the bay window. Hans saw another side of her that night, the primal side, the side that cares only about survival. Hans saw the victim.

“Give me your gun, Mr. Weber. I swear to God, I’ll blow his goddamn head off tonight. Do you see what he did? Do you …” was all she got out before she started melting into her sobs.

By this time, Hans realized Linda had crept down the stairs, as she then ushered the poor young lady inside. With one arm draped across her shoulders, and the other holding the young lady’s hand, Linda led her into the kitchen and set the kettle on to boil. Only someone like Linda considered tea to be the solution in a situation such as this.

Something motherly came over Linda when people were in need. It was a part of her Hans relied on the most throughout the years, the mothering part of Linda Hans selfishly kept to himself, as he refused to try for another child. With immense compassion, Linda sat with the young lady through the night, assuring her that she was a loveable person who deserved much better than anything this man could offer. At first Linda suggested calling the young ladies family, and finding her somewhere safe to stay for a while. Each time, the young lady diverted her eyes, saying that wouldn’t be necessary. As the night went on, Linda realized this was not a person she could save, as she could not save the dying fetus within her womb years ago. The thought plagued her like a festering leech.

Most of the night, Hans demanded the police be called, but the young lady refused. She didn’t want her husband going to jail or the ladies at church talking about the incident at mass tomorrow. Hans still wanted to call the authorities, but who was he to involve himself in the young lady’s private life? He had no place there. Still, Hans wondered what would have happened if he had just given the young lady his old rifle.

Sometime before dawn, the husband stumbled up the porch steps, and of course, banged on Hans’ door just as the moving men did this morning. Straightening his shoulders, Hans opened the door, and didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to, before that idiot started rambling on.

“I’m here, to gets my wife. I know she’s in there, I saw her walk over here, the crazy bitch. Running around MY neighborhood, telling her lies about me to all MY neighbors...”

“I’ll ask you only once to get off my porch.” Hans said. The husband smelled of whiskey. He started to take a step towards Hans as though to push him, when the young lady emerged from behind Hans. From behind the door, Hans listened to Linda, as she pleaded with the young lady to stay the night with them, and look at the situation with fresh eyes in the morning. It was of no use, and the young lady made her way out of the kitchen, as though the sound of her husband’s voice beckoned her.

“I’ll be leaving now, Mr. Weber,” she whispered, and looked Hans straight in the eyes, instructing him not to protest.

All night in bed, Linda kept talking about the poor young lady and her whack job of a husband, as she put it. Neither one of them slept soundly that night.

The next morning, Hans watched the young lady walk to her sedan with her husband, a Bible in his hand like some sort of shield. Dressed in their Sunday’s best, they loaded into the car to drive to the cathedral downtown. She smiled and waved at Hans through the window, perhaps in an effort to erase the events of that night.

While shifting forward in his rocking chair, Hans couldn’t help but notice how slowly the moving men worked. Each one carried a single box at a time, when Hans knew men of their stature could carry three or four if they wanted to. And my God, a couple children would have moved the furniture more quickly. The young lady deserved better moving men, and Hans presumed these imbeciles were largely overpaid. Shaking his head, Hans sipped on more of his tea, coating his teeth in something that felt chalky.

Not wanting to think about the imminent leave of the young lady, Hans scanned the remainder of the cul-de-sac. It was early in the morning, but the sky darkened with clouds, and all was lifeless, except for a few birds. Hans noticed none of the birds engaged in their usual morning song. They too must hate the thought of the young lady leaving, or perhaps it was the bird bath. An old stone bird bath with mossy sides sat in the yard of the house next to the little bungalow. Every morning, Hans would watch birds flutter to the sides, only for them to realize there was no water within the bowl. No one bothered to fill it up anymore, forcing the birds to rely on the mercy of the looming rainstorm.

Hans remembered no one filling up the bird bath since Josef had left, must have been decades ago now. At one time, Hans liked Josef. Josef was a fine craftsman, like Hans. He made the mold and poured the concrete himself to make that birdbath, and always kept the water crystal clear. There is a divot on the bottom, Hans remembered Josef saying whenever someone complimented it. That was the German in him, never accepting a compliment. Hans had liked that, too.

Every weekend, the two men would venture across the street to borrow tools from one another, tools they both already owned. The purpose, of course, was not to acquire a necessary piece of equipment, but instead to trade war stories, and wifely complaints. Hans felt guilty for it, complaining about Linda, but also surprised at how easy the words came out. Surely she said the same things to her friends, Hans hoped. He sought comfort from the idea in another swig of peppermint tea.

Some things, you just can’t know about a person, Hans thought, rocking back in the chair. That was the case with Josef. One of the things Hans admired most about Josef was his lawn. Every weekend, Josef and his wife Mary had trimmed and pruned and plucked every inch of the yard until it looked immaculate. One obstacle, however, prevented Josef from ever having the yard he dreamt of. That obstacle was a ten pound ball of defiance named Smokey. As most cats do, Smokey liked to wander about the neighborhood at night, and Hans knew that Smokey’s favorite stomping ground, and consequently litterbox, happened to be Josef’s begonia plants. Whenever Smokey visited, the next morning Josef would storm down the street to Smokeys’ house, and berate whoever dared open the door. Something about the uric acid corroding the roots, Hans recalled him saying.

After Josef went to work, Mary shamefully walked down to the house to apologize to Smokey’s family, blaming the weak Maryland soil for the dying begonias. Mary felt no love for Josef, Hans knew this. He knew this because of Amheimer Electric, and the technician who made almost weekly visits to Mary’s house while Josef worked.

If any house needed that much rewiring, the damn thing would have burnt down already, Hans would tell Linda. Linda always shook her head, reminding Hans not to meddle in the affairs of others. Linda tried to see the good in people, in spite of the circumstances. It came as no surprise to Hans when Mary miraculously fell pregnant, in an otherwise barren marriage. Even Linda could not feign excitement.

When he was younger, Hans liked to tend to his garden in the morning before the sun began to bake the soil. One of those mornings, he was startled by the screams of the children down the block on their way to the bus stop. Confused by the unexpected cries, Hans dropped his shears and rose from his shrubs. Had it been silent, the scene would have been quite picturesque, Hans thought. Children jumped in the street, sunlight still glistened off the drew drops, and the morning breeze sent slight chills down Hans’ legs. The juxtaposition of the scenery created quite the paradox, when Hans realized why the children were sobbing.

Dangling from the mailbox of the children’s house was Smokey’s severed tail, matted with blood clots and soil, and sadly nothing more. From his yard Hans watched as the children’s mother run out of the house, crying herself, as she herded the kids towards the bus stop in spite of their protests. Hans walked across his yard to the mailbox, and freed the mass of fur from the mailbox door. It surprised Hans, how cold the fur felt between his fingers, completely void of any of Smokey’s life. With a flick of his wrist, Hans threw the limp tail into the trash can, not considering the imminent disgust of the garbage men due later that morning. Raising his gaze, Hans locked eyes with the tearful mother, accepting her silent appreciation.

No one said a thing to Josef, but everyone knew what happened to poor old Smokey. After that, Josef’s begonias looked healthy, which he credited to a richer fertilizer.

Now, the bird bath sat vacant and the begonias long gone. The grass was unkempt, and a “for sale” sign haphazardly teetered in the wind. It saddened Hans, to see the neighborhood like this. Hans sipped on his tea once more, hoping to finish before it became cold. When he first moved here after the war with a younger Linda, the streets were lively with other German families. Everyone gathered for weekend barbeques after church, and they sat in their lawn chairs in the cul-de-sac late into the night laughing. That neighborhood no longer existed here, and Hans suspected that neighborhood didn’t exist anywhere.

Downing the last of his tea, Hans felt alone once again. Knowing he must return to the kitchen, Hans lifted his arthritic hands and grasped the wooden arms of his rocker. Planting his feet on the floor, Hans began to pull his body up one inch at a time. Hans forced himself into a standing position, and composed himself into the man he was supposed to be.

The distance between the kitchen and the rocking chair seemed to increase in proportion to the growing pain in Hans’ chest. As he walked, he forced himself to cough, sending his diaphragm into endless fits of contraction and pain. Hans gripped the kitchen doorframe to stabilize himself, before entering to prepare another cup of tea.

The kettle was cooler now, but still warm enough to make a light brew. The curved black jar still sat alone against the counter. The raised image of a rosary danced around the curves of the onyx urn that contained all Hans had left of Linda. Hans felt ashes grind under his nails as he lifted off the lid once again and placed it aside. For a moment, Hans felt utterly empty, but the feeling soon subsided as he dipped his spoon into the urn once more, sending a translucent cloud of ash into the air.

As he pulled the spoon from the urn, Hans stared at the mound on the spoon. He inspected each fleck of grey as best as his hardening lenses would allow. These ashes could be swept from the inside of a fire place or scraped from the soles of an arsonists shoe. No matter how long Hans stared at her ashes, he would never feel the warmth Linda’s face gave him, or the comfort he found in the crevices between her fingers. Hans needed so much more.

Hans lowered the spoon and ash into his mug, dissolving the ash into the peppermint brew. Wrapping his palms around the mug, Hans lifted it to his face, feeling as though Linda was standing right behind him. Peppermint tea was her favorite, and Hans imagined the scent on her breath as though they just kissed.

Shutting his eyes, Hans pressed the mug to his lips, and swallowed. As the tea trailed down his esophagus, Hans felt whole. He didn’t feel the steam scald his throat, or the sting of the peppermint or the loneliness of the decaying house. All he felt was Linda fill the pain in his chest, easing his aching heart.
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I just did a revision of this, and added in a new plot device (the miscarriage) and took out another plot element that I didn't think was working. I'm very satisfied with this revision, and i plan on writing a prequel about the miscarriage in detail.