Tea Time
by Dean Engle
It was four o’clock. It was Sunday. It was tea time.
The Society of Tea Lovers is comprised entirely of white-haired dowagers and meet every Sunday at precisely four o’clock. They are very strict about it. However, once a year they invite a newcomer. A non-white-haired, non-dowager. Today, I’m afraid they invited you.
The society meets at Mrs. Abernathy’s house. From the outside (much like Mrs. Abernathy) it is white and stylish, built by a sea captain in the days when there were still sea captains. Well it hadn’t been built by the sea captain himself, rather by his unpaid help.
The creaking oak door beckons you inside. It wasn’t clear who had been dead longer, the stuffed Tasmanian tiger a visitor might see when they entered the sprawling mansion or Mr. Abernathy (1850-1914), who had been lovingly shoved into a festive urn decorating the mantle. The urn was kept above the fireplace. There were ashes in both and both were Mr. Abernathy’s.
If a visitor were to arrive at exactly four and venture into the cavernous Victorian, they would search, like some conquistador, for the kitchen. They would wander, as you are now, through long dark hallways that twist in and out like a labyrinth of old. In the middle of the maze is a minotaur. Don’t worry, it’s stuffed. A relic from a trip to Crete.
Vintage photographs line the walls. One is of a man with a rifle. One is of a woman voting. One is of a group of ladies having tea. If you had looked at these in greater detail perhaps you would have run. But this is just a museum, of sorts, and nothing bad ever happens in a museum.
There are no cobwebs in this dark home and no dust either. It is lived in and cared for, albeit by someone who has no need for electric light. You wonder why you came to this. Why did you accept the kindly written letter stenciled in elaborate calligraphy? You don’t even like tea, but these ladies are the talk of the town and this is your in.
Suddenly you’re there, in a warm and comfortable kitchen surrounded by friendly old ladies. They seem much older, much gaunter than you expected, but they all smile warmly. “Have a seat dear,” says one. You do. And suddenly you’re in heaven. The conversation is lively, the jokes fly fast, and the banter is fun. You’re enjoying yourself so much you forget to drink your tea.
“Don’t forget your tea dearie,” smiles Mrs. Abernathy. You take a drink. It’s warm and filling and painful. You fall to the ground screaming as the women surround you. They don’t seem as old, their wrinkles diminish and their hair, while still white and grey, is suddenly more lustrous. Their wrinkles now dot your face; their grey now coats your hair. You rise slowly on brittle bones.
The ladies pat you reassuringly, “It’s all part of the process” and “that’ll do for another year” and “you get used to it” fill your ears. They sit you down and offer you a real cup of tea, and talk to you like you’re one of them. So you sit in your old body and listen, pondering what just happened. This is a museum and you are a relic, but at least you’re in.
Dean Engle is a teacher and writer from the San Francisco Bay Area. He attended Humboldt State and earned his M.F.A. from San Francisco State, where he taught Creative Writing 101. His work has been published in Great Lakes Review, Santa Ana River Review, New Plains Review, Brushfire Review, the Ana, ideaFest, Toyon, and Transfer Magazine. In his spare time, he enjoys camping, making soup, and overwatering his beloved cactus. More information can be found on his website engledean.weebly.com.