Tea With Mrs. Retfield

The doorbell rang and Mrs. Retfield trundled out from the kitchen, past the stairs. With arthritic hands she smoothed her white hair and unbolted the front door.
“Good morning, Mrs. Retfield!” announced a tall boy through the dusty mesh. “Would you like me to bring your groceries into the kitchen for you?”
She held back the screen, and replied, “Yes please Jimmy. Just set them on the table; that’ll be fine.”
He flashed her a bright smile full of perfectly aligned teeth and carried in two brown bags, enshrouded with white plastic. Once the third was in as well, she thanked him and handed him two dollars.
“Oh that’s not necessary. Free delivery is Beverley Market’s way of thanking our valued customers.” A second grin accompanied his patter.
She smiled in return and nodded, “I know, I know, but you college students need a little something extra every once in awhile.”
He accepted the bills. “Thank you, Mrs. Retfield. I’ll see you next week!” and with that, he turned and headed back to his small red Neon. The engine revved and he rolled down her steep driveway, crunching the dried magnolia leaves strewn across it. She waited until he turned left at the stop sign, and then shut the door.
Nice kid. She remembered when his parents moved in several blocks down and came looking for a babysitter. Her daughter had volunteered, and a relationship between the families had begun. But it had been several years since they had moved to Pennsylvania. She’d been pleasantly surprised when Jimmy showed up at her door delivering groceries. He’d returned to study at the University of Delaware.
The idea of delivered groceries had been her daughter’s idea. During one visit from California, Anne had carried in a small grey laptop and set it on the table. In a week, she’d had a dial-up service installed in the old house and had painstakingly shown her mom how to type in the name of a store, fill her “cart”, and complete the credit card information. Mrs. Retfield had also learned how to send an email, but she preferred old-fashioned paper letters and the knowledge of Hotmail had soon faded from her memory. But having groceries delivered… well, that was a luxury which had become a necessity after she’d sold the car. Her next door neighbor, Glenda, had offered to drive her wherever she needed to go, but she knew Glenda was busy with PTA meetings and soccer games, and tried to inconvenience her as infrequently as possible.
Mrs. Retfield had just placed the fruit in its bowl and the milk in the refrigerator and was about to sort through bathroom supplies when she heard a knock at the door.
With a puzzled look, she set down the toilet paper and shuffled across the linoleum. She peered through the lace curtains at the side window and saw a young lady in a white sweater and dark blue jeans. With her eyebrows still knit together, she undid the locks and opened the door to find a cheerful face with wide-set green eyes and a delicate mouth staring at her. She looked slightly exotic with her loose black hair and tanned skin, but she spoke without a hint of an accent.
“Good morning, Mrs. Retfield. I’m here at last! Are you ready to go?”
Mrs. Retfield became even more confused. “Go where? Who are you?”
“Why, I’m Death. I apologize for not letting you know I’d be stopping by earlier, but after Hezekiah, I decided spontaneous visits were better for business. May I come in?”
Mrs. Retfield held open the door for the second time that morning and pointed dumbly at the living room to her left. As they crossed the carpet and the young lady who called herself Death sat down on the faded green sofa, Mrs. Retfield’s instinctual sense of hospitality found a voice.
“Would you like some tea?”
“That would be delightful!” Death exclaimed. “It’s so rare to find tea drinkers on this side of the Atlantic.”
In the kitchen, Mrs. Retfield set water on the stove to boil and pulled down her rose teapot with matching cups and saucers from the cupboard. She measured two heaping teaspoons of Earl Grey into the pot and scrounged in the pantry for her sweet rice crackers. Soon the water had been poured over the leaves and everything was arranged nicely on a wooden tray.
Back in the living room, she found her big black cat, Bagira, sprawled in ecstasy across Death’s lap. She was scratching his ears and his tummy at the same time and the rumble of his purr was audible across the room.
“How surprising!” Mrs. Retfield said. “He doesn’t usually take to strangers,”
“Oh, I love cats. They are always smug and condescending until I tell them all the places I have been and the things I have seen,” Death smiled. “Then they realize they are just kittens and warm up accordingly.”
Bagira meowed in agreement and rolled over to stare at his mistress who had just begun pouring the tea.
“How does one go about, well, ‘going’?” Mrs. Retfield asked as she handed Death a cup with a tiny silver spoon chinking against the porcelain.
“Well now,” Death said as she blew little ripples across the dark brown lake. “Each person goes a bit differently. I humor myself by making predictions every time, but the only thing predictable about mortals is their uniqueness! You absolutely must do it your own way. Take your grandmother, for instance. She was a woman who knew how to keep angels on their toes.”
Death took a sip and leaned over the cat to the sugar bowl. In went one teaspoon, and then another. Mrs. Retfield forgot about her tea completely and moved to the edge of her paisley armchair.
“Fought me nearly everyday of her life. First, she survived scarlet fever, and then nursed her mom through it as well. After her first son joined me, she was determined not to give up another. Finally the cancer set in, and she held me off for a year, a week, two days.”
Death paused and asked, “Do you know what finally convinced her to let go?”
“No.”
“Your Grandad.”
Mrs. Retfield looked at her in disbelief.
“Truly. He said, ‘May, you gotta go. The Old Man is callin’ you and you’d best not keep Him waitin’.’
“Your grandmother looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded and asked to be dressed in her Sunday best—the lavender dress with the pearl buttons, and her straw hat. ‘This is how I’ve been meetin’ the Lord for 67 years and I don’t intend to go to Him lookin’ like trash at the end,’ she declared. She told her husband she loved him and laid down on the bed. I reached out to take her hand. ‘Oh, is you all?’ she asked when she saw me. ‘If I’d known you were such a lady, I might’ve been willin’ to leave a little sooner.’ With that, she clasped my hand and nearly led the way out the window.”
Death chuckled. “Quite a lady.”
Mrs. Retfield stood up. Then sat down. She began to speak, and then stopped.
“Tell me about Grandad,” she whispered.
Death sighed and sat back. She stroked Bagira’s fur thoughtfully for a few moments, summoning up the memories. They hung in the air, Mrs. Retfield staring at them one way, and Death examining them from another.
“What do you remember?” Death asked.
Mrs. Retfield’s voice trembled as she spoke. “I remember sitting next to him on the swing, listening to the crickets on the lawn, listening to the creaking of the chains. We would stare at the hills as the sun began to set and watch the lightening bugs mimic the stars. I would wait, wait for him to speak, but he never spoke, and I never understood.”
Death stared intently at her. Swirling green eyes meeting misty grey. She waited until Mrs. Retfield continued.
“It was hard on Momma. She brought Grandad to live with us after Dad left. Said we needed a man around the house. She told me stories of Grandad working in the fields and dancing with my grandmother. She said she missed my grandmother, too, but it was different with Grandad. She said he lost the thing that most people mistake for their soul.”
Mrs. Retfield motioned for her guest to excuse her for a moment and stepped over to the upright piano where a small box of Kleenex rested. She pulled a couple out and gently dabbed at her eyes. Only one tear made it past the tissue and spilled down the rumpled sheets of her cheeks.
“The war made things tough, but the depression made things even harder. Even now, I find myself rationing sugar and only using three sheets of toilet paper at a time. Momma was determined to keep me in school, so she left for work before the sun rose and didn’t come home until supper was cold on the table. Grandad and I spent long afternoons and evenings gardening and cleaning the house. There were days he’d smile and days he wouldn’t, and I loved him on both.’
“Then one morning, as I got up for school, I realized there was no coffee smell steaming from the kitchen. No slippered feet on wood. I wriggled out of Mom and my’s bed, came down the hall, and knocked on Grandad’s door. When he didn’t answer, I twisted the doorknob and stepped inside. I’d never been inside his room before. The threadbare drapes filled the room with an eerie red dusk and I crept over to the bed. Instead of his normally heavy breathing, silence filled the room.’
“‘Grandad,’ I whispered. I sat gently on the bed and touched his crinkled brown hand that rasped like paper under my fingers.’
“’Grandad,’ I said much louder.’
“I didn’t go to school that day.”
Death bowed her head. “I waited,” she said gently. “I waited for him to speak. It would have been better if he had. But he didn’t know how. He, ironically, waited for me, and finally I came. He was much heavier to carry than your grandmother.”
A heavy stillness settled in the room, interrupted only by the snores of the cat in the sunshine. They were both mourning, but perhaps for different reasons.
Finally, Death stood up and dusted cracker crumbs from her lap. “Time to go, Mrs. Retfield.”
Mrs. Retfield stood up. She looked around the room and thought about the orange juice getting warm on the counter. She ran her fingers down Bagira’s spine and realized there was nothing left to detain her.
She reached out and clasped Death’s warm hand. She unbolted the front door and they stepped out into the sunlight together.