Steam
There are faces that once looked upon, seem to belong to all of us in some way. They are whole and radiant and sorrowful with life soil and tangled roots. They contain light and dark in the corner of the eye, breadth of the cheek, pull of the lip and hold this tug of life openly with pride and gentleness. A face like this turned to the speeding scenery of the taxi cab window and begged for another day, just one more day, for Francis.
Sonia lowered her wrinkled lids over deep-set dark eyes and folded her swollen
arthritic hands in prayer, pleading to give her husband a little more time. He was a good man, romantic and kind to her though quiet through the years, so much so that she learned to bear the silence of her life with purpose and credited his ways for her own strength and endurance. It was not a surprise, his failing, but the uselessness of her own breath alone in their apartment, alone in their bed, alone in the kitchen, haunted her courage. She fingered the wrist of her heavy wool coat that had belonged to her mother, said another prayer and then finding herself amidst memories of her youth announced determinedly to the window, "Not today Francis."
The cab pulled away from the front entrance of St. Peter's Medical Center with Sonia hunching her turtle figure through the handicap door into the pink and white lobby that had become her home over the last few months. Her grey hair bobbed 'yes' and 'no' with tremors but here no one paid any mind. Waving her handkerchief at Grace, the woman from the information desk, in a friendly hello, she stared at the dark patterned tile on the floor knowing that it would lead the way to the elevators.
Francis was asleep and tucked in like a child under the straight white sheets. The afghan she knitted for him eight years ago, when her hands were still able, was tucked in tight along his long, tall frame as she had requested. Sonia approached the symphony of beeps and clicks that were familiar now from her many hours of bedside vigil but still frightening in their insistent reminder that death was near. She grabbed his sleeping hand, and clung to it like a life raft. He looked chipped away, hollow and then, if she stared long enough, full, expressive, a man half his age. Francis stirred and slowly opened his eyes and tried to speak.
"…Sonia…" He raised his trembling hand from his side and managed to squeeze the tips of her fingers. His breathing was heavy and laborious and there was a desperateness in the sparse voice.
"Happy Anniversary to you, too." She pulled the blanket closer to his chin and looked at him with reserved concern. Her gaze fluttered to his and instantly she knew he was going to start the conversation again. It was that edged look in the milky brown eyes, as if he'd been floating inside his body and was now anchored in her presence. They gazed at each other silently, hands held in wrinkled knots on the bed.
Sonia's mind drifted to other times and she remembered Francis pulling her away from the supper dishes, whispering, "I have a surprise" and tugging her out the back porch, down the steps, holding her hand all the way out to the garage.
"Honestly Francis, what's gotten into you?" Sonia said with mock indignation and a smile as he placed her just inside the open doors with her eyes closed and retreated into the dim light of the back wall.
"Don't open them, almost ready."
The evening was brisk and still and a new moon swayed in the branches of the maple across the street. Sonia rubbed her hands to her arms and took a deep breath of the late autumn evening. Then from the silence a familiar waltz drifted to her ears and she opened her eyes in surprise at the expensive Victrola record player on the old wooden bench.
"May I have this dance, Mrs. Kesler?" Francis approached with outstretched hands and Sonia brought her small grinning face to his chest.
"Oh, it's beautiful, you devil, but how could we possibly afford it?" she asked. Moving easily in his arms the couple dancing gracefully over the grease spots of the concrete floor.
Then it occurred to her, the floor, and she stopped, pulling away, looking at his face.
"Francis, where is the car?"
"Happy Anniversary." He pulled her in close, kissing her neck and whispered, "I'll take the bus."
"I love you too." Sonia bent to kiss his sagging cheek. She noticed the silent pleading look and wished she had not picked up his hand but left him sleeping instead. It was easier to enjoy the memories that way, easier to think of their life before this.
"Tell me you love me, let me go."
"Please dear," Sonia tried to talk over the lump in her throat, then swallowing with an attempt at indignation, "I won't hear of this."
"I'm dying… I want to die. Please, let me go," his voice sounded far away as if in another room. He pulled his hand away slowly from her firm grip. Sonia stood over the man whose face after so many years seemed like a reflection of her own.
Francis turned his thin, frail body from her to stare at the ceiling searching for assistance from above. Sonia buckled and wavered, hanging onto the silver handle of the bed frame with a tight grip.
"No more talk of leaving me today."
"Take the machines away."
"Please Francis, not today."
Wrapped in an orange shawl at her kitchen table, Sonia waited for the tea water to boil and stared out the window feeling helpless and desperate. She dotted tears from her eyes and rose to do the dishes. Her great nephew Charles had called and was on his way over. He had informed her that he had spoken to the hospital about the overdue medical bills and in his young accountant sort of way let her know he expected things to be "cleared up" as soon as possible. She fingered her wedding ring on her soapy hand. Francis had always handled all the money but she knew there was little in savings. The cast iron kettle whistled and Sonia pulled two cups down from the shelf and moved the kettle to the counter and then put one cup back. She still had to remind herself that Francis wasn't sitting in the other room.
She pulled the tea from the cupboard and her prized Delft teapot with its happy blue figures caught Sonia's eye. It was her grandmother's favorite and she could almost see her laughing mischievous face hovering above the gracefully curved handle. It had survived a trip to the United States by steamship, both world wars and innumerable near mishaps in the presence of groups of children running and playing too close to the table where women gathered for their own source of courage and support. In its old age she had reserved it for special occasions. Today, most certainly counted. Hot water steamed her round impish cheeks and broad forehead as she glugged the kettle dry into the round, squat vessel with its now, proud nose in the air. Bobbing the tea bag in the delicate cup, she lost herself in the emerging dark cloud of black tea and looked to the teapot sitting vigilantly nearby. She was aware in the stillness of the cramped little kitchen that she was comforted by its nearness and always had been.
Charles knocked brusquely at the door and Sonia rose stiffly, and slowly propelled herself through the living room, leaving her tea on the dining room table. At the doorway, Charles hunched to give his tiny great-aunt a respectful embrace and looked at her briefly before pushing past her into the meager space he seemed to dominate with size and energy.
"Is there more tea?" He asked walking by her steaming cup and sitting himself impatiently on the couch.
"Oh, surely. Black or green, dear?" Sonia hunched her way to the kitchen.
"Green, please."
Charles looked about the apartment full of antique furniture, a grandfather clock, and several collections of European china on the sideboard.
"So, Auntie we should discuss the hospital bill," he yelled towards the kitchen continuing to take stock of the room.
Sonia stood in the doorframe to the living room, teacup in her shaking hands.
"Why don't you come and sit down and let's discuss what might happen here."
Alarmed and cautious, Sonia moved instinctively to the overstuffed club chair that had been Francis's main place of occupation.
"Listen, I know this is a difficult time but I'm concerned about your welfare. From what I've heard, Uncle Francis doesn't have much longer and I want you to think about how you may be able to manage on your own." Charles leaned forward with elbows on his knees.
"I can set up a long range money plan but you need some income for the next few months while I sort some things out."
"Income?" He made it sound so urgent and a new panic spread through her chest.
"Yes, some quick cash. And I think I have an idea." Charles reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pen and paper. "There's a wonderful antique store just a couple blocks away and I'm quite sure you could get a good price on a few of your pieces."
"Pieces?" Her heart was pounding and a new anxiety was clouding her sense of the present. She dabbed her forehead with her handkerchief. She caught Charles eyeing the teapot on the drain board.
Charles rose dramatically and handed her the slip of paper.
"All I'm saying is you should think about getting rid of some things. It might be good for you. I'd be happy to take a few items over to be priced next weekend if you'd like." He walked to the door and called over his shoulder, "I'll be in touch in the next few days." The door latched behind him and he was gone.
The silence in the apartment felt different than usual and she sat in it, letting it float through her, holding her face in her hands.
Sonia cradled the ancient teapot like an infant in her left arm, spout peering out of the crook of her elbow, as if aware of its new surroundings. Her right hand attempted to tighten the scarf under her chin while occasionally flitting a wave at neighbors without taking her eyes from the sidewalk. Charles had left her confused and frantic and desperate for security of any kind. Tottling quickly through the maze of strangers on the sidewalk, she reasoned that Francis was what she loved more than anything and she felt eager to sacrifice anything to keep him here. She had a plan of her own now; she would sell her most prized possessions to pay off the debt to the hospital. He would get better care that way she thought; they would make sure to prolong the life of such an upstanding patron and gentleman like Francis. Pulling her wool coat around her chest, she tried avoiding a direct glance at the beautiful ceramic but was drawn as always to its swirling, leafy design and scenes of people farming the land of her childhood.
The bell chimed peacefully as Sonia stepped into the largest antique store on the corner. Neatly arranged rows of beautiful dishes, cups, spoons, crates, ladles, and candlesticks stretched out as far as she could see in the dim light. They greeting her so warmly, so lovingly, she stopped in the door frame, stood squinting floor to ceiling at the treasures of so many lifetimes. Books, rag dolls, records, buttons, jugs, hung about like a church choir taking ten. Her eyes bumped along slowly to a table piled high with Imperial Rose china. The pattern was the favorite of her aunt who had died more than 30 years ago. As she bent forward to see how many place settings were left, a man in glasses appeared at her side with a polishing cloth in hand.
"Hello, Ma'am welcome to Antique Rose," he bowed, tipping his head ever so slightly in the direction of the apprehensive teapot.
When Sonia continued to stare, lost in thought, he softly touched the tip of her elbow and began walking her along the display cases.
"My name is Grant." He was a tall, thin middle-aged man dressed in a black suit and had an aura of stillness and solemnity. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for today?"
Sonia turned to face to the man after a few steps. The teapot had grown heavy in her arm and she longed to set it on the glass counter top behind him but it held firm to her chest.
Flustered she replied, "Yes, I'm looking for something for my husband."
"I see, is it a special occasion?"
She paused and then, "It's our anniversary."
"Let me assure you ma'am that we have a splendid collection of antiques that have been extremely well taken care of through the years. And, well loved I might add. Here at the Rose, we find it most important to offer a place of rest to those things that families have cherished over time." Grant moved in step with Sonia toward the back wall. Casually, as they approached a case of watches he turned to her and quietly asked, "May I relieve you of that handsome teapot?"
There was an understanding in his voice, a quiet and natural peace that set Sonia at ease. She looked around the room for more reassurance and saw order and attention on every shelf and floor space. The belongings of so many different people seemed to fit together comfortably as if they were at home here and always had been. Unswaddelling the teapot from the nest of her coat, she stretched it out in both hands carefully, looking Grant in the eye for a long moment. His patient gaze quieted her as he ceremoniously placed the teapot on a serving table with an empty spot. When he turned back to her his face was soft and genteel.
"We have some interesting things in the back if you'd like to take a look."
As relieved as she was that she had relinquished her belonging, a new fear crept forward. Sonia was an honest woman above all else and knew she couldn't afford a gift. More than that, she was reluctant to have the difficult conversation concerning the teapot's value.
"Grant?" He nodded and she continued, "I must tell you, I didn't come here to purchase anything myself, I actually wanted to…" and then as she turned her head, it caught her eye. There on the back shelf, the same type of Victrola that she and Francis had owned so many years ago. She shuffled over, head bobbing and placed her hand on the large bell shaped cone. The resemblance was stunning. The music from her recent memory filled her once again and she smiled at the vision before her. It seemed so easy now, their long beautiful life together stretched out in melody.
"I understand, Ma'am, I do. If you'd like to leave the teapot with us I know we could reimburse you with a large payment for an heirloom of its quality."
Sonia touched a wisp of her hair that had escaped the side of her scarf and breathed deep. It was for Francis that she agreed.
Leaving the store she walked by the teapot sitting eloquently on the table amid an interested gathering of new cups and saucers. It looked so comfortable and content there that suddenly the thought of its absence rushed at her and she bent quietly forward and kissed the familiar arc of the spout good-bye. She straightened slowly with sadness and passed through the doorway to the sound of the tinkling bell. Standing on the busy sidewalk she readied herself for the walk home alone.
The phone rang only once before she heard Charles's business like voice on the line.
"Aunt Sonia, I was just going to ring you…"
Sonia interrupted with excitement, "Charles, you might find this hard to believe but I took your advice. I made it all the way down to the antique store and you won't believe how much money I made for your Uncle Francis! It was the nicest place you could ever imagine and I never…"
"Aunt Sonia, wait, wait a minute. I just hung up with the hospital." Charles paused, "It's about Uncle Francis."
"What about Francis?" Sonia slowed and took a shallow breath.
There was a silence that filled the space and clung viciously to the absence of words. It spun through time and snatched at memory. Charles gathered himself and finally continued.
"He's gone. He died a couple hours ago, I'm so sorry. Do you want me to come over?"
Sonia lowered the receiver into the cradle and collapsed to the floor on her knees.
Covering her face with her hands she rocked back and forth, head nearly touching the ground with each forward movement. In the rhythmic darkness she felt herself disappear, hands tight against the moment, in blackness, a suspension of her body in the air. "No, no," the present gaining momentum she slowly pulled her frail heart to its feet and with cloudy vision moved unconsciously to the bedroom. A doorknob appeared, then the deep walnut bedpost, photos on the wall, a glass of water on the nightstand; images of a life speeding by. "No…no!… Francis…please no…no," she murmured as she lifted her body into the bed, the private nest of their long love. The tattered quilt appeared at her chin as she held his pillow tight to her tiny frame. "Francis?" She lay on her side, facing the closet, hoping to find his lean frame in the jackets and cardigans that hung in the dim light of their room. The darkness answered with a galloping silence and the truth arose in her like steam unfurling. "Nooo, no, no, no," her small palms flew to her face, protecting and embracing. The cry came like a high tide, slowly at first and then gaining power, bringing with it the pieces of a vast sea she once knew of as her life. It blew as a song from her heart and she sang the cry of love, of birth and death and all the time in between.
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AUTHOR NOTES:
An English literature and writing major at Marylhurst University, Tami lives with her husband and three children on thirteen acres in Wilsonville. In the summer months she teaches horseback riding in Central Oregon at Camp Caldera, a non-profit arts and environment program for at-risk youth.
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