The Teacup

The Teacup

Harold cut the blueberry bread he had taken out of the freezer before bed last night and set the not quite even slices on the fading violets covering Irene’s serving plate. He added mugs, Irene’s fancier teacup, and a bowl of lemon wedges to a tray and carried everything out to the screened-in porch.  

“I used the last of the frozen berries for these,” Irene had said as she double-wrapped one of the loaves to prevent freezer burn.

Harold, never Harry to her, had patted her hand. “Fresh’ll be ready in a couple weeks.”

He harvested the first picking of their forty-year-old berry bush in the backyard by himself and wondered at his impatience. The chore never seemed like drudgery when Irene worked beside him. He remembered to place the berries single-layer on a pan in the freezer before jumbling them into bags. That would please her.

He knew Irene didn’t mind the kids picking her up from the hospital instead of him. His gnarled length folded less easily behind the wheel these days, though he had at first balked when Irene suggested that she do most of the daytime driving.

“We’re a team,” she said. “You have better night vision.”

Teamwork, Harold accepted, was the saving grace of their senior years. He set the mugs around the table he’d handmade to fit the porch corner. A light drizzle fell, but after four days of staring at hospital walls, Irene would appreciate being outside. Still, he knew her hands would be achy, something she would try to remedy by stretching her fingers down beside her porch rocker, back and forth, curl and straighten. Harold would wordlessly hold his hand out and know exactly how hers would fit in the curve of his palm as he kneaded the pain away.

Too soon to steep the tea, he sat a moment in his rocker and cradled Irene’s china teacup, etched on the outside with silver pagodas and pine trees, part of a set he’d bought for her while on shore leave in Japan during his five-year world tour in the Navy. Those years apart—visits home had rarely been granted—almost lost him Irene. At first he received a letter every week.

“The town council added two benches to the park,” she wrote. “My sister Nancy got engaged and asked me to be her maid of honor.” 

Harold wrote about the countries where the ship anchored and sketchy details of his life as a mechanic. Only so many interesting things could be said about running machinery that turned salt water into fresh, though he took pride in his efficiency record.

  Irene’s treasured letters started to dwindle and Harold told himself that she was planning her sister’s bridal shower and helping with wedding details. When one letter said, “I am going to the wedding with my brother,” Harold read Irene’s loneliness between the lines.

It took a large chunk of his saved pay to send Irene the china set. The accompanying letter told her he kept one of the cups that had a lady’s face molded into the bottom of the interior. “It comforts me every night to look into this cup and picture your eyes, your smile.”

Harold never regretted the expense. The letters again arrived every week and he and Irene married two months after his return. The only nights they had spent apart had been when they had their three kids and during this hospital stay necessary for Irene to recover from pneumonia.

Harold’s phone pinged and the text read that the kids and Irene were five minutes away. He hauled himself up from the rocker and returned to the kitchen to pour steaming water into the readied teapot. He breathed in the familiar Earl Grey and carried the teapot out to the porch. He once again picked up Irene’s teacup. A fine crackling in the delicate veneer lined the lady’s still beautiful face.

“Yeah, the old girl’s held up just fine.” A car pulled into the drive. Harold opened an umbrella and went out to welcome Irene home.