A Proper Feud

You must be sure to prepare the tea a few moments before she arrives. She will insist that she’s not in need of any tea, but that’s a charade. She must be served tea. On the good china. Not the plates from the back cupboards. You’ll be tempted to serve her tea in chipped and brightly colored cups, but you must resist this impulse.

There is an etiquette to the feud.

You must wear your finest attire. Your hair must be coiffed. Your make-up should be simple, but impactful. Your nails are to be done, and you must always wear a flat shoe. You should smile, but not broadly. You should inquire as to your guest’s latest endeavors, but allow them to do most of the talking. They will follow these same rules when they invite you over to their home. When you are the guest, you must watch what you say. Give very little. Use the washroom once and only once. While you’re in there, check your teeth to be sure you haven’t been poisoned as it shows up first in the enamel. If you’ve been poisoned, excuse yourself and return home to rest. The poison we use in this feud will not kill you, but it will cause you to spend a day in bed. Be advised of that.

Murder is not our end result. Not at all. You would not do well in jail. Your hair is much too soft. I would have fared well in jail, but only because I enjoy jumpsuits and uncomfortable beds. Your mother would have languished in jail, and eventually become the strange woman in the weight room who sings Seals & Croft for no reason. You are like your mother. You are not like me. You must never go to jail.

Besides, the body is not worth sabotaging. The reputation? Now that is a medal that--once tarnished--never achieves its former shine. That is why our feud is one of whispers. It is one of unspoken insinuations. It is one of gossip and rumor and slander and maligned character. You must learn how to say things without saying them. You must learn to besmirch with a slight giggle and a tilt of the head. You must invest in allies while never absolutely trusting them. There is no trust in a feud. When your enemy arrives for tea, you must know that you have set a foundation of social collapse and still chit chat with them about the weather and the new bistro that opened on the thoroughfare.

This will all feel immoral. Morality is not your concern. If there is a God, that God will not damn you simply because you said a few nasty things about someone who deserved it. Why do they deserve it? That is a mystery. Nobody appreciates a mystery more than the Lord. There. You see? It all comes back around. This feud is divine right. It is predestination. It is a holy devotion. Only serve two sugar cubes. I nearly forgot that part.

When your great-great grandmother began the feud, she set the rules. This was not an authoritarian maneuver. In fact, the other side was present and contributed to the guidelines. Two women in their later years sat down and discussed how they would proceed to destroy each other. It would not be done the way men would do it. There would be no shouting, no violence, and very little physicality. No noise. No bombs. 

This would be a proper feud.

You are here to learn the etiquette. Be warned, however. The etiquette must never confuse you. You have a goal. You have a motive. You are meant to eradicate the other side. This person who looks like you, but is not you. This person who is able to make fascinating conversation while she stirs the sugar cubes in her oolong. This woman who you have known your entire life may know more about you than anyone who claims to love you dearly.

None of that matters.

The intimacy within the relationship is present, because this person has studied you the same way their mother studied your mother. You are fifteen now. What you thought was a friendship just like any other friendship is nothing of the sort. We only allowed you to befriend your counterpart in the hopes that you would learn as much as you could and use that information as soon as the time came to engage in polite warfare.

You will not begin hosting tea right away. That comes later. You may have noticed that your mother only began hosting tea a year or two ago. That was because my bete noire had passed away suddenly after years of destruction between the two of us. I was devastated to see her go. My life had been devoted to tormenting her. Now that she’s gone, I drift aimlessly through life. I no longer drink tea. I drink bourbon, and I drink it alone.

I have no idea what began all this. I was your age when my mother explained it to me, and she was the same age when her mother explained it to her. If I had to guess, I would assume it was an unkind word that began the combat. Perhaps a slight at a party. A forgotten invitation. I would be surprised if a man was involved. Women in our family have never bitten their lip over a man, let alone began a century-long feud over one.

Some would interrogate the origin of the malice in the hopes of concluding the bad blood, but we have never found a reason to bring it to an end. If nothing else, it gives us activities. Something to do. A passion. You are being handed a sacred calling.

One day your opposite will die the way mine did. It will shatter you. I have no advice for what to do after that. There is no etiquette for grief. Peculiar grief is even more challenging. You must carry on, but I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s only to sit with your granddaughter and explain this etiquette to her. A legacy seems firm, but it is as fragile as a child’s innocence. You must pass it on carefully. You must be sure to show your granddaughter how to preserve the china. You must show her how to open the door and greet the person who wishes only to exterminate you. You must show her how to smile without giving away her teeth. The teeth show the poison or lack thereof. Never give that away.

You are a woman now and you must behave as one. At some point, you may choose to forgive. That is your decision to make. The cause of all this has long been forgotten, but the rules?

Never.

You must never forget how long it takes to prepare the tea.