THE TEA TRAY

The smell of the tea filled the air, strong and pungent; just the way Mark, her husband liked it. He called himself a “Tea Connoisseur” and enjoyed experimenting with exotic blends and brews. Callie did a second check of the tea tray to ensure that everything was perfect. It had to be perfect.

Antique teapot on the right side of the tray, the single matching china tea cup, and saucer just below. Check! Sugar and cream to the left of the teapot. Check! The small basket of scones wrapped in white linen, piping hot from the oven. Check! Callie leaned over to smell the freshly baked bread and sighed; there was nothing like the smell of bread straight from the oven. Completing the tea tray was a small pot of strawberry jam and the whimsical yellow china beehive filled with golden honey; the honey dripper with a miniature bee on top. Check, check!

 Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Callie smiled in relief.

Callie picked up the tray carefully and gave a quick final glance. She gasped in horror, the plate and crisp white linen napkin were missing. How could she be so careless, so dim-witted… so lacking in self-preservation? She quickly put down the tray, picked up the white linen napkin from the ironing board, slipped on the silver filigree napkin ring, and laid it down on the plate in its assigned spot on the tray.

‘Nice save!’ She told herself. ‘That will teach you to be so cocky.’

Callie glanced at the clock and counted down the seconds. She then hunkered down and glanced at herself in the shiny silver toaster. Every hair was in place, she was good to go.

She once again picked up the tray and pasted a smile on her face, started out the kitchen door, pushing the door open with her elbow.

“Tea Time” she sang out, the pasted smile growing larger with every step. She felt like the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland.

Mark was sitting on the couch listening to his classical music. He automatically looked at his watch and huffed. She was on time… to the second. ‘Not much he can say about that’, Callie thought.

Callie glided gracefully across the floor and put the tea tray gently down, exactly in the centre of the ornate coffee table; directly in front of where Mark habitually sat.

‘Perfect,’ she thought once again. ‘I bet if I measured it with a ruler it couldn’t be any more mathematically centred.’

“Shall I pour?” she asked, just as she had asked every day for the past two years.

He nodded his assent and she deftly picked up the teacup and poured the required amount. She tilted her head to the side. That was odd, no polite meaningless ‘thank you’ from Mark, something wasn’t right. Manners were to Mark like air is to people who want to live. Mark was all about elegance and grace, sophistication and refinement. Everything in life had to be just as high society demanded. The niceties must be observed. The hypocrite.

“Cream and Sugar?” she asked,  just the way she had asked every day for the past two years.

Once again he nodded tersely. Callie glanced at him through her thick lashes. Something definitely wasn’t right, she could almost feel the tension in Mark, the room quivered with electricity.

Callie obliged him and passed the teacup.

“Careful, it’s hot,” she said, just as she had warned him every day for the past two years.

Callie sat daintily and modestly beside Mark on the couch, legs crossed neatly at the ankles, hands folded demurely in her lap, her thoughts darting here and there as he carefully sipped his hot tea without slurping. No, that would be uncouth. 

They both stared straight ahead, each wrapped up in their own thoughts, gazing at the beautiful landscape picture of the ocean that Callie’s mother had painted shortly before her death. One set of eyes, fixated on the painting yet did not see it; the other, sat drinking in each detail. The seascape depicted the view just outside the front door, the green velvet lawn, glorious gardens and sky, dark and stormy, ominous and portentous over the cliffs, the lightning flashed in the distance.

The painting was the last one her mother ever painted, she had not even totally completed it. In the foreground were two Muskoka chairs,  just roughed in. Now they appeared almost like ghost chairs. Mark, of course, fought her on hanging an unfinished picture on their wall, but it had been one battle, the only battle, that she had ever won. But that was two years ago, shortly after their wedding.

So they both sat, Callie admiring the picture and Mark, well, who knew with Mark. He was probably seething with rage over it, but regardless of his usual fury over the picture something else was definitely stuck in his craw tonight. There was something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, she raked her brain to figure out if there was something she hadn’t done that she was supposed to have done; any little infinitesimal detail she had neglected to do. She had completed the long list of duties he had given her to complete before he came home after work. What could it be? Whatever it is, there will be hell to pay tonight, she thought nervously.

The music paused briefly as the orchestra gathered momentum. Callie sighed nervously.

She was tired; tired to death of the incessant playing of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony with its da-da-da-DA! She longed for some old-time Rock-N-Roll. Maybe some heavy metal, something loud and rebellious. She sighed again.

“What is it, Callie?” Mark asked angrily.

“Oh, I was just enjoying that particular movement in the music. His fourth movement. It’s so brilliant,” Callie said, improvising hastily. “Careful!” she whispered under her breath.

“Indeed!” Mark said respectfully of Beethoven’s brilliance. He nodded thoughtfully, contemplating her unexpected deep insight.

During Mark’s tea time,  which was always exactly thirty minutes after he got home from his job at the accounting firm, he always listened to the same Sonata. This was when Callie had her thirty-minute relaxation time, when, although she sat stiffly beside Mark on the couch, being subjected to his style of music, she was able to decompress from the day's stress and pressures, It was her time to think ridiculous and unobtainable thoughts, to think of all the possibilities. If only…

She would think of the “what ifs” and the “I just wishes” and other impossible, inconceivable things… I wish that I was free. I wish that I could… just run…somewhere. Anywhere.

She planned different scenarios in her head; and lived a different life, all while pretending to listen to Beethoven, or on a Sunday, a complete change of venues… surprise, surprise … Mozart on the terrace.

Callie and Mark had met two years ago. Callie’s parents had just died, victims of a horrific accident. While celebrating the sale of her mother’s paintings at a famous exclusive art gallery, the couple had gone, champagne in hand, to stand in their favourite spot at the edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean. The edge, weak from the torrential rains the night before, had given way, hurling the couple to the rocks below. Callie had taken a glass of celebratory champagne to share with the maintenance man who was cleaning up the debris from the storm. Together they watched in horror as the cliff where her parents were standing, gave way. Their bodies were immediately crushed upon the rocks and washed out to sea by the strong waves that always crashed against the jagged rocks on that part of the shoreline. They were never seen again, their bodies were never recovered.  If it had not been witnessed by Callie and the maintenance man observing the tragedy, no one would ever have known what happened to them. Callie never went by the edge these days, although the cliff edge had once been her favourite spot as well.

After the tragedy, Callies life had become a living nightmare. At eighteen she had to deal with planning her parent's memorial services, paying off her parent's bills and debts, and canceling her imminent plans for university.

She had met Mark, strangely enough, at the funeral home where she had to plan the memorial service for her parents. He was making final arrangements for his beloved mother who had just passed away from a long agonizing illness.

The two of them: both reeling from their recent loss, had formed a strange relationship. She had to agree with her friends who at the time told her to slow down her relationship with Mark. and that he was far too old for her and that she was probably just suffering from some kind of Daddy complex. Well, as it turned out they were right but as they say, hindsight is a great thing. She could not even tell her friends that they were right. Mark had put a stop to her friendships soon after they were married, he called them trailer trash.

What with Callie desperately missing her parents and Mark missing the presence of his mother, they bonded from need. Callie needed safety, stability, and protection, and Mark needed someone to do his laundry, make his meals and generally take care of him as his doting mother had. Callie was two years older now, not quite so grief-stricken, she now had a mind of her own and was able to see the error of her ways.

Mark's voice brought her out of her reverie; her walk down memory lane. “Callie,” he said sternly, "I asked you to pour me another cup of tea. That’s what you are here for.”

“Oh, sorry,” she stuttered.” I was lost there for a moment, the music really seems to speak to me tonight.”

“Hmm,” he said,” well do pay attention. It’s been a bad enough day as it is.”

“Oh?” she asked with trepidation, “did something happen at work?” She picked up the teapot and shakily poured it as he held out his teacup and saucer.

“You might as well know now. I was fired today, let go without notice. Just told to pack my bags and go, that they no longer required my services.”

Callie gasped in surprise and the teapot jerked, inadvertently spilling a few drops on Mark’s pants.

 Mark reacted in anger, he leaped from the couch, crashed into the tea tray in front of him, knocking over the tray, and shouted. “Look what you’ve done you fool. Now you have just compounded this hellish day by spilling scalding tea all over me.”

“I’m so sorry, it was an accident. It’s only a few drops and it doesn't look like it got on your leg, it looks like it’s on the side of your trousers and mostly on the couch.

“You’ll pay for this. Now you’ve broken the spout off the teapot that was my mother’s special tea set. Look what you just did, now the spout is broken. All my life it had a special place in my mother’s china cabinet. Now there was a woman of class, elegance, and refinement.” Mark waved his arms about, his face florid, and he continued his wild rant. “You can't even pour a pot of tea without spilling it, you wouldn’t know class if it hit you in the head, you and your bohemian family, classless with your Hippy Dippy ways. Your mother an artist and your father puttering around in those gardens and greenhouses of his, toasting himself as a world-class botanist and you helping him, supporting his crazed dreams. Look! I said look. You treat my prized possessions like the uncouth creature you are. Well, we all pay a price and this is the price you will pay today.” He doubled his fist and sucker-punched her in the eye. Callie fell to the ground and covered her head from the blows that she knew would follow. Instead, Mark picked up the broken teapot and poured the scalding tea on her raised left arm.

Callie screamed in pain.

****************

Last night, after the “incident,” Callie had bathed her arm in cool water: Going to the hospital was not an option. Mark had taken himself off to the nearest bar for dinner and a drink, something to take the edge off the indignity of being fired. She covered her left arm with the aloe vera plant that she kept in the kitchen, and bound her arm gently with gauze. Working alongside her father, the botanist had taught her many properties of various plants. Her eye had already turned a nasty shade but well, she was used to that. However, things were getting worse lately, and with this new calamity of the job loss, who knew what lengths Mark would go to next?

Each time there was a “disagreement” between them, as Mark called it; he would gift her the next day with some exotic plant. Privately, Callie called it her “Guilt Garden.” To date, she had a very large collection of plants of every variety. No form of apology was ever given … or expected for that matter.

Callie glanced at her watch, she had time for a quick walk before she started the daily tea tray ritual. She made her way carefully to the very edge of the cliff, a place she hadn’t stood since her parent's death. She looked down and her head spun a little as she viewed the crashing rocks below. She stood mesmerized, the rocks seemed to call to her, the rocks were like a giant magnet pulling her forward, downward. She felt compelled to look down. Maybe they were more like a tractor beam sucking her in. The possibilities, the freedom she desired only one step away. She thought of her parents, how one moment they stood on the precipice and the next minute they were … gone … gone forever…without a trace.  Then inspiration struck.

She caught her breath sharply and slowly dragged herself away.

**********

The smell of the tea filled the air, strong and pungent as Callie steeped it. Oh so carefully. There must be no mistakes today.

Callie double-checked and then triple-checked the tray. All was as it should be. She had spent the day meticulously repairing the broken spout on the fine china teapot and the broken handle of the teacup. You could hardly see the cracks in the fine bone china. She picked up the tray, winced, and set the tray down suddenly on the kitchen island. A spot of tea spilled out of the teapot onto the white tray. Callie grabbed a cloth hanging on the tap by the sink and quickly wiped it off, leaving the tea tray once again…pristine. She pulled her long-sleeved sweater over the heavily bandaged arm and wrist and picked up the tray again, gritting her teeth in pain and turning her lips into a grotesque pain-filled version of her usual pasted-on smile.

“Tea time,” she called out as she pushed open the door and entered the living room, to the sound of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Crossing the room she carefully placed the tea tray on the coffee table. Dead centre.

“Shall I pour?” she asked.

“Please.”

“Cream and sugar?” she asked.

“Thank you,” he murmured as she handed him the tea cup.

“It smells different.” He sniffed the tea cup delicately.

“It’s a special blend, something new. I wanted to surprise you. It’s my way of thanking you for the lovely bunch of flowers you gave me. I love Oleander, they are so beautiful.”

“ Well, I know you burned yourself yesterday, you need to be more careful,” Mark always had an interesting spin on these “incidents” as Callie had come to think of them.

“You need to think before you act, or do, or say things. Then you wouldn’t end up being hurt all the time.”

“The flowers are lovely, that was … thoughtful of you.” Callie looked directly into his eyes. “Enjoy your tea,” she directed.” This tea is quite unique,  but I think you will be surprised.”

Mark sat and sipped his tea, he had almost reached the dregs when he suddenly grabbed his chest with one hand and his stomach with the other and bent over, a deep groan coming from his lips, and his face suddenly took on a grayish colour.

He stared  Callie in the eye, an unasked question on his lips.

“Yes, there, you see, I was right. You are surprised.”

Mark suddenly fell forward, his head hitting the coffee table and knocking the tea tray to the ground, the teacup in his hand falling onto the table and breaking into pieces.

Callie reached over, plucked a scone from the linen-lined basket, drizzled a little honey on it, licked some drops of honey that glazed her fingers, and sitting back in her seat on the couch, took a huge satisfying bite. Her eyes rested on the picture of the crashing waves and the ghost chairs in the foreground. Gone forever … without a trace.

Calle turned slowly away from the picture, towards Mark, lying on the coffee table, “You broke a cup Mark, and look what you've done to the tea tray,” Callie scolded gently, “I think you  will have to pay for that.”

She glanced over at his body, lying still on the table, then glanced at the Oleander on the end table that she had received that morning. “Oh, I guess you just did PAY for that, and once again, thank you for the Oleander. It’s so beautiful and so …  very toxic.

 Callie reached over and picked up the remote control. Aiming it at the stereo, she clicked and sat back and sighed as Freddy Mercury and Queen sang “Mama, just killed a man…” She lay back and put her feet up on the coffee table, well, they say revenge is a dish best served cold.”

Perfect!