Sweet Tea

Marybeth tipped the teapot and poured the steaming liquid into her cup. It had a light, floral fragrance. Marybeth added two scoops of sugar and a splash of milk.

“What do you think, Grandma?” Her granddaughter asked. 

Marybeth lifted an eyebrow as she picked up the teacup and took a small sip. “Well,” said Marybeth wincing, having taken a drink of tea a little too soon. “It’s different. Beautiful, but different.” 

Marybeth sat with her daughter and granddaughter in a tea room that had recently opened in town. Marybeth had never visited such a place, nor had she any interest. But it was her granddaughter’s seventh birthday, and like many little girls, she had wanted to have a tea party. Marybeth, her daughter, and granddaughter sat together, enjoying each other’s company, eating delicately cut sandwiches and cakes. 

“I prefer roses in my garden, not my tea,” Marybeth said before they parted. 

Her daughter gave her a look before hugging her and saying how good it was to see her and that it had been too long. Marybeth turned to her granddaughter next and said she hoped that she had had a very happy birthday.

**

Later that evening, Marybeth grabbed the pitcher of sweet tea from the fridge and a tall, clear glass from the cupboard. She filled the glass with ice and then slowly poured the tea over each ice cube, listening to the familiar “clink, clink, clink.” She grabbed a slice of lemon and put it decoratively along the edge. She took a long sip. 

This, she thought, is what tea is supposed to taste like. 

It was around seven, but the sun was still out. It was the end of June and despite the heat, Marybeth grabbed her tea and went to sit on her front porch. It had been nice to see her family, and it had been too long. Marybeth had been staying home more and more ever since last November. 

Marybeth picked up her glass and felt the condensation collect on her hand. She looked out into her front yard. There was a dirt path that led from the road directly to her front porch. Several shade trees were scattered around here and there. The light was golden and there was a soft haze in the air. She could hear the faint sound of the evening bugs and insects starting up for the night. 

Marybeth had lived in that heat her whole life, but even at 60 she still couldn’t say she was used to it. She had learned to live with it though, and with time she learned that there were more difficult things she would have to learn to live with. And without. Marybeth could recall many hot days growing up in the south. She thought back to one in particular, one of her favorite and earliest memories of George.

*** 

I’m not sweating, Marybeth thought to herself, I am sweat. Everything was wet – her forehead, her upper lip, her underarms. Even her thighs and the space between her breasts. The air itself was wet; it had developed a texture to it. It was moist and thick and deeply unpleasant. Sweat, like tears, ran past her eyes and down her cheeks. The humidity alone was unbearable, but the sun… Marybeth sighed and shook her head. Marybeth thought this must be what the preacher meant when he spoke of hellfire. 

“Marybeth,” her mother called. 

Marybeth realized she had been sitting, staring at the weeds in front of her. She and her sister had been in the garden for the better half of the morning pulling weeds out of their mother’s flowerbed. From the screen door, her mother called her name once more and told her she had a phone call. Marybeth wiped her face and eyes with the hem of her dress. She stood up and dusted the dirt off herself and ran quickly inside. There was little reprieve from the heat inside the house, but it was better than being under the sun. Marybeth could still feel heat radiating from her arms and noticed they had turned faintly pink. No doubt her nose and cheeks looked the same, her whole face probably. She picked up the phone. 

**

Marybeth had never been to George’s house before. She hardly knew George. She knew his younger brother, who was the same age as her. She had grown up alongside him, often sharing the same classes at school. She knew that he had two older brothers and a younger sister. The oldest brother was in the army, stationed somewhere out west. Marybeth couldn’t remember exactly where. And she knew of George, but she had never spoken to him before. She had of course seen him around town, at school, and in church every Sunday. He wasn’t bad-looking but Marybeth had never really given him much thought. When she went to his house that day, it wasn’t to see George anyway. Marybeth was known to be one of the best painters in town and George’s mother had called to see if she would be interested in tutoring George’s sister. Marybeth had agreed and said she would come over that afternoon. 

Marybeth set up in the living room and began the first lesson. George decided he would sit in and observe. He had a look of sincere curiosity, so Marybeth allowed it, despite his sister protesting that he would get in the way. George asked Marybeth questions and complimented her technique and skill. Marybeth was flattered and appreciative of his comments. Her artwork had been complimented before, but when George praised her it gave her a funny, nervous feeling that she wasn’t used to. 

“You’re a real natural,” George said to Marybeth. He looked directly at her as he said it but she found she couldn’t meet his eyes for long. 

“Thank you,” she said softly, heat filling her cheeks. 

She quickly turned back to her easel and went on with the lesson. Marybeth ended up staying for dinner that night. They ate outside on the back patio. The weather was too warm to be pleasant, but as the sun lowered in the sky it became more tolerable. Afterward, everyone moved on back into the kitchen or the living room to settle in for the evening. Marybeth gathered her things and said her goodbyes. 

Marybeth held onto her suitcase in which she kept her supplies and opened the door to leave, accompanied by George. She and George walked slowly from the porch to the end of the drive. Marybeth glanced at George; and George, who had been watching her, looked down quickly, a smile spread across his face. The sun had nearly set, the world turning blue in its absence. Fireflies lingered in the air around them. She knew she had better get home soon, but even as she thought it, she felt strongly that she didn’t want to go. With her free hand, she reached out and grabbed George’s hand. George grinned but said nothing. They walked like that, holding hands and stealing looks at one another, not saying anything until they reached the end of the street. George said he would call Marybeth the next day. And when the next day came, he did. 

***

Marybeth sat on her porch for a long time, not doing anything but taking long, slow sips of her iced tea. She sat in a rocking chair with one leg crossed over the other. This is what she and George would do every evening. She would sit here in this chair and George would sit in the one beside her. They would talk about everything and nothing, as best friends do. This was the first time since November that Marybeth had come out here. She felt alone and not alone at the same time. Marybeth looked at the empty chair where George would sit. She breathed in and sighed, exhaling so deeply she thought she might never inhale again. But she did. Marybeth grabbed her glass and went inside.