Fiction: Tea with Tilly

Story by Terry Sanville Artwork by Weitong Mai

Two lonely souls fi nd comfort and connection over tea and good conversation.

Linda worked as an engineer in Des Moines: not the kind who drives trains but one who designs bridges and buildings. Six months before, she’d fl ed Portland and a cushy job aft er a painful breakup with her longtime boyfriend. Her parents thought she was nuts to leave rain country.

“You’ve never lived far from the river, Linda,” her mother said. “You’ll probably dry up and blow away back there.”

“Well, maybe I’ll just let the wind take me where it will.”

“Ah, honey, it’ll get better.”

And it had, as Linda pushed loss and loneliness into the background. She focused on her new job, her daily commute, and morning coff ee at Starbucks, waiting in the order line with college students, young professionals, and other early risers.

By midaft ernoon, she’d leave her company’s downtown offi ce and drive to her apartment. Along the way, she passed phalanxes of townhouses and condominiums. Squeezed between two blocky buildings and fronting the narrow street stood a tiny house with a steep pitched roof. Its large picture window looked out onto a front porch and a bare patch of yard where grass might have once grown. An old woman gazed out the window, her face a gray unsmiling mask, her hair a wispy white crown.

Every day Linda passed her, even on weekends, the woman always at the same spot watching traffi c. No car ever parked in front of the place or in its driveway. No one appeared in the window beside her.

Linda started waving to her as she passed, just a quick wiggle of her hand and a grin. Th e woman stayed stone-faced, unmoving—until one day she raised her hand, like people do when asked to swear to tell the truth in court. It became their daily thing—a slight acknowledgment, a minor connection.

On a Friday afternoon, Linda approached the house as usual. The old woman raised her hand. Linda jammed on the brakes and pulled the Toyota to the curb. Why’d I do that? she thought. She’ll think I’m some sort of weirdo. But I’m not ready for another night in my empty apartment with my books and stupid TV programs.

She climbed from the car. The woman had disappeared from the window. Linda mounted the cracked wooden stairs, tiptoed across the porch, and tapped on the front screen. Nothing. She tapped again. With a jerk, the inner door opened a few inches. Half of a seamed face and one pale blue eye stared out at her.

“Hi, I’m Linda. I . . . see you every day. I thought maybe we could visit for a while.”

The silence built until Linda finally blurted, “Look, I’m sorry if I disturbed—”

“Honey, people don’t visit anymore. Are you selling something?”

“No, no. I’m . . . I’m just new to the area and thought maybe we could talk.”

The woman scowled. “Really? You want to talk with an old woman dressed in yesterday’s clothes?”

“Yes. I guess I’m . . . curious.”

The woman opened the door a little wider. “I don’t have any money if that’s what you’re after.”

“No, I live down the street and thought you and I could . . . could maybe have tea.”

The woman stared into Linda’s eyes, unblinking. The thin straight line of her mouth curved upward ever so slightly. “Well, tea would be nice right about now. All right, come in. Sorry about the mess.”

“You should see my apartment.”

The woman stood barely 5 feet tall, making Linda feel like a giant. She used two canes to steady herself as they passed into the living room and sat on a sofa protected by plastic slipcovers.

“You have one of the last houses around here,” Linda said.

“My son bought it for me when I moved here from Topeka. That must have been 10 years ago.”

“Do you want me to help with the tea?”

“Yes, if you would. Jimmy—that’s my son—always puts things on top shelves where I can’t reach them.”

“Can I ask your name?”

“Oh, sorry, hon, forgive my manners. I’m Tilly, short for Matilda. And you are . . . ?”

“Linda. Glad to meet you.”

Tilly pointed out a particular kitchen cabinet, and Linda opened it and took down a black glazed teapot with Asian figurines displayed in gold.

“Frank gave me that for our 50th. I haven’t used it much since he passed. I just make my own mug in the microwave.”

“Yeah, I do the same. But this is nice.”

Linda boiled water in the kettle sitting on top of an ancient gas range and fixed a pot of tea. Tilly retrieved two modern black mugs from the drainboard, and she and Linda sat at the kitchen table, sipping strong Lipton.

“Do you live here by yourself?”

Tilly grinned. “Heck, no. I have Skipper to keep me company. Come here, Skip! Come here, boy!” Her yell made Linda jump. “Sorry, he’s old and getting a bit deaf.”

From down the hall came the sound of doggy paws clacking on the hardwood floor. A black Labrador with a graying muzzle padded into the kitchen, tail wagging, and stuck his snout between Linda’s legs.

“Skipper, be nice,” Tilly scolded.

Linda scratched Skip behind the ears, and the dog flopped onto the floor, lay across her feet, and with a great sigh fell asleep.

Tilly smiled. “He does that when he likes someone, though we’ve had few visitors lately. We’re both just old codgers waiting . . . ”

Linda stared into her tea. “Yes, we’re all waiting for something.”

“Well, he’s easy to take care of. I feed him kibble and let him out in the backyard to do his business.”

“Does your son help with the place?”

“Oh, yes. Jimmy comes by to check on me most days. But like Skipper, I’m easy. The home-care people bring me lunch and make sure I’m all right. They give me so much food that I eat the leftovers for supper.”

The women sat and talked for over an hour. Linda learned that Tilly used to teach sixth grade in Topeka and loved mathematics, keeping her mind sharp by solving advanced algebra problems.

“Do you mind if I visit you again?” Linda asked.

“I’d love that, hon. I’m always here.”

As spring rolled into a humid summer, Linda stopped at Tilly’s for tea twice a week, bringing sweet treats from Starbucks. They told stories about their lives, Tilly nodding sagely when hearing about Linda’s breakup but not saying anything.

Linda hoped to meet up with Jimmy, who seemed like a phantom, always talked about by Tilly but never around. Linda wondered if she really had a son, or whether it was a story that the old woman told herself that, over time, seemed true.

On a hot July afternoon the two women sat on folding chairs on the shaded front porch and drank iced tea that Linda had brewed and brought with her. In silence, they watched each car approach and pass by. Robins and jays sang in the silver maples that lined the street. Linda felt languid, at peace, having quieted those voices inside her yelling: It’s all your fault. You didn’t deserve his love . . . such a failure.

“Did I tell you about Elmer?” Tilly said, breaking Linda’s reverie.

“Ah, no. Who’s Elmer?”

“He’s the old guy who lives in the ground-floor condo across the street.”

“Really. Has Elmer been . . . been coming around lately?” Linda grinned.

Tilly’s cheeks colored. “Well, yes. He moved in about a year ago and finally got up the nerve. I guess seeing us drinking tea and carrying on gave him courage.”

“Yeah, men! What are ya gonna do?”

They both laughed.

“So, do you like him?”

“Yes, he’s well educated, very genteel, sort of like a character right out of Gone with the Wind.”

“Maybe I should try the genteel type. My last boyfriend was . . .”

“Linda, you just need to stop worrying. You’re young, beautiful, and if you can keep me entertained for hours you can do even better with Mr. Right.”

“I thought I knew Mr. Right back in Portland.”

“There’s more than one in this world, you know. Just keep your eyes and heart open.”

Months passed, the maple trees lost their leaves, and snow covered the ground. Hot tea became the order of their days.

“Do you want something in your tea?” Tilly asked Linda.

“What do you mean?”

“I think there’s brandy in one of those kitchen cabinets below the sink.”

Linda found an almost full bottle of Hennessy and offered some to Tilly.

“Just pour a capful in my cup, dear. I don’t want to go overboard.”

They sipped their spiked tea and watched traffic on the street fishtail on patches of black ice. Linda felt guilty because she had grown quiet, her mind drifting back to the West Coast, the Columbia flowing past Portland to the Pacific, grain ships sailing up and down river.

“You’re thinking about Portland, aren’t you?” Tilly asked.

“How could you tell?”

“I know that look. It’s taken me years to remember Topeka as just another piece of my life, and not something lost. But I’m not quite there yet.”

Linda sighed. “Me neither. But thanks to you, I’m getting closer.”

On a blustery March afternoon, Linda drove carefully along the narrow street and pulled up in front of the house. Tilly wasn’t in the window, and a strange SUV stood in the driveway. When she rapped on the front screen, a small man with gray hair and mustache answered.

“Ah, is . . . is Tilly here?”

“You must be Linda. Mom’s told me so much about you.”

“You’re Jimmy? I was beginning to think you didn’t exist, and I pictured a young man and not . . .”

Jimmy smiled. “Yeah, I started pulling Social Security five years ago.”

“I’m here to have tea with your mother.”

“I know. Come in.”

They moved to the living room sofa and sat. Skipper gave a woof from the back of the house and padded into the room. He flopped down across Linda’s feet and whined. Sensing that something was wrong, Linda felt a cold vise squeeze her heart.

Jimmy stared at his hands. “Mom died last night. I got a call from her gentleman friend across the street. He found her slumped in front of the TV.”

Linda felt the tears flow. Her lips trembled. “I’m so sorry . . . ”

“My mom had a long and peaceful life. Did you know that she was 93?”

“We never talked about age. We were just two women chatting over tea.”

“Mom said it was much more than that. Thanks for being her friend. Not many would take the time. I have something she wanted you to have.”

Jimmy rose, went to the kitchen, and returned with a small cardboard box. He laid it on Linda’s lap. Inside, the black glazed teapot with Asian figurines lay swaddled in bubble wrap along with two stained tea mugs and the half-full bottle of Hennessy. Linda hugged the box to her chest and sobbed.

Tilly had outlived most of her friends. Only a handful of mourners attended the graveside service. Linda and Elmer told stories about Tilly’s last months and days. The minister recited prayers and a beautiful poem. But afterward, they all hurried to their cars to seek shelter from the bitter cold and biting wind.

Linda knew another chapter had ended, but she still grieved for Tilly. She stayed late at work to fill her afternoons, took a different route home so she wouldn’t pass by the house, hid the teapot in her closet, and drank more coffee than she should.

But with April the wind backed off, and the days warmed. Before the humidity of May arrived, Linda decided to leave Des Moines.

“You’re one of our best,” her boss said. “What can we do to convince you to stay?”

Linda smiled and just shook her head.

The next day, in the hour before dawn, she gassed up the Toyota at an all-night truck stop, then headed west on Interstate 80. The teapot rattled happily in its box on the seat next to her, the brandy in the trunk just in case she got stopped. She drove toward the coast, to some new city on a bay, a river, or a sound where she could rent a tiny house and invite friends over for tea.

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California, with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and their cat. An accomplished jazz and blues guitarist, he writes full-time, producing short stories, essays, poems, and novels. Since 2005, his award-winning short stories have been accepted by more than 350 literary and commercial journals, magazines, and anthologies, including the Potomac Review, Shenandoah, and Conclave: A Journal of Character.