The Summer of Moby Dick

By Donald Sheridan

The stuff of life is a kaleidoscope of joy and tragedy-wonder, happiness, disappointment, hope, failure, and victory. The writer is an observer and interpreter. All fiction is reality and truth that has been marinating in a writer's creative juices until that moment it demands to be told. Read on...everything in this book is true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646703685

Book preview

Afternoon Tea

I think all of us have regrets—not necessarily the road not taken kind of regrets, but the quiet kind of regrets where we missed an opportunity to reach out to someone, or the incident where we should have spoken out against an untruth, or a time we were too busy to help when help was called for. Every now and then, I am reminded of such times, and one in particular causes me to feel a shame, not an overwhelming kind of shame, but rather a feeling that I let myself down and by association, I diminished my species.

I sat in my car, sipping my coffee and reflecting. I was in my early thirties and teaching at a local college and somewhat smitten with my own importance. Most of my afternoons were spent in the college library pouring over books on Milton and Chaucer and drinking coffee with my librarian friend, Bruce.

Did you receive your invitation? he asked as we sat in his office staring out at the magnolia trees in full bloom.

Invitation? To what? I asked.

Oh, you’ll see soon enough. Have you checked your campus mail? Bruce smiled that Cheshire cat smile of his and went on drinking his coffee. You’ll see, he repeated.

When I finished my coffee I went upstairs and checked my mail, and there in the back of the box was a small pink envelope with my name written in real ink and with a perfect Parker penmanship flair. Where the return address would have been was a tiny artist’s palette, drawn in minute detail with the initials DH.

Dorothea Higgins was an aging and eccentric art teacher finishing her last year of teaching to what few of her classes remained and to student numbers that had dwindled to the point of embarrassment.

I opened the envelope and read the invitation, written in the same flawless penmanship: Mother and I graciously invite you to share afternoon tea with us this Wednesday next at 3:30. And signed next to another perfectly drawn palette.

Is she serious? I asked Bruce, returning to his office with my invitation in hand. Hell, I haven’t said a dozen words to that woman in the last three years.

We’ve got to go was his answer.

Why?

Call it professional courtesy, he answered.

Who do you suppose will be there? I asked, trying to get my mind around the idea of spending social time with an aging recluse and her mother. Her mother must be ancient, I added, looking at the delicate invitation. This Wednesday next, I repeated. Who writes like that these days?

On the Wednesday next, Bruce and I drove over to Dorothea’s. Hers was a rather plain white frame house in an older residential neighborhood. Many years had worked on the exterior, and the once glossy white enamel had turned to a gray matte. A young boy, a neighbor perhaps, was just finishing mowing the grass and was sweeping the clippings form the cement walk which led to the small porch. There were several terra cotta flower pots on the porch, but they were empty. To the right of the porch was an old and rotting wooden arbor covered with tiny and delicate yet vividly red roses. It was the one sign of life and passion in a setting one could drive by and completely overlook. The curtains were all drawn. Had the boy not just cut the lawn a casual passerby might have thought the house to be unoccupied.

A handwritten note taped over the bell read out of order, so I rapped on the door. Several moments passed and I was just ready to rap again when the door opened.

Dorothea, smiling and with a sweeping gesture, waved us in. If I had seen her at a costume party I would have judged her to be Little BoPeep. Her lips were covered with bright red lipstick and her cheeks were heavily rouged and the black penciled brows made her eyes appear small and when she smiled coyly I could see traces of the lipstick on her teeth.

It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the gloomy dim of the house, but I soon became aware of the small table in what appeared to be a parlor. As I glanced around the room, I saw that all the furniture were covered with linen bed sheets—an overstuffed chair, a couple of end tables, and against the far outside wall, an old sofa.

I thought I saw something lying on the sofa, and as my eyes adjusted to the need for light I saw an old lady stretched out like a corpse. She was eerily thin and ashen, and her long white hair spilled from the small pillow and down to the floor. Above the old woman and pacing nervously along the back of the sofa was a large white rooster, and judging from the size of his spurs, he too was old.

It was Dorothea who broke the silence and set the tone for our visit.

Look, Mother, she said excitedly. Our gentlemen callers have arrived for tea.

The old woman seemed to attempt a response, but it was no more than a weak, throaty kind of choking sound, which our hostess quickly interpreted. Mother is delighted that you chose to join us for tea.

Dorothea invited us to sit at the table as she lit two candles, swept from the room, and returned with a delicate flowered tea service. The cups, saucers, and teapot were decorated with tiny red roses much like those growing on the rotting arbor in the yard next to the house.

I love the floral pattern on your china, Bruce said, attempting to generate conversation and avoid an awkward silence.

I did them—Dorothea smiled shyly—oh so long ago. She sighed. It was during my china-painting period, and we were in France, Mother and I.

A strained raspy whine form the old woman.

Mother wants to know if you two have been to France.

We both admitted we had not.

Again the old woman.

Mother said you should go while you have your youth. Paris is for the young and for those in love. And then to her mother: Oh, Mother, yes.

Another feeble attempt from the old woman, this one accompanied by an expression which appeared to be a combination of fear and confusion.

Dorothea was pouring tea. Mother was so beautiful in those glorious days.

And I bet you were too, I said in an attempt to be gracious. I think Dorothea was touched by my awkward compliment. She put the teapot down and gently touched my cheek and pausing, gazed deeply into my eyes, smiled, and said with a measure of sadness, You dear sweet young man.

I was just admiring your rings, Bruce said. They’re very ornate and large. And then, I don’t recall seeing rings like that before.

They are very old, Dorothea replied, and I suppose somewhat useful. Or at least I assume so. They’re poison rings.

I don’t understand, I interrupted.

Sugar, Donald? she queried.

Yes, ma’am.

With that, Dorothea held her left hand just above my cup and with her right index finger touched the side of that beautifully delicate and artfully handcrafted gold ring and dropped a small portion of what I hoped was sugar into my tea.

No sugar for me, Bruce cautioned.

The old woman seemed to become agitated, and Dorothea quickly moved to her mother’s side and began brushing the old woman’s hair and recalling a time in their distant past. She joined her mother in a reverie known only to the two of them and left Bruce and me to our tea and petit fours.

The Eiffel Tower, Mother, and the Champs Elysees…

Hmm.

Everyone was in love…at least with you, my darling.

Hmm. Ah.

I’m afraid I was somewhat shy and plain, but Mother took me by the hand and introduced me to the excitement and beauty of…oh, Mother. The West Bank. Do you remember? Can you see it? Say you can. Say you can see it.

The old woman was trying to respond. She weakly raised a couple of fingers and faintly whispered something to Dorothea.

Oh, Mother, yes. The wonderful sidewalk cafes filled with young lovers. The long walks along the Seine. You and Phillipe and I. I’m so sorry I was—

The old woman’s eyes seemed to flash in anger, and Dorothea quickly returned to our table and, putting the delicate china service on a tray, said in a strangely sober tone, We’re delighted you could join us for tea. And showing us out, added, Mother and I so enjoyed your company.

Bruce and I were standing on the small porch when Dorothea closed the door behind us. I could smell the freshly cut grass and the delicate roses blooming on the broken trellis.

Late in the following fall after the trees had cast off their colorful leaves and the lawns no longer glistened with morning dew, I saw Dorothea in the alley behind the supermarket. She was wearing an old brown woolen coat and a straw hat with plastic flowers on the hat band. Woolen gloves with the fingertips worn as her aging thin fingers were visible as she picked through the produce that had been discarded in the trash cans that lined the loading dock. She wore large, round sunglasses, and her checks were smeared with rouge too red for one so old.

I sensed small shifting eyes behind the glasses. She quickly assessed each carrot and potato. She squeezed, poked, and brought them to her nose to discover rot and, sensing none, placed them in the black mesh sack. In moments, as if sensing discovery, she was gone, disappearing down the alley between the backs of shops.

I never saw her again.

*****

Many years passed. Bruce returned to his Carolina roots and I settled into my comfortable and familiar tenured position at the college.

It was purely by chance that I happened on to the obituary in our local paper. I was reading a series of letters to the editor concerning a local bond issue when I spotted the notice. Visitation was scheduled for six to eight in the evening, and it was nearly half past seven. It was ten minutes to eight when I signed the guest book: number 5—my name.

Two old ladies were visiting just inside the door.

Up front a fragile elderly lady sat quietly, white lace handkerchief held gently in her aging fingers.

So kind of you to come visit, she said, quietly taking my hand as she led me to the two caskets.

I’m afraid Auntie outlived all her friends, she remarked quietly. I guess I’m the last now. Then she looked up. I’m sorry we can’t see them one last time, but of course with the fire— She sobbed gently as her voice trailed off, and she drifted into her memories.

After a few minutes she returned to the moment and, gently taking my hand, asked in hushed tones, Did you know Dorothea well?

We were colleagues years ago at the college, I answered.

That’s nice. I’m glad to think she had nice young friends.

Just colleagues, I repeated, but the word suddenly had a bitter taste and I instantly regretted using it.

On the drive home I thought about the brief conversation at the funeral home. Fire? What fire?

The next afternoon I stopped by the newspaper, and as I searched recent issues I found a rather cryptic set of news stories.

Headline: Two Elderly Women Die in House Fire

Retired art teacher Dorothea Higgins, 79, and her mother, Gloriana Higgins, believed to be 101, were found deceased after a fire destroyed their home during the night of January 3.

Later Headline: Suspicions Surround Recent House Fire

According to the medical examiner, the older female, Gloriana Higgins, did not die in the fire. Her badly decomposed body seemed to indicate that she had been dead for some time before the fire. A number of years, the medical examiner answered when questioned further.

Later News Article:

It appears that Dorothea Higgins, 79, first thought to have died in the fire that destroyed her home, was already dead, according to the medical examiner in charge of the autopsy. The examination turned up a massive amount of cyanide in her system and no signs of smoke in her