Old Cat's Torch

This tea is cold; there’s no point now. The point of tea is to have it hot. That’s why it’s so relaxing. When the warmth has escaped it, like the youth from my bones, there’s no point in going on. It’s done.

                I remember the days when Dizzy Gillespie was attractive and Louis Armstrong wasn’t a legend, but a moldy fig. Those bebop days were the greatest days of my life, but so long ago. Damn Miles Davis and his cool jazz. What’s wrong with playing fast, technical music? Nothing, that’s what.

-     -     -

I met Roy at a Coltrane concert in ‘57. Oh what a night; the starry night above, Lazy Bird flowing through the sound waves, the coffee cups perched upon the small tables.

People dressed up for shows back then. I remember seeing Roy in a grey suit that looked too big for him. His thin, black tie loose around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone; he said it felt like he was getting strangled when he had it buttoned. He didn’t wear ties much after that night. He said, “Coltrane never wears a tie. So, why should I?” I couldn’t give him an answer.

Our eyes met from across the square. He noticed me because I was the only woman in the venue without a hat. Etiquette be damned, hats never seemed that appealing to me. I worked so much on my hair that I wanted people to see it. It was worth the glares from the older crowd when he smoothly said, “Hello.”

“Good evening,” I replied, trying not to smile too much.

“Your hair looks lovely tonight.” His smirk was intoxicating.

“Why thank you, mister…”

“Davis, Roy Davis. And you are?”

“Helen, Helen Rollins.”

“A beautiful name. How are you enjoying the show, Miss Rollins?”

“Quite well, sir, waiting for Blue Train. It’s my favorite.”

“That won’t be ‘til the end, I’m afraid. John knows how to keep a crowd around for the whole show.”

I knew then it was love. Never had I felt those feelings before. Those feelings that elude words and description, words that leave you dumbfounded, words that the professors of Harvard know.

-     -     -

Sometimes I close my eyes and think about those early years. I think about putting on a Thelonious Monk album and dancing with Roy. Only our furniture could see us in our cozy living room. My floral dress inhaling as I spun in circles, his suit jacket transforming into a cape as he flew around the room. He was the real Superman.

                It’s times like this when my ring finger aches.

-     -     -

It was a cold evening in late 2007, 50 years after we met. We used to celebrate this day by going out to concerts or eating in restaurants we couldn’t afford, but this year was different. Instead of sitting in front of a crab dinner, I sat next to a hospital bed. The constant beeping was my main source of conversation.

                “I’m sorry, Helen,” Roy would say several times through the night. Coughing afterward.

                “Oh, don’t you worry, honey.”

                He would drift back into sleep slowly.

                Watching him sleep reminded me of how I used to watch our daughter sleep. She was the cutest baby to ever walk on this earth, and I’d fight whoever disagreed. It was something about the vulnerability of them sleeping, it made them seem human. Sometimes you can forget, but I can’t.

                We’d spent several days in that room. The hospital applesauce was the only food that I could really put down without conflict. Roy found it amusing, so I kept trying the rest. It’s the small victories that really matter.

                “Helen, I’ll make it to our 50^th. I promise.”

                “I know, sweetie. I know”

-     -     -

I’ve grown tired of this tea. The coldness has overtaken its taste. It’s just colored water now, a deluded lifeless shell of what it used to be. I should get up and pour it out, but I don’t want them to see me.

                Those nurses keep a close eye on everything that happens in this room. It’s the only place we can socialize, but it has to be moderated, of course. They sit there behind their counter, some attentively watching, some reading Star Magazine or Us Weekly, or whatever garbage they numb their minds to. They can be so bitter.

                I’m going to go for it. I’m sick of sitting here with this cold tea, and I’d prefer a nap at this point. Unlike most of the citizens here, I like my privacy and solitude. I’d rather talk with Hemingway than George Alder, an aging man whose only conversational point is how great his grandchildren are. It gets old quickly.

                I go up to the dirty dish area and place my teacup down. The nurse looks at my cup for a second then looks at me. “You didn’t finish your tea, Ms. Davis.”

                “I know. I wasn’t that thirsty.”

                “Did you take all of your pills?”

                “There are only four of them. I don’t think I’d miss any of them.”

                “I’m only trying to make sure you’re ok, ma’am.”

                “I know. I’m just a bit tired. I’m going to my room for a nap.”

                “But, Ms. Davis, there’s painting this afternoon in the multi-purpose room. You don’t want to miss that!”

                “I’m not Van Gogh and the world doesn’t need another Pollock. I think I’ll take my nap instead.” I realized now that I shouldn’t have said anything. Why must I feel compelled to make conversation?

                “Oh, come now, Ms. Davis. I’m sure you’re not that-“

                “Helen. Please, call me Helen. The Ms. only reminds me of what I’ve lost.”

                “I’m sorry, Helen. But we’d really like it if you’d join us for the painting activity.”

                “Are you going to be painting or reading your precious magazine?”

                “If I say ‘yes,’ will you come to the event?”

                Such a frustrating woman. It’s her job to get more people to come, I know that, and she’s so good at what she does.

                “I’m not sure. I’m still feeling pretty tired.”

                “You might make a friend or two if you go.” The way her voice turned up at the end made me skin crawl.

                “Alright, I’ll go. When is it?”

                “It starts at 3p.m. We’ll see you there!”

                “Quite.”

                So I lied to a nurse, what’s the worst that could happen? The look on her face of victory, that smile that seemed to welcome the next contender. She won’t know if I go or not. There are at least 30 people going. Half might be family members, but still�" they won’t notice me.

                I’ve done this several times now. They have yet to make a remark about it to my face, but I see it in the way they look at me. Whether I’m asking for a cup of tea or trying to get another Faulkner novel, I get that look. It’s almost penetrating, but I won’t let them get the best of me.

                I’ll spend every evening in this small room. The lamp barely illuminating the dull beige walls, the rocking chair squeaking with every movement, the small, white cloth coaster from my last anniversary sitting on the end table. I won’t be alone. For over my book, in the hazy distance across the room, on the dim wall hangs a picture of my Roy.

You can call it solitude, but I call it living. Living by my means, rather than living by the means of this home. 

Reviews

[Truman S. Booth]

A fascinating write, especially considering its point of view. If your profile wasn't up there on my right, I could have sworn this was from the hand of Helen Davis herself. The music and literature motifs throughout the story kept us aware of the time frame, as well as helping us get to know our narrator a little. The flashbacks were priceless, beautifully written, and the overall piece reminded me of the montage at the beginning of Pixar's Up. Very well written. Touching.