The idea of tea sounded lovely to Mrs. Curtis, so she decided to make herself a bit. Mr. Curtis had never been fond of tea, but Mrs. Curtis adored it. Tea was a ritual to Mrs. Curtis, and she knew well how to prepare it. She carefully brought down her canister of the special blend she bought from the import store on Fremont Street. She measured exactly two spoonfuls into the small metal tea ball and put the lid on tightly. When the kettle was boiling, she put the ball inside for precisely two minutes, during which she sliced a lemon into triangular wedges with a paring knife. Finally, she poured herself a cup in her dainty yellow china cup and saucer, squeezed a slice of lemon into it, and sat down to take the first sip, careful not to spill any on her blue and white polka-dotted dress. Mrs. Curtis smiled.
There were many things Mrs. Curtis could not do, and these things she did not bother wishing for. What she could do she did as if she was born to, inexorably and with no fuss. Tea brewing was one of them. She could produce a beverage appropriate for any occasion. When Mrs. Curtis said she would make a pot of tea, that tea would be served punctually and prepared to perfection even if World War III started in her breadbox.
People admired that about Mrs. Curtis, especially Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Mrs. Fitzpatrick was a friendly young woman with a teething baby, a wagging tongue, and a tendency to borrow things. She would often come over for one of Mrs. Curtis's famous cups of tea and to tell the latest gossip. Just before she would leave, she would suddenly remember something she urgently needed but did not have the time to get. Mrs. Curtis would nod at the end of the performance, retrieve the sought item, and give it to Mrs. Fitzpatrick. It would often never return, but Mrs. Curtis did not mind. She enjoyed the company and thanked God that she had enough that she could provide for others.
Link back to "The Lives and Deaths of Mrs. Curtis" Title Page. Send mail to marleigh@mit.edu.