By Lottie M Hancock
Reading time: 3 minutes | Published: February 2025
Mildred set the tea service on the coffee table in front of her husband. The tiny cups donning Victorian roses jiggled and clinked in the matching saucers cradling them. She spread a shawl over Bill’s lap and sat across from him. Bill inhaled the herbal aromas before sipping, as did she.
“So, we are married.” It was more of a statement than a question. Stoic, direct, resolute. His eyes glimmered briefly.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Sixty-four years, dear.” Mildred took another sip of tea and looked at him over the rim.
“And why don’t I remember any of this?”
“Do you remember anything today?” She sat her saucer on the tray and sat back with her cup.
“Of course, I do.”
“Of course.”
He sat his cup in its saucer and stared. Beckoning. Ordering. She poured him another cup, dropped in two sugars. Mildred watched the birds flit across the windowsill, not as clearly as before. Nothing was as clear as before. Before when? Yesterday? A decade ago? Today was clear enough.
“What is your name?” The question burned inside her, but not as bad as it had the first time.
“I am Mildred.”
“Why don’t I know you?”
“You will tomorrow, Bill.”
“You make no sense at all, woman.”
Mildred freshened her tea.
“What is this place? Where am I stationed?”
“You are retired. Have been for twenty-five years.”
“I would never have retired. You are lying.”
Mildred thought back on the number of wars, transfers, and tents that were supposed to be houses she had endured. Once, while he was off directing skirmishes south of Seoul, she swept a dirt floor of a shack. It was whitewashed to make presentable, but a shack, nonetheless. She made do. So did he. Perhaps, she remembers that posting most because it was where she learned she was barren. There would be no more Ashcroft’s to carry the family line.
“What is my rank?”
“Bird Colonel.”
His eyes bore into her. “I was in Germany.”
“Yes. Do you remember when?”
“Of course, I do, woman! It was…it…” Bill’s brow furrowed, and he sank back into the cushions. “Where is Sally?”
“Your sister passed ten years ago. I am sorry.”
Her husband’s fortitude faltered. “Sally? How?”
“She had a stroke, dear. It happened suddenly. Death was instant.” Mildred had most answers practiced to the point they sounded cold. Even now, she knew she sounded like an outsider relating the evening news.
“As it should be.” He straightened and sat rigid at the edge of the couch cushion. “Where are my cigars?”
“You quit, darling.”
“Why in blazes would I do that?”
“Doctor’s orders.”
“Doctors don’t know crap! Get my cigar.”
“I will get some for you this evening.” Mildred dropped two cubes of sugar into his cup. None for hers.
Bill sipped his tea and coughed.
“Do we have children?”
“None.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
Mildred watched a squirrel join in with the birds at play. Two black birds flew away in a huff but soon returned. Bill sat his forehead in the palm of his hand and closed his eyes.
“Are you all right, dear?” She sat back and watched Bill without expression. Darkness clouded across the room. His head now rested on the couch’s overstuffed arm, and she forced a shuttered breath.
Teatime was an important social act that was too often ignored. It had been the center of peace talks, war rooms, and social gatherings at the women’s mess hall. Mildred tried to focus on the teapot that had been the vessel of their salvation. Their release. She could no longer taste the almond and wondered if he had noticed it at all.
She saw movement outside her window and smiled. Birds covered the lawn.
“Bill, do you see the birds? Bill? Oh, it’s teatime. When did you sneak that in? Bill?” His cup of tea teetered and spilt on his trousers. She tried to speak up, but nothing came. Nothing about his spilt tea or her broken teacup at the edge of the table.
