TEA POT
Anna Dziuba
Donna runs around the kitchen, setting the stove on and making breakfast for everyone. Her girls are ready and perfect; Sam’s got her floral-print dress on and her hair curled, and she looks like a real princess. Kate is carrying her favorite doll around, stroking the hair gently. The older, Sam, asks mom how old she had to be to start wearing make-up. Mom smiles: so proud of her pretty girls. The eggs are ready and Donna serves them. Her husband eats the eggs heartily. He’s quiet and staunch, reading the paper. The girls run to Donna and she taps them tenderly on the head: ‘daddy’s just being a man, now. Don’t bother him.’
Today is Sunday, so all of the children and parents go to the local Church, and then they come home and Donna makes dinner. She wonders what it is she’ll make: potatoes and gravy will be a sure thing. The only problem? There’s no gravy. She wonders how long it’ll be before she can get Harvey to drive to the grocery store to get her the mushrooms for the gravy. Then again—she thinks—she can never trust Harvey to do anything right in the kitchen (not even buy the right mushrooms). She smiles whimsically at this. No gravy, then. What about mashes potatoes? She figures it out, and her face lights up as one more daily decision is made: mashed potatoes, baked chicken and salad. She has the salad in the fridge and the chicken in the freezer. There’s another bonus about this meal: it’s Harvey’s absolute favorite. The girls like it, too, and with their new dishwasher Donna doesn’t have to worry about washing the dishes by hand. Perfect. The afternoon is planned. Church, home, dinner and then maybe the girls can play in the yard for a little bit while she works on a floral pattern for the window sill. Life is so easy, Donna thinks. Life is so easy. The local craft store has all of the supplies she’ll need, but again she can’t trust Harvey to go out and get them for her. That’s okay.
The girls look stunning in Church. Donna looks around to see if people are stealing glances at them. They have on their pink sun-hats. Their hands are so small, Donna thinks, and yet unused to work. When they get a little older Donna will teach them how to cook and how to sew floral patterns. She worries a little about the older—Samantha—who seems a tad (but just a tad) reluctant to play with her new kitchen set. Donna watches as the set is neglected every night. Sam doesn’t like doing tea parties like Katherine, and she takes her hat and her dress off usually as soon as they get home. She’s been playing with the other boys, wants a bike to ride, and her teacher says she swears on occasion. But Donna is relieved it’s only on occasion. The minister talks about love and family life, the importance of sharing meals, the duties of husband and wife. He’s a nice man, pink and jovial. He has small hands, thin white hair and a fat belly. Father Benedict. Donna keeps thinking about the teacher and she bites one of her nails nervously: ‘your daughter is a rowdy thing. She won’t close her mouth during class, makes rude comments and swears.’ Donna doesn’t know what to do about this. Like most things, she’ll let it slide. Things seem to be so good now.
The mass is done and the family goes home together. Donna makes dinner. The children are happy: they play together in the yard, Sam chasing Kate. Such perfect children. Kate is going to have her nails done soon. Sam doesn’t want to. She’s sort of a tomboy. Donna worries—just a little bit—about boys liking her if she never wants to wear make-up or do her nails or wear dresses. But Kate is promising. Her eyelids droop and most of the time she looks glazed and unaware, the bedroom eyes look; what a beautiful child. One day she will woo a man. She will have grandchildren and Donna will be there to see them. Dinner works out great. She puts the new cherry-red placemats on the table and makes sure to set out pink napkins. The cherry red goes great with the pink napkins. Her husband is going to sit at the table. She remembers when they started dating. He was a handsome man with a good wallet; he made sure everything was taken care of. He drove an old Mustang. He would take Donna out to all of the restaurants.
There was a bottle of wine on the table. She put it out because she knew Harvey liked his wine (sometimes a little too much, and she had to put him to bed). But Donna never had more than a glass because Harvey didn’t like it. He didn’t seem to take to her liking wine, and that was okay. She got a little buzz going, and sometimes when he wasn’t looking—but she didn’t tell anyone from the family—she would take a little more after he fell asleep. She wasn’t proud of it, though, and of course it was unnecessary. The bottle was still on the table and instead of cleaning it up, she would give herself a little more. Thank God Harvey hadn’t discovered what she was doing. Goodness, it was a sin, but she couldn’t help herself sometimes. Everything is perfect today. The sun is shining. The chicken looks great. The kids and Harvey are happy, about to enjoy a meal. She looks at her small hands, frame, face; she looks at all of the years doing what she does. She sighs. Everything is so easy.
Harvey takes to his wine tonight, and that’s okay. Sam is at the table, scowling. She’s very smart for her age; likes books more than her dresses. Likes climbing trees and getting dirty in the woods. She’s even building a tree-house with some of the other boys. But they don’t like her, Donna thinks. She worries about Sam a little bit, about how she will attract boys when she grows older with her short, gaunt frame, lack of feminine wiles. The younger one, Kate, is already winking and blushing, princess-like, perfectly plump and pink. She’s already thinking of matches for Kate: the nice, brown-haired boy at church, Mrs. Madison’s boys Luke and Peter, the pastor’s son. She thinks about the family she’ll one day see her daughter having. Maybe a small dog, a few children, daughter avidly caring for her husband. But Sam—something was wrong with that girl. She didn’t like her dolls, Donna remembered. She didn’t like caring for the dolls and doing their hair, changing their clothes, feeding them. Sam didn’t like her kitchen set or throwing tea parties, making imaginary food in the pot, helping her at chores. She always ran away to the tree-house to read, or went with the boys, had her face and body dirty; she saw several scabs on her knees like red, aching tree-bark. Sam wasn’t afraid of everything. Kate was delicate as a flower, and Sam didn’t seem to mind bathing in the river in near winter. She had been bruised, scabbed, cut and scraped. Donna was sure Sam had twisted her ankle once but didn’t tell her.
‘This is good, honey,’ Harvey says. Donna lights up. She’s done a good job, and her husband likes it. ‘Maybe more pepper next time.’ That’s okay, she thinks. I’ll put more pepper. What will she wear this afternoon? Donna likes to change after Church. She’s wearing a purple floral sun-dress now, but she has a yellow dress she can change into, one with frills at the bottom and a hat to go with it. Donna goes upstairs to change, and comes downstairs wearing the yellow dress. Her hair is up in a bun with a few strands hanging down (the way Harvey likes it). She puts her hands out eagerly, waiting to be kissed. Harvey takes her hand and then drops it. ‘Later.’
Later, at night, they lie in bed together and the kids are off to sleep. Donna is tired of her daily chores, and since tomorrow is Monday, Harvey will have to go to work. He had a little too much to drink, but Donna restrained herself; only a few sips of wine for her. Her mother taught her how to act appropriately. Her apron is neatly tucked away in the cupboard—she remembers—and the dishes are washed. She remembers putting the white ones away in the second cupboard, and the blue ones in the first. They always had to be done a certain way and—though she hated fussing—it was the only arrangement that brought her piece of mind. She had once been content to keep the plates and cups together, but couldn’t work like that anymore. It was easier to take them out of each cupboard separately. She looks over at Harvey, who is sleeping. She often wonders what it would be like to make love to her husband, even though after the kids were born they seldom did it. it had always felt so vile. He wanted to do it all of the time after they got married! But Donna had too many chores to do, and was often tired. A few times she had actually enjoyed it, but she put that out of her mind. There were more important things for women to enjoy and take care of than their sexual needs. Still, Donna thought of Harvey inside of her, his warm smell, neck so close to her lips. She put it out of mind.
The next morning, she gets Harvey’s suit ready (already ironed) and makes him scrambled eggs; a good breakfast. ‘Your eggs are always cold, Donna,’ he says with some resentment. She apologizes and says she will make them better next time. Harvey. Such a fussy eater. Her mother taught her that if you cater to a man’s eating habits, he will love and cherish you (even if this means getting things just right). Harvey certainly did love her. She knew that. She was proud of her husband, and stood by him all the way. She gets the girls ready for school, comes home, and works on dinner again. The decision now is simple: Harvey likes fried pork-chop on Mondays with Greek salad. His mother butts in sometimes, Donna thinks, and tells her how to take care of her son. Donna used to have trouble with that, but succumbed to the mother-in-law’s demands and there are no problems now. Certainly no problems. The windows are wiped down, doilies on the coffee tables. Donna thinks about using the new spray cleaner her neighbor, Glenda, lent her yesterday; it excites her to know something will get stains off better than her current one. The dog, Lindy, pees all over the carpet, and Donna is running out of things to do about it. She hopes Sam will not misbehave. Her kitchen set still remains deserted, dolls untouched. She’s bringing in toy cars and books. Donna knows Sam is absolutely crazy about dinosaurs, and what a weird thing that is for a little girl to like! That beautiful porcelain teapot she bought Sam last year isn’t at all used.
Harvey returns from work, tired, and has his dinner. Donna looks great for him. She’s wearing a pink and black satin dress, hair done up, loafers. She makes sure to take off her apron for Harvey. Harvey is upset they don’t make love, Donna thinks, but making love is just not what women are supposed to focus on. There are still so many things to do! Decisions need to be made about straw or plastic place-mats for next Sunday’s guests. She needs to clean the flower-pots out and put fresh flowers in; dusting of the shelves; ‘de-cobwebbing’ (a clever term her mother made up) the attic corners. Harvey never took an interest in any of it. He is truly a man. Donna looks at her husband’s large hands as he eats, the salt-and-pepper hair, distinguished face; he still has on his dress shirt and tie. What would it be like? She takes that thought out of her mind and makes sure Harvey does not notice that she is looking between his legs. That’s not where a woman should look, she reminds herself. She plays with her hair, nervously. Harvey is smiling. He’s so intelligent, Donna thinks. She feels her upper thighs getting damp, and knows what it means. She has had two children by this man. Out of mind. Out of sight. It’ll be time to go to sleep, and they can lie beside each other.
Donna cannot fall asleep that night. She doesn’t know what she wants, but her head spins. She tiptoes downstairs to get some milk, but notices the bottle of wine still on the table (why didn’t she clean it?). What should she do? She loves the feeling of the wine, but it is just so inappropriate. Maybe she could have just a sip to steady her shaking hands and throbbing head. She wants Harvey. She loves Harvey. She wants Harvey inside of her, to love and stroke her. What would the other women think? They were vicious with gossiping. ‘Donna is stealing wine from the table.’ ‘Donna is becoming an alcoholic.’ ‘Donna is sinning, not doing her duties as wife.’ The pastor would berate her, not allow for her daughters to meet with his son. She is sitting there, having drank three-quarters of the bottle; her head feels really good now. Never has it felt this good. She lays back in her chair comfortably and thinks about Harvey’s body.
She goes upstairs to her husband and wants to make love now, for real. He sees her staggering to bed and then smells her breath. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘I haven’t…’
‘You’ve been drinking my wine?’
‘I’m sorry…’
‘What prompted you to do this?’
“I…I…’ Her head is spinning but she feels good. She knows Harvey will hit her—as he has done before—but doesn’t care this time because it won’t hurt. Everything is okay. ‘I just wanted to try it.’
‘Try it? Christ…what will the other women think of you, now? Do you want me to tell my mother?’ Harvey’s mother was a bitch. ‘You finished the whole bottle.’
‘Harvey, do you want to make love to me tonight?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Please.’
‘You’re giving yourself a bad image. Remember what the pastor says? Remember?’
‘I know…I just want to feel good.’ She starts crying, digging her face in the blanket. Everything feels broken. Nothing holds together anymore. ‘Harvey, why do you treat me like this?’
She feels his hand across her face, strong and unrelenting; the same expression—that of authority, wisdom. She knows she has done wrong. Drinking the wine was wrong, sinful, and now she is a lusty woman because of it, desiring the flesh.
Donna goes to sleep. The doilies are on the table, neat and ironed; she is excited to use the new spray cleaner tomorrow on the cupboards, kitchen furniture and television set. Windows are wiped down. Hopefully, it won’t rain, and that way she won’t have to wipe them down again before Sunday. The kids’ shoes are in their spots, and so are Harvey’s. Sam’s got a neat dress to wear for tomorrow, and Kate has three new sets of earrings. The girls are so beautiful. They are just so beautiful. Life is easy.
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