the shiny tan leather sofa that stretches L-shaped across half the room, while Billie makes us all a cup of tea. The American way. Which means she sticks three coffee mugs half full of water in the microwave for thirty seconds. Then she dunks the same Lipton tea bag in all three mugs until a nasty brown swirl appears. Then she adds a squidge of lemon and tells us to “come and get it.”
If you are English, you will know how I feel about this. If you are not English, let me take this opportunity to tell you how to make a drinkable cup of tea.
First, you warm a teapot. Then you put in tea leaves—Earl Grey, Lapsang, or Darjeeling, ideally. One teaspoon for each person, and one for the pot. Then you pour in water that has been boiled. In a kettle. After waiting a few minutes for the tea to brew you pour a little milk into the bottom of a teacup. Then, using a tea strainer, you pour in the tea. Then, if you take sugar, you add sugar. Then you drink it.
If you are English and have the misfortune to find yourself drinking tea with an American who has made it incorrectly, you do not give any indication that the tea is anything other than delicious. Instead you say something like what I say to Billie, which is, “Thank you. How lovely. Do you by any chance have any milk?”
When your American watches you pour in the milk and declares that next time she’ll put the milk, the sugar, and the tea in the teapot all at the same time, because it’ll be so much quicker that way, you do not flinch. Instead you smile, politely, and pretend to drink the mug of tea in front of you. You can’t of course, because apart from everything else, the lemon has made the milk curdle. So you pour it down the sink when no one’s looking.
“She’s got Mother’s legs, don’t you think, Daddy? And she’s got my arms,” Billie says.
“And my father’s breasts?” I quip.
“Honey, your father had no breasts at all,” Billie says, taking me literally. “Mother was flat-chested too, which mean clothes hung on her just beautifully. Which reminds me!”
Billie disappears and comes back in a flash, carrying an electric-blue dress made out of something silky on a hanger.
“This is for you, dear daughter of mine. It was one of Mother’s favorites.”
She hands me a pair of high-heeled shoes and white silk stockings to go with it. “Try it on,” she commands.
I hate trying on clothes as much as I always do whenever Charlotte begs me to try on something of hers. But I go into the bathroom and, alas, it fits. I come out. “Ta da!” Billie says to her father.
“Don’t you look just as pretty as a picture! If I were thirty years younger…”
“Oh, Daddy,” Billie says, with tears in her eyes. “She looks just like Mother. Don’t you think?”
Earl’s voice is soft.
“I do,” he says.
“Oh, Daddy!” Billie says, suddenly laughing in delight. “What is Molly Alice going to say when she sees this?”
Chapter Nineteen
D URING THE EARLY AFTERNOONS , while Billie is napping, I walk through the trees to Earl’s cabin, to sing to my long-lost-grandfather-now-found, at his request. Unlike Billie’s house, Earl’s cabin is ordered and clean. Actually it feels a bit like being inside a boat because it’s tiny and the walls and floors are made of dark polished wood.
Earl has one of those chairs that recline backward at the touch of a button and are so comfortable you never want to leave. As I sing, he lies in his recliner with his eyes closed, dressed in a pair of white cotton pajamas. Everything about him is white, apart from his toenails, which are yellow with age.
After I’ve finished singing, I tickle his feet with the long white feather he keeps for that purpose on the shelf by the door.
“Thank you for granting the wishes of a dying man,” he says.
I smile. Billie has already told me he’s been cajoling people into tickling the soles of his feet with a feather for the past thirty years.
“Now, listen up,
If you are English, you will know how I feel about this. If you are not English, let me take this opportunity to tell you how to make a drinkable cup of tea.
First, you warm a teapot. Then you put in tea leaves—Earl Grey, Lapsang, or Darjeeling, ideally. One teaspoon for each person, and one for the pot. Then you pour in water that has been boiled. In a kettle. After waiting a few minutes for the tea to brew you pour a little milk into the bottom of a teacup. Then, using a tea strainer, you pour in the tea. Then, if you take sugar, you add sugar. Then you drink it.
If you are English and have the misfortune to find yourself drinking tea with an American who has made it incorrectly, you do not give any indication that the tea is anything other than delicious. Instead you say something like what I say to Billie, which is, “Thank you. How lovely. Do you by any chance have any milk?”
When your American watches you pour in the milk and declares that next time she’ll put the milk, the sugar, and the tea in the teapot all at the same time, because it’ll be so much quicker that way, you do not flinch. Instead you smile, politely, and pretend to drink the mug of tea in front of you. You can’t of course, because apart from everything else, the lemon has made the milk curdle. So you pour it down the sink when no one’s looking.
“She’s got Mother’s legs, don’t you think, Daddy? And she’s got my arms,” Billie says.
“And my father’s breasts?” I quip.
“Honey, your father had no breasts at all,” Billie says, taking me literally. “Mother was flat-chested too, which mean clothes hung on her just beautifully. Which reminds me!”
Billie disappears and comes back in a flash, carrying an electric-blue dress made out of something silky on a hanger.
“This is for you, dear daughter of mine. It was one of Mother’s favorites.”
She hands me a pair of high-heeled shoes and white silk stockings to go with it. “Try it on,” she commands.
I hate trying on clothes as much as I always do whenever Charlotte begs me to try on something of hers. But I go into the bathroom and, alas, it fits. I come out. “Ta da!” Billie says to her father.
“Don’t you look just as pretty as a picture! If I were thirty years younger…”
“Oh, Daddy,” Billie says, with tears in her eyes. “She looks just like Mother. Don’t you think?”
Earl’s voice is soft.
“I do,” he says.
“Oh, Daddy!” Billie says, suddenly laughing in delight. “What is Molly Alice going to say when she sees this?”
Chapter Nineteen
D URING THE EARLY AFTERNOONS , while Billie is napping, I walk through the trees to Earl’s cabin, to sing to my long-lost-grandfather-now-found, at his request. Unlike Billie’s house, Earl’s cabin is ordered and clean. Actually it feels a bit like being inside a boat because it’s tiny and the walls and floors are made of dark polished wood.
Earl has one of those chairs that recline backward at the touch of a button and are so comfortable you never want to leave. As I sing, he lies in his recliner with his eyes closed, dressed in a pair of white cotton pajamas. Everything about him is white, apart from his toenails, which are yellow with age.
After I’ve finished singing, I tickle his feet with the long white feather he keeps for that purpose on the shelf by the door.
“Thank you for granting the wishes of a dying man,” he says.
I smile. Billie has already told me he’s been cajoling people into tickling the soles of his feet with a feather for the past thirty years.
“Now, listen up,
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