The shrill sound of the tea kettle shattered Max's reverie. He was remembering when he and Rosie met thirty-eight years ago. Sighing deeply, he looked down at the yellow mug and remembered the vision of the two of them rowing down the Charles River that May morning, the night after their first date, the first of many, before shocking everyone they knew by getting married one April weekend while still in their senior year of college. He had been attending Harvard and she was at Radcliffe, a few years after the two colleges had begun sharing courses.
He often remembered Rosie walking in on the first day of their Chaucer course. She had stood at the doorway and looked around the crowded room for a seat. He was immediately captivated by her pretty, oval-shaped face, high cheekbones and the serious intensity in her eyes as she scanned the crowded room, then the delighted, almost childlike smile when she saw the empty chair next to him.
She asked if he minded her sitting there, and he turned and looked around the room. "Well, there aren't any other seats in the room, so I guess it's okay."
He could still see her that day with her thick, bushy, brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses, an appearance so unlike most of the other women with their long straight hair, tailored clothes, aristocratic air, who looked as if they had just stepped out of an advertisement in Seventeen or Glamour. She wore a long flowery skirt that came below her knees and a baggy green turtleneck sweater, several rows of a beaded necklace and sandals. She looked, more bohemian than Ivy. When she sat down next to him, his heart leaped in a way that surprised him, having no idea at the time where that moment would lead.
Max poured the water into Rosie's yellow mug, then glanced over at her as she sat at the kitchen table, staring out the window, her chin resting on her hand.
What is she thinking about? What is she trying to remember?
Dipping the Earl Grey teabag into the mug, he watched the water turn bronze-colored, knowing how strong she liked her tea and how long the bag had to steep before it was just right. Stirring in a little honey, he heard the little ping of the toaster-oven and noticed the orange light go out, then reached for the rye toast Rosie loved. He placed it on the plate with the blue lily enameled in the center. He made sure he served the rye toast on the same plate every time because of the way it made her smile.
She always said, "Ah, my favorite dish." He liked it when she remembered little things like that. He had brought out the raspberry jam and now he spread it on the toast. This was their four o'clock ritual—tea and rye toast with raspberry jam.
They would sit at their round oak kitchen table and watch the blue jays, yellow-headed finches and occasionally, doves, come to the feeder. He loved the way the birds made her smile as they watched quietly. "Oh, look," she'd say, "what's the name of that bird?"
Max could see by her squinting eyes she was straining to remember, trying to form the words, but they wouldn't come through her pursed lips.
"That's a dove."
"Dove, yes, that's it, a dove."
Her eyes widened as she nodded. A small smile formed on her lips then became a laugh. Her smile still warmed his heart and her eyes still had that twinkle.
"Drink your tea before it gets too cold, dear," he said, straightening the shawl on her shoulder.
"Oh, yes, the tea, thank you."
She looked down at her mug then smiled at Max. "You take such good care of me," she said, reaching for his hand, which he took and gently kissed her fingers. They looked at each other and smiled. She picked up a piece of toast and took a bite, leaving a speck of raspberry jam on her lower lip. Max took a paper napkin from the holder on the table and reached over to wipe the speck away.
"Oh, thank you, dear," she said. "This jam is so delicious. What kind is it?"
"Raspberry, it's your favorite."
"Raspberry, yes, raspberry, my favorite."
Max looked at his wife as she took another bite of toast. She seemed so fragile in the late afternoon sunlight, but he loved how the sun made her hair look silver, and how it felt as if his heart was melting when he saw how beautiful she looked sipping her tea.
He thought back to the first time they went for coffee after the Chaucer class. It was a month or so into the course before Max had the nerve and opportunity to ask her because ordinarily, as soon as the lecture was over, Rosie closed her notebook, picked up the heavy Complete Chaucer textbook, and rushed out of the class, usually nodding goodbye to him.
Finally, he had the nerve to ask her if she'd like to have a cup of coffee with him and so, sitting over coffee at the Coffee Nook Cafe, they had their first conversation.
Max learned she was from Philadelphia, was top in her class at Girls' High and had won a full scholarship. This was the only way she could have ever attended Radcliffe since her father was a tailor for a dress manufacturer, her mother a part-time librarian. She loved acting and had performed in a number of plays in college and was part of The Abbey Players, an amateur theater company. Max was dazzled by the way she suddenly started reciting the lines of the nurse in Romeo and Juliet, how she became transformed before his eyes as she became the character.
Their conversation flowed from topic to topic, an endless number of stories from their lives, their thoughts on everything. She made him laugh by mimicking different people when she told stories, and he marveled at how animated, alive and funny she was. After sitting there for three and half hours, he was more certain then ever that what he'd sensed when he first saw her walk into the class and sit next to him, was correct. Rosie was an amazing person and he was completely captivated by her.
"Oh, aren't those flowers beautiful?" she asked, looking out the window at the daffodils and tulips she'd planted over the years. "What kind are they? It's on the tip of my tongue," she added, moving forward so she could see the whole row of them by the fence.
"The yellow ones are daffodils and the red and white ones are tulips," Max told her.
"Oh, yes, daffodils," she repeated. "What day is it?" she asked picking up her cup and taking a sip.
"It's Thursday," Max answered, seeing her nod. "Leah called earlier to see how you were."
"Leah? Who's Leah? That name sounds familiar."
"She's our daughter," Max answered, suddenly remembering the time they had been in an elevator, going to see Santa Claus, and a large black man stepped in and Leah, who was three, said, "Mommy, I don't like black people," and Rosie said, "Well, you picked a hell of a time to tell me," which made the black man laugh.
