Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: COFFEE BREAK / TEA BREAK (03/01/18)
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TITLE: Like Tea on a Park Bench | Previous Challenge Entry
By Ann Stocking
03/08/18 -
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Mr. Malcolm, of Malcolm’s Books, pays me generously, much more than I deserve for straightening tottering pillars of musty books and entering sporadic sales in a dog-eared notebook.
My bench overlooks a pond, where a child and his mother are feeding the ducks. I pour steaming tea from my Thermos into my cup.
“You mind?” An elderly, white-haired gentleman points to the unoccupied end of the bench.
“No, go ahead.”
He settles, pulls out a pipe.
“You mind?” he asks again.
“No, it’s all right.”
A swirl of aromatic smoke drifts toward me; it’s sweet, fragrant, and reminds me of my grandfather. It’s a garland, weaving us together.
“Lovely day.”
“Yes.” I sip my tea.
Finally, my time up, I toss my Thermos into my bag. “Goodbye, then,” I say, as if we’ve been speaking together.
Next day, within minutes of my settling on the bench, he’s there. He nods, takes out his pipe, and knocks it lightly against the bench before filling it with tobacco, tamping it, lighting it. The smoke twines around us and he says, “Beautiful park.”
“It is.”
“I’m Sam. Sam will do.”
“I’m Samantha.” It’s so unexpected, so unlikely, and our laughter tumbles easily into the dappled air.
It’s raining the next morning. On such days, it seems the cumulative sorrows contained within the books swell into a chorus of melancholy, a lament pleading to be heard. As rain spills down the windows like tears, I drink my tea, wrapped in the gloom as if it’s a comforting quilt. I wonder if Sam’s alone, if he’s well.
I toss Rebecca into my bag the next day, hoping Sam shows up, but prepared if he doesn’t. As I take my first sip of tea, he’s there.
He points to Rebecca. “Like it?”
“It’s satisfactory. Not my usual fare, though.”
“What’s your preference?”
“Chesterton. Lewis.”
“Ah. Not modern rubbish for you.”
It’s not progressive of me, I know, dismissing most contemporary publications as shallow and predictable.
Several weeks pass, and then one day, I’m ill; Mr. Malcolm tells me not to worry, but to open the bookshop when I’ve recovered. I fret about Sam, and the first morning of my return, I’m eager for eleven o’clock, to escape an unusual rush of two patrons, to clear my head of fusty air, to see Sam. I almost sprint across the lane.
Sam’s waiting. “I was concerned for you, Samantha. You’re as reliable as the sun.”
“I was unwell. I’m not really reliable, Sam. I’m just too lazy to do anything differently. I like my little amenities, my comfortable habits.”
“Customs, Samantha, customs. Habits are usually selfish. Customs, seldom so. A nod to our friend, Mr. Chesterton.”
That’s an interesting thought. Habits follow the easiest, most convenient, even self-serving path. Customs are borne of significance. Of meaningfulness.
Like tea on a park bench.
Sometimes, I bring shortbread, a pot of jam, or fresh bread to share with Sam, and he brings cheese, honey, and George MacDonald’s Phantastes. My quarter hour respites from the bookshop grow too short as share our faith and philosophies and convictions; his, rock-solid and certain, mine, embryonic and nebulous. Sweet pipe smoke rises like incense, an offering, a sacredness.
One day, Sam isn’t there. He’s busy, I assume, but the next day, he doesn’t come either, or the next.
I never see Sam again.
Eventually, Mr. Malcolm sells the bookshop, and I find employment in a law office. Taylor, Sears, and Taylor are more dusty and decrepit than the books ever were.
One morning, there’s an envelope on my desk. It’s from Sam, I know, even before I open it, even before I breathe in the scent of tobacco wafting from the folded paper.
Dearest Samantha,
Your heart is telling you now what’s happened to me. Dear girl, even if I had vast riches to give you, I would not, for you have within you everything you will ever need. Our morning visits were a constant, giving a lonely old man cause to arise each day and venture into a treacherous world again. Always remain yourself, as I forever remain
Gratefully yours,
Sam
I’ve inherited more than a mere fortune.
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Sam and Samantha did form a friendship worth more than any amount of money. I did wonder how Sam found out where to send the letter.