On the top shelf of the cabinet sat Louie’s favorite piece. It was her only heirloom: a crystal bell. It was hand blown, and slightly frosted on top. When the morning sun crept in between the curtains, it collided with the bell, scattering brilliance all over the dining room.
Louise often sat opposite the head of the table early in the morning. It was her sunrise. She would watch the bell and the line of sunlight as it crept up, anticipating the spark. On the night of her wedding, her grandmother came to her with it.
“Keep it safe, dear,” she said, “and may it bless your household as it has mine.”
* * *
“Dear, could you help me set the table?”
Mr. Beckett peeked over the top of his newspaper. Though young, he appeared distinguished and carried himself with great confidence. Grumbling, he hoisted himself up from his worn, leather armchair. He sauntered into the kitchen.
“Harry, you’re still wearing your robe and slippers! Our guests will be here any minute.”
“Okay, okay.”
Mrs. Beckett hurried back and forth from the oven to the stove top to the refrigerator. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her husband leaning against the island eating an apple from the fruit bowl that sat on the counter. She ignored him for as long as she could, mixing, stirring and checking the dinner she had spent all day preparing.
“Can you please help me Harry. I’m a mess, I need to fix my hair--”
“Louise, you look fine. You’ve never looked more beautiful,” Harry said, examining the teeth marks in his apple.
She looked down at her stained apron and her hands, red and sore from gripping spoons and mixing bowls. She picked up a dish towel, wiped the countertop, threw it down next to the sink, and then removed her apron.
“I have to get ready. Please Harry, all I need you to do is set the table and put on your coat and shoes--they’re on the living room couch. That’s all.”
Mrs. Beckett went back to her room and sat at the vanity mirror. She looked at the deep wrinkles that had formed too soon on her face. Taking her liquid foundation, she dotted and smeared the lines. She rosied her cheeks and put on bright red lipstick, transforming herself into a living china doll. She stood and smoothed out her dress. Harry bought it for her the year before while he was on business in Rome. It was short and tight, and not very flattering to her, but she didn’t want to hurt Harry’s feelings. He loved to see her in it.
She hurried back to the dining room to check on Mr. Beckett’s progress with the table setting. She walked in on an empty table and Mr. Beckett sitting in the adjacent living room in his armchair again. His robe hung on the coat rack and his slippers sat at the foot. His shoes and coat sat on the couch where she had left them.
“Don’t worry, I know,” Harry said, looking up from his newspaper, and nodding towards the garments.
Mrs. Beckett didn’t mention the table settings and began setting it herself. As she finished the third of eight settings the doorbell rang and made her jump, nearly knocking over the wine glass.
“You really should try and relax a bit, Louise. Everyone will think I’m not taking proper care of you,” Harry said getting up to answer the door.
Mr. and Mrs. Finney entered quickly removing their coats and exchanging handshakes and hugs. Both made themselves right at home: Mr. Finney walking right to the back porch with Mr. Beckett to have a cigar; Mrs. Finney went straight to the kitchen to help herself to a glass of wine. Mrs. Beckett followed her around the kitchen as Mrs. Finney talked to the air in front of her.
“Your kitchen is so lovely, Louise--I just love it.”
“Oh, thank you, we--”
“So, the Callaghans are coming tonight?”
“Yes, Evangeline called the other day and said they would.”
“Wonderful. David Callaghan is such a gorgeous man.”
The two giggled together and moved to the living room to enjoy their wine.
The rest of the party arrived as the evening progressed. The Lowensons, two lumpy accountants and art collectors, arrived shortly after Mr. and Mrs. Finny. The Callaghans made their grand entrance twenty minutes into the party: Evangeline Callaghan with a bright, feather boa; her husband, shoulders down, followed her at a distance.
The conversation fluttered pleasantly through dinner and plenty of wine.
“Oh, Louise,” said Evangeline suddenly, interrupting the another one of Mr. Lowenson’s long anecdotes. Everyone fell silent and tried to fix his and her eyes on what Mrs. Callaghan was looking at.
“Where did you find that stunning piece?”
“The bell you mean?” Mrs. Beckett asked.
“It is quite beautiful,” said Mr. Lowenson. “Have you had it appraised, my dear?”
“Why no, I never--”
“Do you think it’s worth much Arnie?” Mr. Beckett asked.
“Oh well, I’m not sure. Antiques are a hobby of mine, I could look at it if you like.”
Mrs. Beckett fidgeted in her seat.
“I’m not sure I need--I mean it was my grandmother’s so I don’t think that--”
“Oh nonsense Louise!” Mr. Beckett interjected. “It’s about time we found out what that thing is actually worth. If you wouldn’t mind Arnie.”
“No, not at all.”
Mrs. Beckett rose to get her grandmother’s bell, but her husband pushed his chair out, blocking her path. He threw open the glass cabinet doors and reached up to grab the magnificent bell. His fingers could barely graze the smooth surface, but he inched it ever closer to the edge. He finally gripped it with both hands, but as he did, lost his balance, dropping the bell onto the floor. It shattered and spread across the room, sparkling for an instant, then fading into languor.
No comments:
Post a Comment