Death and Tea at Three

8 Harold and Cashews

An anxious feeling consumed Harold. It swelled from within his gut, made its way up to his chest, and exhaled heavily out of his mouth. It had been quite a while since Harold had felt such a panic. He only ever felt anxious when he had some sort of obligation, and Harold had not had any obligations for quite some time.

His watch read 2:59 PM. Harold watched as the seconds ticked slowly toward the twelve. Harold was quite aware of the cause of his anxiety, though he dared not admit it. The watch hit 3:00 PM. He knew she was there, and he could easily open the door and let her in, but strangely, he wanted to hear the knock. As soon as the thought entered his mind, the knock followed.

Harold swung the door open. There, in the doorway, was the grin he was slowly becoming accustomed to. There was a small part of him that was beginning to kind of like the little ragamuffin, but naturally, he couldn't let her know that. Harold gritted his teeth and tried to maintain his grumpy mood. "Come on," he said, half-heartedly gesturing her into his home.

Isobel strode over to the couch, dropped her bag on the floor, and plopped herself onto the couch. "Could I, possibly... have..." Isobel muttered as she began to flip through the television channels. What Isobel failed to notice was that Harold had already anticipated her question, and two cups of tea sat ready on the counter.

Harold sauntered into the living room and placed a cup of tea beside Isobel. After placing his tea carefully on his side table, Harold laid back into his lavender chair. "Cashews?" he asked, holding out a tin toward Isobel.

Isobel looked toward the can, examining it. "You don't have a nut allergy, do you?" Harold moaned.

"No," Isobel said, still staring at the canister.

"Good. People have too many allergies these days. It's hard to keep up. You can't eat anything anymore without someone being offended or killed. I say, if a food upsets you, maybe the problem is you and not the food."

Isobel's gaze shifted from the canister to Harold with her eyebrow raised. Harold wondered what the look meant. "What's the matter? You don't like cashews?"

"I've never eaten them before. I don't know what they taste like," said Isobel.

This was a tragedy. Harold basically lived off cashews, and here was a girl who had never eaten one. "What the hell. What do you kids eat these days?" Harold said, and tossed a few cashews into his mouth. "Here, have some. I won't take no for answer." He handed over the canister and Isobel took it apprehensively. "Don't blame me if you die because of a nut allergy. I already asked you – I've done my part."

Isobel continued to examine the canister. She looked up toward Harold who was half-watching the television, and half-watching her, as if her eating the cashew was a test that she needed to pass. Isobel grabbed a few and tossed them into her mouth, like medicine that she really didn't want to taste. As she chewed the cashews, she began to relax. "They're good," she said, and she popped a few more in her mouth.

"Of course, they are. I wouldn't lie," Harold said, as he held out the canister for Isobel to grab more.

Isobel didn't say a word, as she grabbed a handful.

Harold's attention returned to the television, where an episode of CSI Miami played. He had seen this particular episode at least four or five times, but there was nothing cooler than watching Horatio Cane give one of his quick jibes before cracking the case, as usual.

Normally, watching a show like this would leave Harold blissfully unaware of everyone and everything around him. But today, he could not help but notice – though he wished he didn't – that Isobel was more antsy than usual. For a moment, he thought about asking her if there was something wrong. Perhaps, whatever the issue, he could help her through it.

Harold realized this line of thinking was unlike him. He didn't want to get involved in this girl's life. At first, he hadn't even wanted her around, but at their relationship had settled into a comfortable if superficial rhythm, based solely on television, tea, and Manchester United. Harold took a deep breath as he resisted the urge to say anything. After all, he didn't want this relationship to develop into one that involved feelings. He was perfectly content just sitting here watching television and eating his cashews. Anything more would complicate things, and he was too old for complications.

Isobel apparently didn't feel the same. She wouldn't let him off that easily. "Where's your wife?" She finally asked, turning to stare at Harold.

Harold stopped mid-chew. He had not been asked about his wife for quite some time, and quite frankly, he preferred it that way. Harold thought about ignoring the question. It would be easy - he would pretend he didn't hear, and if she insisted on asking again, he would pretend she wasn't even in the room. If Harold had a superpower, it was avoidance. He knew, however, that Isobel was not the kind of person he could easily avoid. If he didn't answer her question now, she would ask again and again. Harold was all too familiar with Isobel's persistence. After all, she had gone from being a mere annoyance to sitting on his couch eating cashews in a matter of days. She really was a pest.

"She's dead."

"That can't be the whole story. How did she die?" Isobel leaned in intently, perched on the edge of her seat, as if Harold was about to provide some sort of ancient secret.

Harold gritted his teeth and put on a stern face. If he was going to be forced into talking about his Julia, he would do so in as few words as possible.

"Body failed. There. That's the whole story," he said, never looking away from the television.

"But why? And how? You can't just say that." Isobel's eyes widened.

"Why not?"

"Because..." Isobel muttered. "You can't. It's like a lie."

Harold's breathing was heavy and slow, and he turned his head to ensure that Isobel was not in his line of sight.

"Not everyone wants to talk about things. You'll learn that eventually."

"Okay, but you can tell me. I'm just curious. Please, tell me something else."

"Cancer," Harold said.

"What kind?"

"The killing kind."

"My dad's dead," Isobel said nonchalantly. Her eyes still fixated on Harold.

"Really?" Harold replied, his attention finally breaking away from the television. Part of him began to feel guilty for being annoyed with the girl. Harold lifted his head off his chair and stared at the girl across from him. She looked empty, sad, alone. If her constant questioning was her biggest flaw, Harold could, perhaps, get used to it.

"No, but I never see him. So, it's like he's dead," Isobel finally replied with a shrug.

At that moment, Harold knew two things for certain. One: he should never feel sorry for anyone ever again; and two: this girl may seem like a normal girl, but she was dark, and Harold liked it.

"Are you mad?" Isobel said, her eyes unable to meet Harold.

"No, I'm not crazy, and I'm not upset, if that's what you mean," Harold sighed. "Why would I be upset?"

"Cause I lied to you. Adults hate it when you lie. My mom especially hates it. But sometimes it's easier to lie. The truth can be complicated and messy. Lies are simple, and no one feels bad afterward." Isobel looked up toward Harold, as if waiting for some confirmation of the universal truth she had just uttered.

Harold looked at the girl. Though he never knew what it was like to grow up without a father, he understood her pain. "Sometimes..." Harold said, "It's easier to forget than it is to remember them alive."

Isobel looked down at her hands.

Silence fell upon the room as the two continued to watch TV. Harold never looked away from his television show, but something was different within him. He watched the rest of his show with the faintest of grins.