The Catskill Chronicle

By Janet Waterston

Terry and I were co-workers although, according to organizational hierarchy, I was his boss. We met on my first day of employment when we were so early, the front door of our offices was still locked. I announced that I had no intention of wasting time each morning outside the door when I could be at my desk working; I’d arrange to get a key. “I don’t want that responsibility,” Terry said, “Then people expect you to come early and, while I usually am one of the first ones here, I do it for me, not others.” With a smile, he indicated the book he was reading during his wait. That was my introduction to this wise, practical individual with a wickedly wry sense of humor.

About a year later, Terry pointed out that my promotion probably signaled I would have my own executive assistant. “If so, I’d like to be that person,” he suggested. And so, a beautiful relationship began.

After some time, when we’d graduated to an occasional lunch outside the office instead of just work-related exchanges, I invited Terry to afternoon tea in my home. He took the F train all the way from Brooklyn, through Manhattan where we worked, to Queens where I lived. He entered my apartment and pronounced, “Just what I thought. Your apartment looks just like you.” Then he glanced at the dining room table, already set for tea with my colorful Fiestaware dishes and a three-tiered cast iron tray ready to be loaded with scones, tea sandwiches, and bite-sized sweets for dessert. “Tea?” Terry queried, “Without teacups?”

“That’s part of the tour,” I informed him, “You have to pick a teacup from my collection.” I’m not sure many other men would have indulged me, but Terry was game. More than game. He walked throughout my apartment, looking carefully at each teapot and teacup, then swung back around for a second look. He chose a simple English cup, ivory with a small geometric and floral pattern in blue and gold. We sat for hours, enjoying the civility of good conversation, an art that seems almost lost today in a world of twittering and text messages. We talked about anything that entered our minds: his year in Chile and the family with whom he lived and still kept in touch after almost 40 years; my time on an Israeli kibbutz after graduating from college, presumably to learn Hebrew, but learning more about who I wanted to be and, working in the “gan” or children’s house, solidifying my desire to work with children with special needs. Terry told me about growing up gay in a Catholic household; I shared my experiences at the University of Vermont’s summer music session for high school students. I was the second chair among 17 French horn players and, more important; had my first French kiss.

A few years later, Terry decided to retire and moved back to Connecticut where he had grown up. I committed to driving up at least once a month for a “cuppa” and conversation. Knowing, as usual, exactly what he wanted, Terry asked me to give him a teapot for a house-warming gift. To go with his pot, I did some antiquing and, unbelievably, found two more of the Chelsea Ivory pattern he’d selected at tea in my apartment.

For a year, we met as promised, at least once a month. My trip was almost two hours each way, and our cups of tea (together with some breakfast sustenance) stretched to half the day. By now, we knew everything about each other’s background, so each visit was devoted to talking about issues close to our hearts: the meaning of friendship; people who had slipped out of our lives; the nature of watercolor painting. One day Terry showed me a rose-decorated teapot he’d gotten at a nearby yard sale. He thought he might give it to a nephew whose firstborn was named Rose. I researched the pot and was able to identify for him its pattern and worth.

At the close of that year, I received a call from Terry’s brother. “Terry’s in the hospital,” he told me. “He’s got end-term cancer of the throat and is refusing treatment. You know Terry,” he added, “He knows what he wants. He’s going to be moved to hospice as soon as a bed opens up and will only consider palliative care.”

I drove up the next day to visit. Both Terry’s brother and sister were with him but offered to give us some private time. Before they left, Terry asked his sister to pass me the bag he’d had her bring from his home, so he could have the comfort of his toothbrush and pajamas. Also in the bag was the Shawnee Embossed Rose teapot for me.

Terry was moved the next day to a hospice. I drove further north in Connecticut to see him, and Terry managed to talk with me for four hours despite the fact that he could no longer even sit up in bed and his voice was a hoarse whisper. He was taking notes on how the hospice operated and, with his usual attention to detail, he went over everything with me from the ridiculous thing a chaplain had said to the view of the water and autumnal leaves he could glimpse from where he lay.

He died a few days later. I joined his sister to help clean out his apartment. “Terry wanted you to have the teapot and cups you gave him when he moved here,” she said to me.

Now, whenever I’m feeling a bit down or just in need of sage advice or a sly laugh, I pour some silver needle jasmine tea into one of Terry’s teacups. I sit quietly, thinking about my friend and the civility of a good cup of tea.