The tea was hot and bitter, almost gritty, but there was a subtle undercurrent that might be mistaken for lemon. This surprised Claire – Gran-gran’s approach to food was so minimalist that pepper would have seemed out of place in one of her dishes, but there it was. She supposed the leaves could have just been stale. She drank it slowly, religiously, letting the tea flow through her belly, chest, and shoulders like charcoal and antivenin, letting out a satisfied sigh as she put the cup down. A soft breeze stirred.
Claire looked into the breeze. A few yards away stood the short fence that marked the steep dropoff at the edge of her grandmother’s island. Beyond, in all directions, was nothing but a fantastic sea of sky. The sun hung, heavy yet glorious, in the clear sky above, tendrils of vaporous clouds becoming thicker and more numerous as the eye traveled downwards. A cumulus bank had been edging slowly closer all day, but it still parted frequently enough to reveal mountains, valleys, whole empyreal nations of clouds spanning out to the horizon. Even lower, beneath the island, the clouds swirled still denser, in an impossibly deep spiral of blue, white and grey. Floating alone in this beautiful skyscape was a rough chunk of earth, an inverted teardrop capped by grass, fruit trees, and the repurposed lighthouse that served as her grandmother’s home.
Claire loved how her grandmother almost never bothered mowing. There was something deeply endearing about shaggy grass, weeds and mushrooms layered about the lawn surrounding Gran-gran’s home, a bizarre paternal sensation she felt when she looked at the plants curling around the legs of the wrought iron table her tea set sat on. The breeze set that carpet rippling in waves. There was a hiss and a soft thud as it slid through the nearby tree, knocking an apple loose. She leaned back into her wicker chair and closed her eyes, letting the wind snake beneath her dress and across her skin, her head filling with that wondrous plant-smell. It was better, she thought, than going to a spa, and not just because it was cheaper. The breeze died – she opened her eyes, resting them on Gran-gran’s house. The red and white barber’s pole paint scheme had faded and cracked wondrously, a leafy hand of climbing ivy slowly grabbing more and more of the tower. In a few places, it even completely engulfed one of the windows, wood-shingled awning and all. Claire wondered if her grandmother understood what kind of beauty her laziness was engendering. At the very top of the tower was the signal light, sitting in its black-roofed house of leaded glass. It still worked – Gran-gran said that if she turned it on when the island was in a cloud, it was bright enough to make a rainbow circle the island. She couldn’t do that now, though. The Office of Travel complained about her endangering planes and airships with a false signal light. So it goes.
Think of the devil, Claire thought as the front door swung open. Gran-gran hobbled down the short flight of stone steps, a tray of sandwiches in her hands, her white and gray tabby Shawshanks weaving about her feet. Claire loved her grandmother. She loved her face, a mess of scowl lines, splotches, and lip fuzz, harpoon nose almost sharper than her gaze. She looked like a gargoyle, like something an antediluvian holy man would put in front of his temple to ward off dark spirits. Thorny wisps of white hair framed her face, escaping from her tyrannical bun and beetle-black bowler. Her plain slate dress held down an artlessly patterned petticoat, and she had bulbous shoes with big steel buckles Claire coveted desperately. She always wore so many layers, treating her soft squishy center with the awkward, feigned contempt that a perfectionist parent would their clumsy child. Most of all, though, Claire loved her smell, that unique, inscrutable old-person smell that spoke more than a history book ever could. Though, of course, Gran-gran would horror to hear Claire say that – she lacked the senility to treat her history as a prize rather than a burden.
The tray thudded on to the wrought-iron table – Claire picked one up and examined it as her grandmother dropped into the other chair.
“Mayonnaise and lettuce? Gran-gran! I do believe you wouldn’t treat the Empress herself to such luxury!”
Gran-gran let out one of the ornery but meaningless chuffs she had perfected so well. “Good mornin’, Clarity. I see you’re wearing too much black again.” Indeed, her granddaughter’s whole outfit was of a solid jet black, right down to her ear studs and stockings. The dress was such an elaborate cut, but with everything the same color one couldn’t even make it out without studying her closely. Gran-gran realized to her horror that that might even be the point. And how would you even keep something like that clean without fading it? She was so pretty, with her mother’s elegant features and flawless skin (made far paler by the contrast of her clothing, she had to admit) and her father’s rich brown hair and dark grey eyes. The thought of what modern fashion was doing to her beloved granddaughter made Gran-gran seethe. At least her hair, held up with a single (black) hair claw, was still that wonderful color. If Claire ever went to visit her grandmother’s island with black hair, she’d probably get thrown off the edge.
“I can’t help what’s in style, Gran-gran.” Claire said, beaming. “Oh, and it’s noon.”
Claire’s grandmother shoved half a sandwich into her mouth, speaking between gritted teeth. “The last time I got up before ten was when your mother gave birth to you. I ain’t ever gonna get up before that again. So, it’s morning.” It was all Claire could do to keep from kidnapping her grandmother and keeping her on a shelf with her stuffed animals.
“So how’s university?” Gran-gran asked, pouring herself some tea. Claire picked up Shawshanks, who was busy tangling himself around her legs, and settled him in her laps.
“Oh, you know.” She replied, “It’s school.”
“What d’you mean by that?”
“It’s coming and going, and I’m learning things, and constantly frustrated at how little I’m learning, and I’m making new friends, and I’m learning the value of solitude, and I’m busy and I’m bored and I’ve got things going on that I can’t really seem to form an opinion about.”
“You mind saying that again?”
Claire didn’t say anything. She was too busy scratching Shawshanks under the chin.
“Come on. Teacher troubles? The work too hard? Your parents antagonizing you again?” Shawshanks had twisted himself into a bizarre pose to angle his chin just right.
Gran-gran sighed into her tea. “Honestly, girl, it seems you’re built just to aggravate me. I know respecting your elders isn’t in style now, but at least a little courtesy would be nice!” Shawshanks was flopped belly-up over Claire’s legs, paws twitching as she ruffled the fur of his belly.
“There’s really nothing to talk about, Gran-gran.” She said, her face awash with poise. “Thank you for having me over, by the way.”
“You’re quite welcome,” the older woman replied, shifting about in her chair to face the edge of the island.
“It’s quite beautiful here.” Claire said, not looking up from the pile of cat on her lap.
“I suppose it is.”
Clarity followed her grandmother’s gaze to the faraway clouds. There was a flock of geese, right at the edge of her vision, about to disappear out of sight.
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