I dropped an equal amount of tea leaves and sugar into my mug then dumped hot water on top. After stirring vigorously, I removed most of the leaves while allowing the rest to sink to the bottom, and with the reflexes of a prizefighter, I up-ended the cup into the saucer. Grace was startled by the sound of porcelain banging together. She had the face of a child, as if I’d just captured a mouse, amazed by the accomplishment.
“The first thing you need to consider is the person whose fortune you are reading,” I said, my hand on the cup. “An older person will have fixed ideas compared to a younger person, who will have a different outlook, more unformed views and opinions.”
“I’m still young,” she said, smiling.
I lifted the cup. Inside were the remaining tea leaves stuck to the inner lining. I began the reading.
“The handle of the cup symbolizes the present, or the very near future. Closer to the rim of the cup means the symbols are weaker, near the middle means the influence is stronger.”
Grace studied the cup like an archeologist on a dig. She wanted to touch but I told her that would ruin its preservation. The first symbol I noticed was an ear, located near the brim.
“You see that?” I pointed, “That one means there is pleasing news, a secret interest is coming.”
“But it’s right on the rim of the cup.”
“That’s true, but it’s still in your future. Maybe not tomorrow, but it’ll show up sometime.”
The next symbol was in the middle and easier to make out.
“This one is a broom. It means your old difficulties have been swept away and now it’s your chance to start anew.”
Grace released her sweet laugh. “Well, that one is definitely true. I left my difficulties when I moved here.” Her tiny hand grazed my shoulder. It was no accident.
The third symbol was in the center, a direct bull’s eye. It was a bear. Thank god, it was a bear.
The bear: You need close loving contact to renew your energy.
The next morning I made it to work before Grace had woken up. Outside the trees nodded. The sky went from gray to blue to gray again and the temperature took a severe nosedive. It was a black tea type of day, I thought, maybe Keemun Supreme or a hearty Irish Breakfast tea, one that would stop my nose from running. I was working on the brake pads when something startled me, the whine of a snowmobile approaching the house with a salt-and-pepper haired man in the driver seat. I watched him through a hole in the garage siding. I saw Grace greet the man with a gentle kiss on the cheek.
I decided to take an early lunch break.
By the time I made it to the house, the two were already nestled on the couch and engaged in light chatter. I wanted to disrupt their bonding but I needed to make it seem accidental—knocking my hat to the floor made just enough noise for them to look up.
“Hey, Robert, how’s it going out there?” Grace asked.
“Not bad.”
“Robert, I want you to meet Angel,” Grace said as she stood up.
Angel approached me, and as we shook hands his face gleamed.
“Bobby! Long time no see! How have you been?”
Angel Mikisow, a well-known and well-respected Cree, was generally considered the friendliest, most polite man on the island. He stood directly in front of me, wearing his usual grin that stretched and lifted his five o’clock shadow.
“You two know each other?” Grace asked.
“Sure we do. Bobby’s father is one of the greatest men I’ve ever met.”
“You mean was,” I said.
“Yeah, right, I mean was.”
Angel had several times had lunch with my mother following my father’s sudden death. Their relationship was not sexual. He was not devious. Every bone in his body was compassionate. She says that if it weren’t for Angel’s companionship, she would have never made it through her months of mourning. Everyone in town loved Angel. At the moment, I couldn’t stand him.
Grace looked past the awkward moment and resumed the conversation.
“Robert is building a snowmobile for me out back,” she said.
“That sounds like fun. What kind of tin-dog are you building?” Angel asked, maybe to try and stump me, to make me look like an ignorant fool in front of Grace.
“Polaris 800 XCSP,” I answered without delay.
Angel looked at the ceiling and whistled.
“I bet she’s a beauty,” he said.
Angel wanted to talk, to catch up with my life, but I quickly told him I needed to get back to work. His presence gave me a queasy, earth-shaking sensation. The three of us—in a triangle of chatter—would seem to be a combustible mix. I was just kidding myself about getting back to work. My concentration was broken, with Angel now inside, engrossed in deep conversation with Grace, his charming character erasing any good qualities Grace noticed in me.
The sun sank below the tree line and Angel’s mobile stayed parked out front. I refused to stop working and call it a day. I holstered my wrench and sat on the padded seat. I couldn’t take my eye off the wood-framed house. For two hours I heard noise and laughter spill out of it. Then the waves of jazz music stopped and the living room lamp went dark. A few seconds passed before the bedroom window in the two-room expansion lit up, blinding my eye. I swung my patch to the left side of my face to cover my eye and cap the painful sight. Now I couldn’t see the two make love.
All that week, between bathroom and cigarette breaks, I spied on Grace through the house windows, plagued by the uncertainty that she noticed me watching, gazing at her blushed cheeks, ears, and forehead, wishing she would step outside with the boiling white teapot and wave me over, her hair shining from the arctic sun, revealing her initially blurred feelings for me that finally began to take focus. But Grace never appeared.
On Sunday I finished the snowmobile. I hadn’t seen Grace all day but the smoke from the chimney told me she was home. I hopped on the mobile to test the final product. The harmonious blend of a bustling engine with the rotation of a caterpillar track was music to my ears. It signified a job well done. I made a mad dash for the house without cutting the engine, too proud and excited. I imagined the expression on Grace’s face as she stood at the kitchen counter, contemplating which tea to pick for the celebration.