The Percolator by Marlene Olin

The Percolator | Marlene Olin

The 55-cup West Bend percolator looked like a miniature nuclear reactor. A tall stainless-steel body. A snug cylinder tucked inside. The secret to Shirley’s coffee was adding a pinch of cinnamon to the basket before plugging it in. A few minutes later, she’d hear the water churn and the contents simmer. Then the coffee would settle into a slow and steady pulse. Soon Shirley would smell the deep dark aroma of freshly brewed. Decaf, of course. Anything else would send her heart galumphing in her chest.

Now there was a gap in her coat closet, an empty space on the highest shelf. How many shivas had that percolator seen? Each Yom Kippur, she’d schlep it out of the closet every time they broke the fast. She could track the autumns of her life by that machine.

If only she hadn’t lent it to Marg! And for her book club no less!

Marg was her closest friend. One of the few people who understood what she was going through. When Shirley tried to describe the amyloid plaque destroying her husband’s brain, Marg listened, stirred the spoon in her mug, stared at the wall, tried to picture it. Like cottage cheese? she asked. Like curdled cottage cheese, Shirley replied. Then they laughed. They somehow managed to laugh.

For the two of them, swapping heartache had been as natural as swapping recipes. And when Marg told Shirley about her husband, about the blood disease that was a time bomb, about the tests every six months where they held their breaths until the results were in, they sat at the kitchen table together and sobbed.  

That wallpaper, Marg said, pointing with a spoon.

Images of teapots littered the wallpaper in Shirley’s kitchen. Big teapots, little teapots, teapots all the colors of the rainbow. The kind of wallpaper that was popular in the seventies.  When pop colors were in, and good taste was out.   

I’m like one of those teapots, said Marg.  Some days the pressure builds and builds, and I feel like I’m gonna explode.

At first Marg said she’d bring the percolator right back. Then a week passed, and Marg said Monday. Then Monday passed, and she said Tuesday. Then one Tuesday passed after another.

There was a history, of course. Shirley should have known better. Years ago, Shirley lent Marg her fake shearling jacket. Marg’s kids were taking her on a ski trip to Aspen, so Marg had trotted out her mother’s mink coat. It must have been in mothballs for fifty years.  

You want to get spray-painted? asked Shirley. You want the PETA police to knock at your door?

That was another mistake. You think Marg bothered to have it dry-cleaned? Nope. It came back with tissues in the pockets and a chocolate stain on the lapel.

They traded recipes, the two friends. Once, Marg gave Shirley a macaroon recipe and left out the part about using fluted cupcake cups. Shirley’s macaroons came out like shapeless blobs while Marg’s were picture perfect. Then there was the time Shirley shared her brisket recipe. It was a family treasure, the secret ingredients handed down from her Aunt Lil, the index card frayed and stained, her aunt’s shaky handwriting barely legible. And wouldn’t you know? Marj added more brown sugar and cut the tomato sauce in half. She improvised!! And her gravy was twice as thick and three times as tasty.

Twice a year, Marg and Harold head to their doctor’s appointment. She and Harold drive five hours to Tampa, check into a hotel, and talk to the experts at the hospital there. Later, speaking in whispers, Marg relays the news over the phone. It’s like her life is on hold, she tells Shirley. They live from one reprieve to the next.

Shirley can only wish for a reprieve. Alzheimer’s is like a relentless march, like those World War II slogs you see on TV. Her father, a Navy vet, would be glued to the screen watching the movies, reliving the torment, sweating through the swamps, ducking the bombs, dodging the shrapnel.

Those were the good days, he would say. We were in it together. Everyone suffered the same.

Some folks never complain. Some folks not only survive but thrive on pain. Take Marg. She is a breast cancer survivor. Her teenage daughter ran away from home. Her husband’s business partner cooked the books and stole their cash. Yet, each day she puts one foot ahead of the other. We all have something, Marg would say. Heartache isn’t graded on a curve.

Shirley is giving her one more day. The deadline’s tomorrow, the square on her calendar circled. If Marg doesn’t bring back the percolator, that’s it.  A new one costs around $200.  There’s a nice one at Macy’s, she’ll say. It will fit in her closet just fine.

Meanwhile Shirley sits. Sips. Reads the news. A stream of sweat courses down her neck. Beads of perspiration slink down her forehead. And though the stove’s off, it feels like it’s on.  And though it’s sweater weather outside, inside it feels like a rain forest. And when she glances at the wall those teapots threaten to leap from the paper, the kettles hissing, the steam rising, the bubbles boiling, the water doing its little dance. With her hand on her chest, she waits. Because any minute now, any second, those teapots are going to blow their lids clean off.

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