The Blue Pitcher

When Millie told me that as she walked out of the country auction, she put her faith in the antique blue pitcher she purchased.  That it would make up for our strained marriage, our almost empty bank account, and even my bad moods.  I scoffed.  “How can a pitcher do that? What we need is a miracle.”

My voice left little doubt about my scepticism.

Millie and I had just moved into our cottage a few weeks ago after selling our house in the city. We couldn’t afford such a big house anymore because our children’s college tuition was costing us too much.  Besides, Millie said that she wanted to live in the fresh air among trees and flowers. 

I found Millie standing in the middle of our new kitchen, holding the blue enameled pitcher which she was regarding with affection.

“I picked up this treasure this morning.  It just looked so elegant with that perky little snout, and I thought it would look nice in the kitchen,” Millie said, looking proud of herself.  “I’ll use it as a vase for some wild flowers.”

“You threw out at least a dozen vases when we sold our house,” I said, frowning at her. “If you continue going to country auctions, this place will soon be a junkyard.  Do we need that silly blue pitcher?” 

“It's not silly, and yes, we do. We need it more than you know.”

“Another talisman, I suppose,” I huffed with disdain.

A dark shadow flickered over Millie’s pale face and she looked defensive.

“It will look perfect on the table. At last I have the kind of kitchen I’ve longed for. I’ve always wanted to wake up in the morning and hear the birds sing through the open window, just as we do now,” she said.  “In the city house, all I could hear were the trucks and vans rumbling down the street. Here we have two acres with rolling hills, lots of trees, and a stream which bubbles toward the ocean. Oh, Fred, I just love our red cedar cottage! Look at all that space, we have three bedrooms and a study for you.” 

“And a big living room,” I said.   “Who’s going to clean it?  The huge fireplace will create a lot of ashes and I haven’t seen you clean house since Jane was a little girl.”

“But now you can sit in front of a cozy fire and smoke your nasty pipe while you listen to the crickets and the tree frogs.  Maybe even a woodpecker sometimes.  You can put up your long legs, read the newspaper, and I’ll cook us a supper made with fresh vegetables from our own garden.” 

“What garden?” I asked, recoiling from the idea because I could imagine myself digging in muddy soil. “Vegetables are cheap in the supermarket, Millie.” 

“Supermarket vegetables have no taste. Wait until you taste our home grown tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, and lettuce.” 

“I wash my hands,” I snorted.  “If you want to muck around in the soil, I have no objections, but leave me out of it.”  I realized I sounded like an old grouch, but I felt like an old grouch.  Lately Millie and I almost never spoke a civil word to each other.  I guess the financial strain had taken its toll, and even though we wanted the same things, we wanted to achieve them in different ways. 

“I found this horseshoe in the barn,” Millie said.  “I’m going to nail it on our front door, and maybe it will bring us luck.  I also have this small leprechaun statue.  What do you think if I put it by the front steps?” 

That was Millie.  She believed that magical things would happen if she put a few inanimate objects in our yard.

“Look, Millie, if you’re so superstitious, go ahead.  I have to get these history papers graded before Monday,” I said, picked up my glasses and walked into my study.  At least our cottage was within easy commuting distance from the high school where I was principal.  I knew that Millie was trying to put things right between us so our marriage would be the same as it was twenty years ago.  Deep down, I hoped she would succeed.  We were both busy, Millie with her projects for our new life and I with my classes.  When I came home on Monday after school, I found our cottage in darkness.  I put my briefcase down and looked for Millie.  

“I’m home, Millie,” I said.  “Do I have time for a shower before supper?”  There was no answer, and I found Millie lying on the living room sofa with the blue pitcher on the coffee table next to her. 

“I found some colourful wildflowers,” she said, her big blue eyes dreamy.  “Fred, you can’t imagine how many beautiful flowers I’ve seen today.  I brought some home for you to enjoy.” 

“They’re pretty. But Millie, I’m famished.  What’s for supper?” 

Millie looked confused and her dark brown hair was tousled.  She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles as if she had just awakened from a heavy sleep.  “I forgot about supper, Fred.”

I expected her to look guilty, but not her, not that skinny wife of mine.  Surely, she could rustle up a simple meal while I was at work?  But I said nothing because I knew if I complained, it would only lead to more harsh words between us.  Feeling frustrated, hungry and tired, I sat down on the sofa and opened my newspaper.  With an effort, I managed a smile at Millie. 

“The wildflowers are lovely, my dear,” I said.  I was going to say more, but I was diverted by a strange clanking.  “What’s that noise, Millie?” 

“I don’t know, but I’ve heard it a couple of times today.  Maybe you’d better look and see if there’s a cricket with the flowers. I didn’t want to put water in because I didn’t want to drown the cricket. Crickets bring good luck, you know.” 

I picked up the pitcher, removed the flowers and put them on the coffee table.  Feeling foolish, I peered into the pitcher. 

“Millie, are you putting dimes into the pitcher?  There are five of them here.  You don’t intend to use this for a piggy bank, do you?” 

“What are you talking about?” Millie asked, annoyed.  “Our piggy bank is in the bedroom.”

“Then what are these dimes doing in the pitcher? Oh, never mind, I’m going to see if there’s something to eat in the fridge.”

“There’s some left over cold chicken from yesterday,” Millie said and reached out her hand for the dimes.  “Hey, the pitcher almost paid for itself.  That should make you happy, you old skinflint.” 

I returned from the kitchen with a plate full of chicken, turned on the television  to drown out her voice and started watching the news.  But my mind wasn’t absorbing the latest disaster.  I wiped my fingers on a napkin and turned to Millie. 

“You think I’m a miser? I’m trying to keep a roof over our heads despite our spoiled kids.  Maybe you should have married a rich man instead of a high school teacher.”

“I married you because you had hair in those days,” Millie snapped, losing patience with my grumbling.  She regretted the words because she said, “Oh, Fred, I didn’t mean that. It’s just I don’t know how to make you happy anymore.  Everything I do is wrong.” 

I heard a strange sound and then a clanking and clinking.  “What’s that noise? Where’s it coming from?  I can’t even eat in peace.”

“Oh, Fred, I think it’s the pitcher.” Then Millie did something odd. She stood up, put her hands on her hips, and bent over the pitcher. “I love you, I love you, I love you!” she yelled while I looked at her with astonishment.

“Hmm, I didn’t hear any money come in.  This is a bit of a mystery.”

But Millie had developed faith in the pitcher so she still went to look. 

She slapped herself on the forehead.  “It didn’t occur to me that….”

“What didn’t occur to you?” I asked with the patience of a saint. 

“You know when I said I love you three times?” 

“Yeah, what did you do that for?” 

“I wanted to see where the sound came from, and now I know.  It came from the pitcher.  The only difference is that this time the pitcher gave us paper bills, and that’s why there was no sound.”

“You’re crazy, Millie,” I said.  “How much?” 

“Sixty dollars.  Three twenty dollar bills.  Of course they wouldn’t make any sound.” 

“You must be dreaming. Can’t you tell a pitcher from a cash register?”

Millie handed me the bills, and I was forced to believe the evidence of my own eyes. 

“So help me, that pitcher is making money!”

“We can get rich, Fred,” Millie breathed.  Then she stared at me. 

“I understand now.  The pitcher only wants us to love each other, and if we do, it will give us money.  Tell me you love me.” 

I laughed and decided to humour her.  “I love you,” I said.  The only sound we heard was the television announcer telling us the news had come to an end.  Millie ran and grabbed the pitcher, and a look of disappointment crossed her face. 

“Only twenty dollars. You didn’t say it with enough conviction and the pitcher knows.” 

“I only said it once.  I think that pitcher pays twenty for each I love you.  Then keep saying it,” Millie screamed.  I have the water and the electric bills to pay.”

So I said it again, over and over I said it while Millie kept counting the money.

“Almost five hundred dollars!” she shouted. “Keep going, keep going!”

“Look, Millie, I’m tired. Can we go on with this tomorrow afternoon?  I have school in the morning, and I want to go to bed.” 

Millie gave me a horrified look.

“We can’t stop now. The pitcher will only deliver when both of us are here, saying ‘I love you’ to each other. So you have to stay.”

“Unlike you, I work,” I said in my martyred voice. “You have to let me sleep or I’ll drop dead.”

Millie grinned.

“Only the good die young. I’m staying here, and so are you. Until we have enough money for the bills, we’ll keep saying I love you as many times as the pitcher wants.”

I stayed another hour but when I was exhausted enough, I stomped off to our bedroom, got into my pajamas, and crawled under the blankets.  I tried not to think about her blue pitcher as I closed my eyes and fell into a deep sleep.  When I woke up, Millie wasn’t beside me in bed.  Through the usual birdsong, I heard soft murmurings coming from the living room.  I put on my robe and went to investigate.  She didn’t notice me come in.  She was sitting on the sofa, clutching the pitcher, her dress was wrinkled, her hair dishevelled and her lips moving.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” I heard her say to the blue pitcher.

I stared at her with dismay, but she didn’t seem to see me even when I went to the telephone to dial 911. Then I went to the front door and opened it. The leprechaun by the steps was smiling at me as always, but I have to admit to a certain feeling of sadness when I saw the ambulance arrive and watched the two men in white coats lead Millie to the car which would take her away. She was holding the blue pitcher to her breast and muttering to it. I turned around and walked into our cottage, her words still ringing in my ears.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.”

© Amy Thompson