Oracle

When the kettle whistles

Helen sighed. The early morning sunshine intervened once again and cut her sleep short. She reached for her spectacles from the bedside table and eyed the alarm clock suspiciously. 5:20 AM! She groaned and cursed and grunted as she pulled herself into a seated position at the bedside. Despite the brightness, her bedroom was decidedly chilly. She poked her feet into the cotton slippers, climbed out of bed and grabbed her cardigan off the door as she shuffled past. As she had hoped, she found a crumpled tissue in the sweater’s pocket and wiped her runny nose. “No, I will not run the furnace in May.” Helen was in the habit of talking to herself.

She made her way to the front door in the futile hope that the paperboy would have already delivered the news. She eyed the clouds and predicted it would be a clear day, perhaps she might get some gardening done.

In the kitchen she slid into her morning routine. Fill the kettle. Light the burner to put the water to boil. Gather up the dishes from her bedtime snack and rinse them off in the sink. Bread in the toaster and tea things from the cupboard.

“There. How nice. Oh wait! A knife to spread the butter.” She retrieved the butter knife from the tableware drawer. As she turned back to the table, the kettle began to whistle. Helen froze mid step. Her eyes rolled back, lids fluttering. The butter knife dropped to the floor with a clatter. She gasped, and a voice emerged…Helen but not Helen…”The 10:12 bus from Westmont will miss the light at Cumberland Avenue and be struck by a large truck. Five people will die.” The kettle whistle intensified. Helen’s eyes fluttered again and she blinked looking at her empty hand. “On my. So clumsy.” She stooped to pick up the butter knife, turned off the stove, and proceeded with her breakfast tea oblivious to what happened once again.

Unbeknownst to Helen, similar episodes occurred every time the kettle whistled. The events were sometimes major—the capsized ferry last March—and sometimes minor—her neighbor’s cat being struck and killed by the delivery truck. Helen spoke the pronouncements from her kitchen and then went on with her day none the wiser.

Had anyone bore witness to these episodes, would tragedy have been averted? No mere premonitions, premonitions are like Dickens’ Ghost of Christmas yet to come…the outcome can be averted with proper action. No, this was the voice of God or Fate serving sentence in the whistle of a kettle translated through the voice of a simple woman.

From the kitchen window she watched a squirrel in the back garden. “No doubt he’s after the bird feeder again.” She rapped on the glass. “Shoo! Shoo!” The squirrel glanced up, eyed the feeder hungrily, but scampered away not willing to take a chance this morning.

She cleared away the breakfast things. Poured another cup of tea and retreated to the parlor to listen to the radio.