Miss Lana Wilson (A Short Story with Bonus) Read online

  Miss Lana Wilson

  Dara Girard

  With Complete bonus story

  A Gift for Philomena

  Copyright Information

  Miss Lana Wilson

  © 2012 Dara Girard

  Miss Lana Wilson is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.

  Bonus Story “A Gift for Philomena”

  © 2011 Dara Girard

  A Gift for Philomena is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.

  Published by Ilori Press Books LLC

  Cover and Layout Copyright ©2012 by Ilori Press Books LLC

  Miss Lana Wilson Cover by LFD Designs

  A Gift for Philomena Cover by Kimberly Van Meter

  eBook design by Jessica Lewis www.authorslifesaver.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express written consent of the copyright holder.

  MISS LANA WILSON

  A GIFT FOR PHILOMENA

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Miss Lana Wilson

  Miss Lana Wilson always did things the perfect and proper way. So when she killed herself it was no surprise that she got it right the first time, unlike sixteen year old Jeremy Howell whose rope broke, leaving him paralyzed after breaking his neck and forty year old Harry Tills who ended up a vegetable living in a nursing home. No, Miss Lana Wilson knew what she was doing. She got herself a thick, sturdy rope to carry her weight, stood on an old wooden chair and let it fall. She was found on a Saturday morning just as the sun was beginning to rise by Mr. Wallace Denton, the newspaper deliveryman she had known for years.

  He found her gently swinging from a wooden beam in the ceiling of her living room, for everyone to see. The drapes had deliberately not been drawn the previous night, so that she could be seen from the street. The rose colored dress she wore stood out against the background of the yellow walls like a neon sign.

  ***

  She had lived on Beech Road all of her seventy-eight years, residing in the same two bedroom brick house she had been born in. She had seen people come and go and had lived her life quietly, writing comments to the local paper and sending letters to the editors of various magazines, which she stuck proudly on the wall. There was the letter in the late 60’s to the school board to allow girls equal access to the gym as the boys; to the PTA about the importance of sex education; to the mayor when a sidewalk was put in taking up half of her front yard, and the one when she expressed her total and complete displeasure with the new traffic circle and speed bumps along Beech Road, which she felt turned her usually calm drives into carnival rides—nothing was too big or too small to escape her notice. But with the changing of the neighborhood, so it was with her letters and her impact. Her letters and opinions were rarely acknowledged anymore.

  She no longer recognized the neighborhood she had grown up in. The Watsons who lived across the street, with a brood of six boys, had moved in only seven years earlier. They had destroyed much of the serenity that had existed, with their pumped up cars, which they raced up and down the street, and constant late-night parties on the weekends. Regina Musgrove and Thelma Madkin, who had been Lana’s two closest friends, had moved away. One was in an assisted-living facility, the other in a senior retirement community. When she had more independence, Lana had visited her friends on a regular basis, sharing stories about catching one of her neighbor’s kids trying to steal vegetables from her garden, and the youth being scared silly to find that she had rigged an elaborate alarm system that went off alerting the entire neighborhood. Or when she’d been rescued by the coast guard after the engine on her dinner cruise died. Now, she had no one with whom to share stories or her love of antiques.

  She had collected an assortment of antiques, which usually looked like junk to the untrained eye, and a large collection of letters from her pen pals abroad, which overflowed out of several shoeboxes stuffed on her bookshelf. She had traveled the world without ever leaving her small town. There was Sigfrid from Sweden who she communicated with for over thirty years and Wangari from Kenya who had been her very first pen-pal. She never hated being alone, until she got sick. She was no longer able to take her bicycle rides or long leisurely walks to visit neighbors or go to the grocery store. The day before she killed herself she had sat in her favorite green armchair, which had once belonged to her father, and stared out into her garden. It was slowly being suffocated by weeds and she could do nothing about it.

  “Oh my garden,” she sighed. For eight years in a row her garden had won the prestigious title of Best Neighborhood Garden by the local gardening club. She’d worked hard on her garden making sure that no matter the season, there were colorful blooms on display. She especially liked the six varieties of azaleas she had planted surrounding her house. She turned to look at her antique collection of miniature figurines and posted newspaper clippings. She no longer had anyone to show them to but herself. She sighed. How she hated her illness. It made her feel weak and forced her to endure a caged existence. Never before had her house felt like such a prison. The solitude she had once regarded as a gift, now seemed a reflection of all the things she had never done – like traveling and finally meeting several of her pen pals or having her own column in the local newspaper – an offer she had received but had turned down.

  She languidly stroked her fingers over the yellow and red porcelain cat that sat on the mahogany side table next to her. It dated back to the Min Dynasty, an ugly little object with its exaggerated black mouth and eyes, but it was priceless. She picked it up, bestowing upon it a mirthless smile as her eyes traced the figure with fascination. Five years ago, her house had been burglarized and the thief didn’t have the sense to steal the amazing antique. He could have sold it and lived quite comfortably for the rest of his life. People can be blind to the obvious, she thought placing the cat back down on the table. Wasn’t anyone curious that no one had seen her outside her home for weeks? Or the fact that her curtains always remained closed? Every morning, the first thing she did was open the drapes in the living room, letting the light shine in through the large bay windows. She loved to just sit and watch the color of the sky, but no longer.

  The heavy footsteps of her nurse was like the sound of torpedoes dropping in on the quiet of the afternoon. She studied the woman’s deadpan face (she’d seen fish show more expression) with a mixture of amusement and dismay as the nurse absently pushed aside the porcelain cat and replaced it with tea and toast--Lana’s favorite snack. But, unfortunately, today the tea tasted like hot water with leaves; her toast like sawdust. Lana wondered what the woman saw when she looked at her. The nurse kept referring to her as “Sweetie” and “Honey” two terms she abhorred, and hadn’t taken any time to have a conversation except to remind her when to take her pills, when to get a shower, when it was time for bed, and the end of her shift. Lana remembered the time she had cared for her own mother before she died. She made sure her mother never felt alone and that she kept her routine: Bingo on Tuesday nights at the church, the quilting bee on Fridays, and her favorite, having a pint of beer every third Saturday in the comfort of her backyard. She’d enjoyed one just two days before she passed away.

  Lana’s nurse took no such care. Her nurse never asked if she wanted to go for a drive or go to her favorite salon to get her hair done. But Lana took care to do her own hair, though it was becoming more of an effort. Her silver white hair was neatly braided and rolled into a bun, held in place with two jeweled hair combs
she had received as a gift from a lover who’s cologne she still remembered over forty years later. She knew her obituary would list her as a woman who’d never married, but she’d been loved. There had been the pilot, the senator and the architect who she’d loved, but had never admitted and lost. And strangely that’s how she felt now—lost. Forgotten.

  ***

  While Lana sat alone sipping her tea, in Dicken’s grocery store just outside of town, Yvonne Marbles saw Fanny Daniels and eagerly rushed over to speak to her.

  “I haven’t seen Miss Lana Wilson come out of her house in days. Have you?”

  “No,” Fanny said coolly. At fifty-three she was well above the gossip of the community and didn’t want to get involved with another one of Yvonne’s tales. Besides, the woman annoyed her – she always had lipstick on her teeth and her cheap stockings constantly bunched up at her ankles. Fanny couldn’t believe a woman of forty couldn’t manage to have a neater appearance. She glanced away, hoping her cool response would dismiss her, but Yvonne continued with gusto.

  “She hasn’t been out of her house in a week or more and I’ve seen a nurse go in,” Yvonne said as she pushed her cart along. “Perhaps she’s sick.”

  Fanny stopped and stared at Yvonne who leaned over her cart, her eyes bright with gossipy glee. “Well, then one of us should go visit her and find out.”

  Yvonne’s attitude quickly changed. “It’ll have to be you,” she muttered hastily. “I’m too busy at the moment.” The thought of being around a sick elderly person made Yvonne nervous. Even Yvonne’s mother feared getting sick because she was certain that just a cold would encourage her daughter to immediately place her in hospice care. “I’ll see you later. Call me and tell me how your visit went,” Yvonne threw over her shoulder as she quickly moved to one of the checkouts.

  Fanny stared thoughtfully at Yvonne’s retreating form. Perhaps it was her duty to pay a visit to Miss Wilson. She hadn’t in years. Fanny shook her head as she walked down the narrow aisles, blindly picking up food items and putting them in her basket. How quick time flies, she thought, tossing a box of crackers into her cart she’d never eat. She’d been only ten years old when she first met Miss Lana Wilson. In those days, Miss Wilson had been a local celebrity due to the publications of her tart articles in the local newspaper. Women in those days were to be quiet, but not her. She had a tongue that could cut a man in two and did so many times. A lot of people said that she ended up a spinster because no man was brave enough to marry her. No man was immune to her tongue lashings and Fanny had seen Miss Wilson in action when Miss Wilson told her father he’d better help fund Fanny’s education or there would be hell to pay. And the short, balding man was no match for her when she threatened to drive business away from his corner grocery store.

  Fanny got her education. She went to a nearby university, studying communications and media; she was one of only three women in her department at the time and graduated with honors. Fanny leaned heavily on her cart, remembering that victory. I wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for that woman, she thought. Miss Wilson had seen her reading a book about becoming an announcer and had encouraged her to go after her dreams, whatever they might be. For several summers, until their family moved away in her senior year, she had looked forward to visiting with Miss Wilson and sharing how well she was doing in school. Education, especially for a girl, was not a high priority in her household, so Fanny escaped whenever she could, and turned up on Miss Wilson’s doorstep to have tea and cookies, before going back home. Together they’d laughed and shared secrets. The woman the town had called an ‘old spinster’ showing her some of the gifts men had given her over the years. But, Miss Wilson had made a vow that only one man, her father, would rule her and when he was gone there wouldn’t be a replacement.

  “Oh, Miss Wilson but don’t you get lonely sometimes?” Fanny remembered asking her one day.

  “Never. I have a full life, friends and neighbors around me. What’s there to be lonely about? Besides, I like being by myself from time to time. I couldn’t do that if I had a man I needed to take care of.” She never said more but Fanny knew she wanted to know more. Fanny walked towards the check-out lines her head held a bit higher than usual. Yes, she decided. She would pay Miss Wilson a visit.

  ***

  Fanny packed her groceries into her 1979 silver BMW and drove in the direction of Miss Wilson’s house, which was straight down Beech Road, on the right hand side, the third house before the road ended. Fanny sped down the street, whizzing past small wooden houses, pickup trucks and jeeps that lined the road. The speed bumps and traffic circle did little to slow her. Children ran up and down the street chasing each other, while six adults glanced at them once or twice as they continued their gossiping. But they all stopped and stared as Fanny made a screeching halt in front of Miss Wilson’s little brick house with its weed infested garden. The small gathering of adults and kids watched curiously as the peppered haired woman stepped out of her car and adjusted her gray silk suit and black cartwheel hat. Although she had only gone grocery shopping, Fanny had been at an official function earlier that day, and wore one of her favorite hats to match. She hadn’t been on Beech Street in years and only two of the women, staring at the stylish figure, recognized her. But she was welcomed if she knew Miss Lana Wilson.

  “She never married, but she’s made herself a good living on the radio,” a woman whispered as Fanny clicked her way up the cement driveway to the front door.

  “Then she and Miss Wilson will have a lot to talk about,” her friend replied. “Miss Wilson never married either.”

  They all laughed at the possibility that Miss Wilson even had a choice in the matter, when it came to marriage. Then their laughter died, just as quickly as it had begun as curiosity took over.

  “I wonder why she’s decided to visit?” another woman queried, placing her hand on her large hips as she gauged Fanny’s tailored suit and designer shoes. “She’s too fancy for here.”

  “I guess that’s why she left,” a short, middle-aged woman added as she ushered her crying child up the stairs of her porch.

  “I heard that Miss Wilson was sick,” a little girl piped up.

  “Oh. Then it’s good that she’ll get some company.”

  “Maybe I’ll cook her a sweet potato pie this weekend and take it to her,” her friend said. “They’re in season.”

  “Oh and some fried chicken. She always liked my fried chicken.”

  The first woman piped up and soon they were all discussing what they could make for Miss Wilson before their attention shifted to the recent family drama of a neighbor and their good natured plans were soon forgotten.

  ***

  Fanny rapped gently on the red door and waited. The woman who answered it hadn’t changed in over thirty years. Her 5’10” frame filled the door with her broad shoulders, thick legs and arms. She wore gray sneakers and a rose colored polyester dress she had ordered from a garden catalogue. Her wrinkled face was bare from makeup and her thin hair was pulled back into a bun. The only thing different was the cane she held off to the side.

  “Why did you come?” Lana asked surprised.

  Fanny only smiled and pushed past her. She made her way to the living room and immediately felt suffocated. Furniture and various trinkets filled the room and she crashed into a chair and ottoman before settling herself on the couch, which was shoved up between a large bookshelf and grandfather clock. Fanny crossed her legs, placed her purse on her lap and glanced around at the yellow walls and newspaper articles that decorated it, which had also yellowed with age. If one didn’t pay close attention the articles looked like wallpaper. Fanny frowned and sat back. Years before, the posted articles had given the crowded room a sense of achievement. She remembered how eager and excited she had felt helping Miss Wilson cut out and put up some of the articles. Now they just looked tacky.

  “So Miss Wilson, how are you doing?” Fanny asked, unable to rid the business-like tone in her voice
.

  “Why are you here, Fanny?” Lana asked again, settling in her green armchair. “You haven’t come around here in a long while. Why now?”

  “I met Yvonne at the grocery store and…”

  “You came out of curiosity, or to see if I was dead,” Lana finished. She nodded her head in a mixture of understanding and disappointment. “Well, you can see that I’m fine, so you can go now,” she added, her voice carefully revealing her regret.

  Fanny glanced down at her watch. “Oh, but I have some time left.”

  Lana was silent for a moment. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Lana folded her hands in her lap and watched Fanny, her eyes sharp and assessing. Fanny was uncomfortable – she never used to be. Years ago, Fanny had welcomed herself inside the quaint house and re-read all of Lana’s articles and pen pal letters in a voice she hoped to one day use on the radio, and Lana had listened and critiqued. But now the radio announcer sat silently trying to maintain a pleasant mask. She used to be proud of me, Lana thought. Why is she now looking at me as though she were ashamed? Because I’m no longer young? Because I’m no longer strong? Why did she have to change just because she’d gone up in the world? I am just like her, Lana thought. But all she sees is an old, sick woman surrounded by junk, newspaper clippings and letters. Lana let her gaze scan the room and to her horror that’s all she began to see too. She glanced down at her porcelain cat and slowly pushed it to the edge of the table. Then watched, with grim satisfaction, as it fell to the ground and interrupted the grating silence with a resounding crash.

  Fanny leaped to her feet and pointed at the broken figure. “Oh no! Look what you did!”

  Lana winced at the scolding tone in her voice. When did people think they had the right to speak to her as if she were seven years old?