Miss Lana Wilson (A Short Story with Bonus)

by Girard, Dara

  “That’s all right” Fanny reassured her as one would a scared pet. “Perhaps it can be glued back together.”

  “Perhaps.” Lana sighed without interest.

  Fanny gathered up the pieces and placed them on the side desk. She cleared her throat, uncomfortable with Miss Wilson’s dry response. Before, Miss Wilson would have been heartbroken at breaking such an item. She looked down at her watch seeking a reason to leave.

  “Did you ever see him again?” Lana asked.

  Fanny froze. “What?”

  “You heard me. Did you ever see him again?”

  Fanny slowly sunk into her seat not sure her legs would support her. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  “Fanny,” Lana said in a sharp tone. “Did you ever do as you said you would?”

  “Why are you asking me that?”

  “Why do you think? I want to know. I read the letter you sent him and know what you promised. Did you do as you said you would?”

  “You already know the answer.”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  Fanny shifted awkwardly, not wanting to remember Gordon Wilson, Miss Wilson’s nephew. He’d been at his aunt’s house almost as much as she had. He’d been bullied in and outside of school for his tall, chubby form and fascination with anything scientific. She used to listen to him talk about quantum physics as though he were reciting poetry. He, in turn, was her second greatest supporter and first love. She’d written and seen him through her first two years of college before pushing him out of her life. He was a man she still loved and whose heart she’d broken before he could break hers. She’d pushed him aside as she had Miss Wilson. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “People are always too busy to do the real important things. Or maybe they’re just scared.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  Lana let her gaze fall and released a tired sigh. “I was. Too scared to become a columnist, too scared to say yes instead of no. I’ve learned that hearts heal, regrets never do.”

  “You have nothing to regret,” Fanny said eager to change the subject. “You’ve lived your life just the way you wanted to.”

  Lana shifted her gaze to the broken antique. “Maybe.” She met Fanny’s gaze. “Why didn’t you see him?”

  Fanny shrugged trying to figure out the most appropriate lie. “By the time I thought about him again I was sure he’d forgotten about me. Like you, I didn’t want any man to rule over me.”

  Lana sniffed. “You lied then and you’re lying now. He loved you too much to hold you back. I remember the dreams you used to have before you became too educated and started to believe that you had to make a choice. He loved you and you loved him, but you lied and said you didn’t. You didn’t have to marry him, but you could have at least left him with the gift of your love.”

  “I didn’t come here to talk about him,” Fanny said irritated.

  “I know, but I’m too old to chat about frivolous things. I don’t want you to live with the same ghosts I’ve had. I lied to a man and have never forgiven myself. Gordon’s a ghost in your life, isn’t he?”

  “He’s married now.”

  “He was. Now he’s a widow.”

  Fanny gripped her hands, hating how Miss Wilson’s words made her heart race as if she were a girl of seventeen again. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “If tomorrow comes. Words left unspoken, spoil.”

  Fanny glanced at her watch. “Hmm. I’d better go, I have to run some errands, but it’s been nice to chat with you. I’ll stop by again.”

  Lana folded her hands in her lap. “I like your hat. Promise to wear it to my funeral.”

  “Of…of…course,” Fanny replied, alarmed by such a morbid remark.

  Fanny stood eager to get away from her feeling of guilt: The guilt of never thanking or visiting one of the most influential women in her life, until now. Instead, she’d waited until they were strangers. She knew Miss Wilson could see past her tailored suit to the woman she really was. It scared her. She remembered one of the chats they had when Miss Wilson warned her not to become one of those “Snotty, upper middle-class, white collar workers who forget where they came from.”

  She’d listened to all of Fanny’s dreams, from wanting to be an astronaut, to a chef, fire fighter and finally radio announcer. It was because of Miss Wilson’s insistence that “She had what it takes” that had led her to become an announcer. She should have at least sent Miss Wilson a letter of thanks when she got her first job or to let her know about one of her many promotions. Fanny glanced at the wall again and paused when she saw that Miss Wilson had cut and posted articles about her rising career. She blinked back tears of regret. Miss Wilson had deserved more than this impulsive and awkward visit, but in a week she would visit Miss Wilson again and make it up to her.

  ***

  She never got that chance. Wallace Denton found Miss Lana Wilson the next morning hanging from the ceiling and let out an animalistic scream heard by all on Beech Road. Miss Lana Wilson was buried on a Wednesday--her favorite day of the week—as specified in her last wishes. Autumn leaves fell around the mourning crowd clad in black as they hung their heads in prayer. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, Fanny watched the faces of the many individuals who had come to pay their respects. How could a woman who felt so alone have so many admirers? she wondered.

  Suddenly a gust of wind blew off her hat, the very one she had worn when she had visited Miss Wilson, and set it flying through the air until it landed by a man’s feet. She rushed to grab it and stumbled into him. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

  “That’s okay, Fanny.”

  Fanny stopped. She knew that voice. Her head snapped up and she stared into the brown eyes of a man who’d haunted her dreams for years. She hadn’t seen him at the service because there had been so many people in the funeral chapel, but now he was all that she saw. He was no longer a chubby teenager, all that baby fat was gone, and his dark black hair was sprinkled with some gray. But one thing hadn’t changed: How he made her feel. Her mouth felt dry. She didn’t want to see him or have him see her, but now it was too late.

  Fanny turned away and reached for her hat and again a gust of wind blew it away. It landed on top of the coffin. There was a collective gasp. At first, the crowd stared at the hat as if a unicorn had just landed, then all eyes turned to her. She thought of Miss Wilson’s request to wear her pinwheel hat at her funeral and how she’d encouraged her to speak to Gordon. Evidentially she wasn’t through teaching her a lesson because Miss Wilson now had her hat and Fanny was standing next to Gordon, even though she wanted to be miles away.

  After a brief moment of horror, Fanny glanced at Gordon and saw his lip twitch, as if they shared a private joke, and that was all it took. She started to laugh. The crowd frowned, including the minister who had just finished the closing prayer, and sent her a disgusted glare disturbed by her inappropriate laughter.

  The minister nervously cleared his throat, not used to such an unusual occurrence at such an event.

  “Would you like one of us to retrieve your hat, ma’am?” he asked keeping a solemn tone.

  Fanny, unable to stop laughing, only shook her head. She covered her mouth and stumbled away, her high heels sinking into the soft grass with each step.

  ***

  “Oh, Miss Lana Wilson,” she said sobering up. “Why did you give up so soon?” Fanny leaned against a tree, wiping away tears she didn’t even realize she’d shed. She watched the crowd from a distance. “We didn’t see what was right in front of us.” She turned and headed towards her car. “What bitter fools we are.”

  “Are you okay?” a familiar deep voice said. This time it didn’t frighten her and she let the memories rise up—good and bad—knowing that being alive meant accepting them both.

  She stopped and turned. “I am now that you’re here.”

  A gentle smile spread on his face. “You were always to the point
.”

  Fanny swallowed. “No, not always. I lied when I said I didn’t love you.” She held up her hand before he could speak, scared that she would lose her courage. “I was afraid. I’ve been afraid, but I’m not anymore.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “Maybe one day I could treat you to coffee and we could catch up on old times?”

  “I don’t need to catch up on old times; I prefer talking about new ones.”

  “Oh,” Fanny said feeling her heart pick up its pace. “Is that a yes?”

  He nodded.

  Fanny suddenly felt as if she were floating. “When would you like to meet?”

  “How about now?”

  She blinked. “Now?”

  “That’s what my aunt taught me. Now is all we have.”

  He took her hand and she let him. Miss Wilson’s final lesson had been her most important one: That time was an illusion and now was the most precious gift of all. She thought of her hat and Gordon’s hand in hers and again she laughed, brushing away a tear.

  ***

  Two states away a letter arrived for Reginald Matthews at the Sunnytime Nursing Facility. He stared at the envelope for a long moment treasuring it because he rarely got mail anymore. When people peeked into his tidy room, they rarely saw a man who’d had a successful career as an architect designing buildings that would last generations, a man who’d traveled and had many affairs, but had never married. Most only saw a man whose hands had been crippled by rheumatoid arthritis and whose left arm was in a sling, the result of him breaking it after falling several feet after losing his grip on the staircase.

  That day, no one saw the years fall away from his face as he opened the letter and stared at the handwriting, recognizing it immediately. They didn’t see him smell the lavender scented paper or read the contents inside. They didn’t see him re-read the letter over twenty times then turn on his CD and play songs from the 50’s, remembering the dances he’d enjoyed with his first and only love. No one saw him fall asleep with a smile on his face. His nurse came in later and spotted the note lying on the bed, the smile still in place. She saw a stationary with autumn leaves and the following words:

  To my dearest love. See you soon. Forever yours, Lana.

  The End

  ***

  A Gift for Philomena

  Bonus Story

  ***

  She’d never escape the kitchen--an unrelenting master that never gave her a moments rest. Philomena Hawkes wiped the sweat from her brow as the steam from the dumplings cooking on the stove filled the room. The powerful summer sun, which pressed through the window and shone on the newly polished floor, turned the small room into a domestic purgatory. The cool breath of the air conditioner couldn’t abet the stifling heat from the stove and the oven, which now felt like a fiery furnace as Philly, as she was affectionately called, opened it to check her baked trout with onions and red wine sauce.

  “Only three years,” her older brother, Gladstone, had promised when he’d come to Jamaica to visit their parents. “Come to America and stay with me for a few years while I get my business started. You can help Helen with the household duties and then when my business is set you can go out on your own. I’ll make sure that you’re settled.”

  Philly quickly agreed to the plan and Gladstone said he’d send for her in a few weeks. Four months later her ticket arrived and Philly packed her one suitcase and dreamed of her new life in America. She knew that she and her sister-in-law, Helen, could manage the house and two children aged four and seven. However, she soon discovered that Helen had little interest in domestic duties such as cleaning the house and preparing food for her children, preferring luncheons with her friends and dinner parties instead.

  “Dinners are important,” she liked to tell Philly. “So that we can socialize with the right people. It’s essential for Gladstone’s business that he’s seen in the right light.” And Philly wouldn’t have minded if her brother had been willing to hire a catering staff but he protested the expense. “I’m just starting out. Why don’t you do it? It’s only twenty people and you’re such a great cook. Everyone thinks so.”

  So, aside from her other duties, Philly catered her brother’s many dinner parties whose guest lists grew from twenty to fifty to one hundred. And as Gladstone’s business grew so did his family. Although Helen was a slender woman with delicate hands and feet, she was a remarkably fertile woman and over the next eight years five children joined the household--a girl, twin boys, another boy and another girl. They were all high spirited, bright children who paid little attention to their Aunt Philly except as a domestic hand whose duty was to clean their rooms, wash and iron their clothes and fix their meals. She was the poor relation after all, a foreigner from the island who’d been given a better life thanks to their father’s sacrifice.

  Philly took their condescending tones and dismissive glances in good grace. Her brother and his wife didn’t treat her much better so she wasn’t surprised to see it reflected in their offspring.

  But the three years of ‘helping’ slipped into ten, fifteen then twenty-five. There had been moments of envy during those intervening years as Philly saw her brother’s business flourish and lovely Helen ripe with a new child. Philly ached for a home of her own: A place where she could sit in the family room and read a good book, watch a show on a large screen TV or just bask in the glow of a setting sun on a lazy autumn evening. But any moment of sitting was usually taken up with hemming an old garment, stitching a new shirt, drafting the week’s dinner menu or calculating the expenses. She hadn’t had a moment of quiet in years—her constant routine was going to bed late and rising early in the morning. However, Philly knew she had it better than some of her relatives. Her life here was more stable than it would have been back home. She’d received only a scant education because she wasn’t bright like her brother, who’d gotten a scholarship to attend one of Jamaica’s top schools, and her parents couldn’t afford the fees for the one school she’d wished to attend. So from sixteen to eighteen she’d helped her father with his work but she still loved to learn. Sometimes, when her brother’s family was away, she’d slip into one of the kid’s room and read their textbooks amazed by the wealth of knowledge, wishing for an education of her own. That’s when the question ‘What could she have been?’ rose in her mind and created moments of discontent.

  But Philly didn’t allow herself to wonder for long, she was too busy watching her brother’s children grow and fulfill their destinies. There were high school graduations, college graduations, weddings and christenings. Slowly the house became empty and Philly thought her chance had finally arrived. The two youngest Hawkes children would soon leave the nest. One was a senior in high school and the other a freshman in college. But her brother bristled when Philly mentioned wanting to leave.

  “With still so much to do? You won’t believe the college costs I’m paying for and I’m still paying off Anita’s wedding. How can you consider leaving? At least not yet. Wait another two years. That’s all I need. Aren’t you happy here?”

  Philly only smiled, knowing her reply wouldn’t matter to him. Only cost did. She knew how much she’d saved him over the years. She saved him thousands in the cost of child care and getting a fulltime maid service like the other established families in the community. Gladstone did not like to part with his money easily and neither did his wife, who spent it freely but would never allow Philly extra pocket money to buy things.

  “We’ll give you whatever you need,” Helen said. “Just ask.” But when Philly asked for a new dress Helen offered her something she never wore or disliked from her own closet. And as the girls grew she’d give Philly their cast offs.

  Philly bore her disrespect with dignity and would have been fine with an extra two years, but then Anita’s marriage broke up and she moved back home with her two little girls and Philly saw her domestic duties extended for yet another generation. She could take the cleaning and the dusting, the vacuuming and the washing, but what she hate
d most was being stuck in the kitchen. She felt she’d spent half her life in the stifling room standing over a hot stove morning, noon and night cooking for a large family that didn’t care if she’d struggled with a meat that refused to cook or a pot that kept boiling over, as long as their red beans and rice or curried goat was to their liking. Nothing but the satisfaction of their appetite ever mattered. And their careless thanks were like crumbs to a field mouse, left without regard.

  Philly rested against the kitchen counter and sighed feeling old—the kitchen was her prison and the ever growing Hawkes family her captor. She pushed herself from the counter and removed the sauce from the stove, feeling a little guilty. What were a few more years anyway? She had good meals and a roof over her head. She had no marketable skills, no money of her own, or friends or relations (Gladstone was the only one of her siblings still alive—there had been two) who would want to take her in. She was completely dependent on her brother’s kindness and she believed that in two more years he would let her go.

  Philly glanced up and saw the mail carrier coming up the drive but gave him little notice--not knowing that he carried a package that would change her life.

  ***

  “A package for Aunt Philly? How can that be?” Anita, the eldest, said after she’d signed for it.

  Roger, the college freshman home for the summer, snatched it from his sister. “Let me see that.” He shook it. “I don’t hear anything rattling.”

  “Who’d want to send her anything? She doesn’t have any friends.”

  Their mother, Helen, entered the foyer and took the package from him. “That might be but it’s still not for you to play with.” Although she schooled her features to look uninterested, she was also curious about its contents, but the name on the return label meant nothing to her. She went to the kitchen. “Philly you have something here,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Philly said in a quiet voice. “Just set it down please.”