Tales From the Burning Prairie

The mannequins on the front porch made him jump a little. Every time he saw them, they were arranged or dressed a little differently, as if they possessed some kind of glacier-slow life that he only saw in flashes. But Fort knew that Miss Rose paid careful attention to her “girls” as she called them, changing their outfits and posing them. And he knew that many more were inside the house; in the kitchen, at the dining table, sitting demurely in the parlor, in the upstairs bedrooms, and in the attic.

Rose Dose was the 70 year old widow of the old town doctor, Dr. Dose, but everyone called her Miss Rose. In any other town, Miss Rose would’ve been the town eccentric or the town crazy, but here no one thought her, or her astounding collection of store mannequins, particularly odd. No odder than old Jerry, who had nailed dozens of old guitars to the outside of his house, or Mary Gibson, who had filled her kitchen with ceramic pigs. Just another collector.

He knocked on the door and called out, “Miss Rose, are ya’ home?”

“Fort, is that you, honey?” a high, sweet voice answered from the back yard.

“Yes, ma’am, I’ve got your birdseed.”

“Oh, that’s fine, that’s fine. Be a dear and bring it ’round back, will you? I need some help with Howard.”

He walked back to his truck, chuckling to himself, and pulled the seed off the tailgate. Then he hoisted it to his shoulder and walked around to the back yard, where he found Miss Rose, dressed impeccably as always, wrestling her one and only male mannequin out the back door.

“I thought Howard would like to be outside today, to show off his new hunting outfit. It’s not new really, the Doctor loved to hunt and I found some of his old gear in the attic,” she told him. Then she sighed and continued, “Of course, the poor dear couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn, good thing he was a better doctor than hunter!”

Fort smiled at that, Dr. Dose had been a good doctor, but since the gear looked practically untouched, he could believe the part about being a poor hunter.

“And besides,” she continued, “Howard would probably want to get away from the girls from time to time, if he were real.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure he would,” Fort answered with a grin. “By the way, why’d you name him Howard and all the rest are just ‘the girls’?”

A wistful look crossed Miss Rose’s face. “I bought him from Howard’s Department Store in Joplin, when they went out of business. Such a nice store, pity.”

Miss Rose indicated that she wanted Howard positioned in the bushes by the gazebo, facing the back of the property. She talked about bringing more of the girls outside, for an old-fashioned garden party. So many beautiful gowns and dresses were still in storage, just waiting for their turn to be worn again. Once, her dreadfully serious daughter-in-law had remarked, negatively, about just how many gowns Rose owned. Katherine had assumed that Rose’s father or husband had bought them all, but Miss Rose had once been a smart single girl who worked in a very nice dress shop. In fact, due to her trim figure, she modeled sample sizes for customers and bought those samples at a nice discount. And being a bit of a collector, she never could bear to part with a single, hard-earned dress. So here they all were, decorating her girls.

Fort frowned when Miss Rose mentioned Katherine, because that made him think of Reid, Rose’s son. “Uh, Miss Rose, is Reid coming in for Christmas or summer vacation this year?” If it was vacation, Fort knew he would have to put Howard and the girls in storage soon.

“Don’t you worry, Fort. Reid and Katherine won’t be coming until Christmas this year.”

That was good news. The businesses downtown borrowed Miss Rose’s girls for their holiday windows, and the store employees did all the work.

“He doesn’t like the girls?” But Fort already knew the answer to that question, he just liked to hear her stories.

“That boy is just as much of a sour pickle as the Doctor was, bless his heart,” Miss Rose proclaimed, gently shaking her head. “I loved that man dearly, but how could he not see the funny in being a doctor named Dose?” It was rhetorical; Fort just smiled.

“I’ve always loved being Rose Dose, makes me sound like a medicine you’d actually want to take.”

He laughed at that. Fort thought, but didn’t say, that Miss Rose Dose was good medicine indeed. If he was fifty years older, he’d be on her doorstep with a bouquet of daisies every Friday night.

Bird seed delivered and Howard positioned, it was time for Fort to get back to work. Rose walked him to his truck and waved as he drove away. If I were fifty years younger, she said to herself, I would…But she couldn’t finish the thought, when she was young, girls just did not pursue young men. Sometimes she envied younger women, even Katherine, who just seemed so free, so unrestricted.

She shook her head and wished for the hundredth time that she knew a single young woman for Fort, but all her single acquaintances were also old widows. And it seemed like they were all competing for the same few widowers. Ah well, time was a cruel mistress with a nasty sense of humor.

Time was also unkind to her dresses, no matter how carefully she packed them away. Upstairs, in the attic, a long row of cedar chests held her precious frocks, folded away in tissue paper. Rose went to the one labeled “Spring” and opened it, releasing the scent of cedar and old fabric into the stale air of the attic. Even slightly yellowed with age, the spring dresses and gowns were lovely. Swiss dots and eyelet, tea rose prints and crinolines, boat necks and sweetheart necklines, pearl buttons and crisp cap sleeves–all things she didn’t see in the current styles–made her miss the grace of her youth.

Enough of this self-indulgence, she thought as she stood. The slight creaking in her hip reminded Rose that she wasn’t that youth anymore. “Time to get the girls dressed!” she said aloud.

It may have seemed like Rose talked to the mannequins as she dressed them, but she was really only talking to herself. Recalling this party or that wedding to which she wore some dress, and thinking about the days before the Doctor moved her to Post. Oh, how she grumbled at that! But she grew to love the slower pace and the people. While other small towns were insular and unwelcoming to strangers, Post had seemed to gather her into its fold. Even after the Doctor passed away, Rose knew she would stay. And she was glad she did, nobody ever said anything negative about her girls, except for Reid and Katherine. They seemed to take her mild eccentricity as a personal insult!

The dresses were all hanging in a closet downstairs, with any luck the wrinkles would fall out by morning. It had been a long day, but productive in its own way, so Rose went to bed.

She woke the next morning, just as the sky was starting to pink up with sunrise. Rose loved early morning, which was quite a change for her. As a young woman, she loved to stay up and out late, even when it scandalized her father. When she was a young mother, her son refused to stay down for the night, sleeping fitfully and waking every two hours. She didn’t get a decent night’s sleep until he was ten years old! Then there were the house calls, the bane of every doctor’s wife. Finally, Reid went off to college and the Doctor stopped making house calls. But after so many years of broken sleep, Rose couldn’t fix it. Now she woke literally before the chickens, the neighbor two houses down had a rooster. She had been awake at least an hour before he crowed.

Rose began to plan for the garden party tableau, as she called it. First she’d dress the girls, then she’d call her neighbor to help move them outside. The wrought iron table and chairs were already set up in the gazebo, but she’d put a pretty tablecloth on it and use her Blue Willow china. She was deep in preparation when she received two pieces of news, one good and one bad. The good news came in a phone call. The local newspaper, The Post Post, had run a piece about her girls in the Living section one Sunday and apparently some photographer from Kansas City had seen it. He wanted to take pictures of her collections, mannequins and dresses, for some big paper up there. He would be there tomorrow. The bad news, like so much bad news before, came in a letter. It was from Reid.

Not that hearing from her son was bad. Rose loved him and was so proud of him. He was a doctor, just like his father. And even if she didn’t understand, Reid saw something in her dour daughter-in-law and they had been married for ten years. Quite an accomplishment in this day and age, she thought. No, the bad news was that he and Katherine would be stopping by on their way to Dallas, where he was interviewing at a big hospital. The letter said, “next Wednesday” which should have been enough time, except mail took a little longer to get to Post. It was already Tuesday. So tomorrow would be busy, the photographer and her son would both be here.

Miss Rose spent the rest of the day getting ready for the photographer; there was no way to prepare for Reid and Katherine. The girl from next door and Fort both came over to help and her new tableau was done in record time.

For the first since he left for college, Rose had a restless night because of Reid.

Wednesday morning arrived too quickly. Miss Rose dressed more carefully than usual and made sure to wear lipstick. There was no way to know who would arrive first, the newspaper man or her son.

to be continued…..

Continued.

The photographer got there first by a few minutes. He was unloading his equipment when Reid and Katherine pulled up behind his car. Rose, standing on the porch and surrounded by mannequins, smiled and waved at them. Katherine couldn’t believe it; Rose had lied to them. The last time they had visited there had only been one mannequin in the house, the one wearing Miss Rose’s wedding gown. Reid had been pleased; his mother’s collection was a constant source of worry. To Reid, everything had a reason or purpose or deeper meaning-was his mother lonely or senile, should she really be living by herself?

The car had just barely stopped moving when he jerked it into park with a “tunk.” Ignoring car safety as well as social niceties, Reid left the driver’s side door wide open, ignored the photographer’s greeting, and left his very pregnant wife struggling to exit the car on his way to confront his mother.

“Reid. How nice to see you,” but Rose didn’t mean it, her normal smile had replaced by the look someone gets when they have to take a very bitter medicine.

By this time, Katherine was carefully making her way up the front walk. The photographer had seen her difficulty and helped her out of the car, forever earning Katherine’s highest praise of “What a nice man!” She heard Reid demanding to know what was going on, why were there mannequins on the porch, and who was the guy with the cameras.

She heard Rose say, “Reid, it’s none of your concern.”

“Oh, I think it is!” he answered, a slight threat to his voice.

Katherine stepped onto the porch, puffing slightly with the effort. “Mother, we’re just…worried about you,” she said. Reid’s face was starting to turn red with all the yelling and she patted his arm trying to calm him.

“Oh, posh!” her mother-in-law answered. “There’s nothing to worried about. I just didn’t have time to put the girls in storage. And that man is a photographer from the Kansas City paper, come to take pictures of them.”

The thought of his mother’s oddities being splashed all over the paper, even in some back section, was almost more than he could take. “What? Now, mother…”

“Don’t you ‘now, mother’ me, young man! You may be too big to put over my knee, but if you don’t take that disrespectful tone out of your voice I’ll wash your mouth out with soap!” The delicate, lady-like, impeccably dressed Miss Rose had taken her much taller son’s ear in her fingers and was giving it a cruel pinch.

With a wincing face and a reddening ear, the younger Dr. Dose cried out, “Ow, all right, all right!” then a pouty, “I’m sorry,” when she let go the offended ear.

Miss Rose brushed imaginary wrinkles out of her crisp, summer dress and smiled at the now wide-eyed newspaper man. “Never mind my rude son, young man, come on in and sit down. You too, Katherine. Reid didn’t tell me you were having a baby!” She shepherded them all into the parlor, and served them iced tea.

Katherine sat quietly listening to Rose answer the other man’s questions. Not only was he taking pictures of Miss Rose and the girls, he was writing a feature about them, too. Miss Rose’s stories, and the way she told them, thoroughly charmed not only the photographer, but Katherine as well. Even her husband began to relax and enjoy the anecdotes, even if he liked to pretend he didn’t. She sighed to herself, if only her own parents were this open and friendly, instead of serious and distant, life would have been much more fun!

The last question the newspaper man asked was: Where did they all come from? Katherine was curious too. Miss Rose answered with a chuckle, “You’d be surprised. Some came from department stores, some from the store fixture shop in Tulsa, and many were gifts. More people than you might expect have a mannequin or two. And when they find out I collect the girls, they give them to me. You know, if I put all my gowns on dressmaker’s dummies, I’d just be proud. Since I put them on the girls, my son, at least, thinks I’m crazy.”

The photographer excused himself to take the rest of his pictures. “Mother, I never said you were crazy! Like Kath said, we’re just worried about you. We don’t want you to be lonely,” Reid said, taking his mother’s hand.

“Honey, I’m not lonely, not around here. But it’s sweet of you to be concerned,” Rose said, removing her hand from his. “I’ve just always like playing dress-up and the girls let me do that.”

Katherine interrupted, “I may have somebody here you could play dress-up with.” She patted her growing belly and continued, “We found out we’re having a little girl.”

“That is good news, Katherine! But you all live so far away.”

Reid looked over at her, and she nodded. Then he said, “That interview in Dallas? I lied. The interview is here, in Post. Dad’s replacement wants to retire and move, so his office called me and asked if I’d like to take his place.”

He paused, and Rose said, “And? Son, you never could just get to the point.”

“Well, we didn’t want to get your hopes up, in case it didn’t work out. But we’ve already decided to take it. And move back here to Post. You okay with that?”

“Of course, I am! The very thought.” And she hugged both of them.

Months later, after Reid and Katherine had moved into a nice little house not far from Rose, and after the baby was born, Miss Rose Dose got rid of most of her “girls”. She couldn’t have a grandbaby over if the house wasn’t safe for children! And as a brand-new grandmother, she just didn’t have time to play with dolls anymore. She saved some of her favorite outfits in the last remaining cedar chest, just in case her granddaughter, Olivia, turned out to be the kind of girl who liked to play dress-up.

On occasion, Katherine would drive by the windows downtown just to look at the mannequins and dresses that graced the shops year-round now. Only two mannequins remained in Miss Rose’s house, up in the attic. One of the girls, wearing Rose’s wedding gown, and Howard, still in his hunting gear.

Individual Project 4

Page 334, #9-Imagine a character who is your complete opposite in some specific way…Now choose an action (walking to school, eating in a café, making a sale to a customer), and write a scene in which your “opposite I” character is performing that action. Make the character sympathetic and intriguing…allow the detail and dialogue in the scene to gradually reveal this to the reader.

Today started as a quiet day, like too many before it. Sunday is a perfect day for sleeping in and I gave it my best. But, even when I don’t set the alarm I still wake up at seven. The mattress had just the right amount of “give”, the sheets were crisp and fresh-smelling, the pillow was cool against my face, there was plenty of room, but sleep would not return. Sleep, like a vampire, had fled at the first sliver of sunrise.

Putting off the inevitable no longer, I pushed myself out of bed. Eight o’clock passed, and then nine; I made breakfast and read the Times. I don’t like to talk myself so the house was mostly silent, broken only by the sizzle-drip of the coffee maker. Well, silent until the phone rang. It was my mother.

“You are going to church this morning, aren’t you, Lanie?” She didn’t even let me answer. “They keep asking about you, especially that nice Alfred! You could do worse, he’s a pharmaceutical rep and his mother says he makes nice money!”

“Mother, would you please stop talking about me to your friends? I’m sure Alfred is a perfectly nice man, but I’m not interested.” I’m sure he is, and I’m just as sure that my mother could go on all day about it if I didn’t cut her off.

She was undeterred, “Lanie, this has gone on long enough. You really need to move on!” Move on, what a despicable phrase, obviously coined by someone who had never had to actually “move on” from anything.

“Look, Mom, I really don’t want to sit there all alone and pretend to be happy.”

“Nonsense! You can sit with us.”

There was really only one way to handle this, “Goodbye, Mom, I’m hanging up now!” And I did.

I didn’t have anywhere to go; no one was waiting for me. The Times was still waiting so I sat down to read. The room seemed bigger, emptier with half the chairs gone. Each brush of each page echoed in the nearly empty room. After reading the paper, I went to the closet to get dressed.

Half the closet was bare; I still couldn’t bring myself to move my clothes over. I guess I still clung to hope. Hopeful or hopeless, I had to wear clothes.

Dressed now, the rest of day stretched before me. I could go anywhere, do anything, and not have to worry about meshing my plans with someone else’s. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all. The morning had been pleasant and relaxing. Tonight, I would try sleeping in the middle of the bed.

I left the newspaper sections where they fell.

My classmates didn’t get to edit this one, so have at it, folks! Tell me if you like it, if you didn’t, whatever.

This vacation was not turning out the way Irene had envisioned at all. It was bad enough that Bob’s mother had insisted on coming with them, but then she wouldn’t pay for her own room. Bob and Irene hadn’t spent more than thirty minutes alone in the past week. So much for the second honeymoon.
She liked Frances, really she did, but this week was pushing her to the very limits of her patience. The evenings were the worst. After the day’s activities were done, there was nothing more to do than pass endless minutes watching the tiny television and then try to fall asleep listening to mother and son snore the same snore. Tonight would be different. Tonight she would be so tired that she would fall asleep first!
Morning had passed quickly at the Desert Museum. Lunch had dragged on at its customary, old lady’s pace; but she was here now, finally. The Petroglyphs were the centerpiece of their vacation. Irene spent several days at the Central Library studying the Mogollon people and their rock art, and here she was, looking at the rocks with her own eyes!
Frances decided against following them up into the rocks and stayed down at the gate, talking to the guard. The wind had picked up and was now whistling through the rocks, but she could still hear Frances’ voice as she chatted to the guard.
Bob, holding her hand, helped her climb to the top of hill. It wasn’t a very big hill, but the view from the top was still breath taking. Picking their way carefully down the other side, they stopped and kissed. She wrapped her arms around his waist and sighed into his chest. Why couldn’t they be here alone? This wasn’t the first time she thought it, but this time she didn’t try to squash the thought the moment it occurred.
There must be an airfield nearby, because a jet flew right over them, close to the ground at first but climbing quickly. Still, in the background, she could hear Frances. Mostly unintelligible, an occasional word would drift up on a gust of wind. “…Sciatica…”, she heard once, and then, “…coffee…” Irene had to smile. Frances loved her coffee.
Then Bob called to her. She couldn’t see him anymore. He must be behind that large rock, she thought.
“That’s odd,” she said aloud, as walked around the large rock. Bob wasn’t where she thought he would be, and now she couldn’t hear him anymore. “Bob?” she called, once and then again.
He’s around here somewhere, she thought, and then shrugged. The rock pictures were amazing here, deeper and cleaner looking than they were on the other side. Look, there was a picture of a man and something that looked like an elephant! Was that a flying saucer? She looked around for Bob again, because she wanted to share all these things with him. Where was that man? She stopped to listen and couldn’t hear him, or anything else for that matter. Had Frances finally run out of things to say? The stillness was unnatural and Irene was starting to get concerned.
“Bob!” she called out again, much louder this time. “Hello?”
Weird, she said to herself. Then she noticed something else. While she was calling for Bob, she was also turning in circles and now wasn’t sure which way to go.
Only one thing to do, she thought, go up! As she climbed up, she had a momentary spell of vertigo and grabbed a rock for support. Her hand was resting on a carved face, “Sorry,” she said as jerked her hand off the old face. She must be going in the right direction; the glyphs were starting to look older and more worn again.
That’s when she heard Bob. “Irene? Where are you?” he called, an edge of panic to his voice.
“I’m right here!” she answered.
Then she heard Frances, still talking to the guard. That woman could talk to anyone. Another a jet flew by, higher this time. The unnatural stillness was dispelled, which made Irene very happy.
“Where have you been? I thought I lost you!” Bob hugged her so tightly her spine popped a little.
“Just on the other side of that rock,” Irene answered and pointed.
“No, you weren’t. I just looked over there and you weren’t there!” Bob said, “It’s been almost half an hour. I thought I was going to have to go down and call the police, or the sheriff, or marshal or something!”
That couldn’t be right! “Honey, according to my watch it’s only been about five minutes.”
On the breeze, Frances’ words flew up to them again; this time they could hear the guard answer back. Then Frances giggled like flirting teenager. That’s when they looked down at the gate and saw that Frances had wedged herself inside the little booth with guard.
Shaking their heads at the same time, Bob and Irene made their way down to the gate and collected his mother.
Only later, did they notice that their watches were off by about 25 minutes.
Odd, thought Irene, right before she drifted off to sleep, snoring happily.

My five-year old, Monkey, wrote a fairy tale for his Pre-K class last week and it was so cool that I just had to share it with you. First, I have to get permission.

Me: Hey, Monkey, is it ok if I put your story on my blog so everyone can enjoy it? Monkey: Yeah!

Ok, done.

A-stick’s Castle

Once upon a time, there was a unicorn. The unicorn lived in a beautiful castle, made of wood and bricks. He lived there with a king and queen and they were very nice. They fed him hay and apples and bananas and milk so he would have energy to fly. He was a unicorn with wings. Some unicorns don’t have wings to fly.

His name was A-stick. The king, named Monkey, and queen, named Pumpkin, built a tower out of bricks. Inside the tower, they had a dining room table and chairs. It was a dining room for the unicorn, and they let the unicorn eat inside the dining room in the tower. The king and queen ate in the dining room in the castle.

And they lived happily ever after. The end.

This is the first of my assignments for my Creative Writing class. I don’t know what grade I’ll get but I’d love some feedback from my friends. Tell me what you think!

 

Wiley hated the hospital, but more than that, she hated that Gran had to be here. It had been five hours since the call, and Gran was still unconscious. Whether it was another five hours, or five days, didn’t matter, Wiley would stay until she awoke.
The chairs were incredibly uncomfortable and she had tried every one. What she really wanted was to curl up on the hospital bed with her grandmother, not so much to comfort Gran, but to comfort herself. Instead she had to content herself with watching and worrying and occasionally stroking her dry, papery arm. Nurses bustled in and out, always looking slightly perturbed and, once, a doctor came by and said a lot of words at Wiley, none of which she could remember.
She managed to doze off once, the room was so still and the time was passing so slowly, but was jolted awake by the whir of the automatic blood pressure cuff. As she unfolded herself from the tight, protective posture she found herself in, she noticed that a foot had fallen asleep as well. Standing and stamping the offending foot, she looked over at Gran, hoping for some kind of change, any kind of change.
This wrinkled, dried-up husk of person didn’t even look like the grandmother she knew. Gran had always been proud of her “girlish figure” but always embarrassed by her round face and chubby cheeks. Knowing how she felt about it, Wiley never said it aloud, but she loved those apple cheeks.
So many thin, older women start to look sunken and hollow and older than their years, but not Gran. Her plump round face belied her age. When she smiled and laughed, those cheeks would rise and redden and her eyes would crinkle, the only wrinkles that usually lined her face. Today, all that joy and life seemed gone and at long last, she looked every one of her 85 years. Those cheeks, no longer plump, were wrinkled and dark.
She looks so old, Wiley thought, “She doesn’t even look like herself.”
She must’ve said this last out loud. A nurse had entered, quietly, and said, “I know, honey, it’s the stroke.”
The nurse then, calmly and efficiently, performed all the little tasks that mystified Wiley but were crucial to her grandmother’s care. The nurse smiled and patted her hand when she thanked her for that care.
She sat back in the least uncomfortable of the chairs, fully expecting to nod off once again, but at that moment Gran stirred just a little. Wiley wasn’t sure she had really seen the slight movement of an arm, perhaps it was just wishful thinking causing her to see good signs mixed in with so many bad ones. But, no, Gran’s arm really did move. She was raising her hand! The movements were shaky but real.
An eye fluttered open and looked around the sterile room. A kind of panic, or maybe just confusion, dawned in that darting eye until it stopped on Wiley’s face. She had moved to the head of the bed, finally smiling to see Gran awake.
“Hi,” she said with a small, relieved smile. “You’re in the hospital. The doctor said you had a stroke.”
Gran seemed to process that for a moment, before trying to speak. “My house….”, she managed to say.
“No, Gran, you’re in the hospital.”
“Shhh, go…my…house.” Some life returned to the one open eye while she said this, but the light looked different to Wiley, harsher almost desperate.
“Bedroom closet…box…pictures. Call Dad…Sam.” The words that she forced into existence seemed to drain her of energy and she once again sank into sleep.
Wiley called her dad and her husband as Gran had told her to do and told them to come to the hospital. She only said that she needed to get some things for Gran and would be back soon.
It didn’t take long to drive to Gran’s house. Wiley unlocked the door and entered. Gran had only been in the hospital a day but the house felt…bereft, as if the house itself knew its mistress was gone, and might not come back. She made her way through the living room and past the kitchen, to the back of the house and the two bedrooms. Wiley had only been in Gran’s bedroom a handful of times, it was old-fashioned and musty, not very interesting for a child. She kept the rest of the house so lively and warm and welcoming that Wiley had never even wanted to explore the bedroom. Now she had no choice.
She looked around, searching for even a hint of her grandmother’s personality and found tiny pieces here and there. The wallpaper had never been changed because it was “perfectly good”; a child of the Depression, Gran made do and never wasted anything serviceable just because it was out of style. The background was dark beige but may have started life lighter or brighter, and had tiny clusters of rose-colored flowers. There were odd, square lighter patches of color and one corner near the ceiling was starting to curl.
The dresser was buffed to a shine; there hadn’t been time for it to gather any dust. On top was a large doily and Gran’s jewelry box and sitting next to it, a glass dish holding her (and Wiley’s) favorite peppermints. She popped one of the powdery, chalky candies in her mouth and looked in the mirror. The glass was silvered and wavy with age, but Wiley liked it. She could just barely see all of her face when she sat down on the bed.
It was not a comfortable bed, at least not for Wiley who had been thoroughly spoiled by her own big, soft bed. She didn’t have to see it, but she knew there was a piece of plywood between the mattress and box spring. Gran liked a firm bed; she said it kept her back straight. She lay back and ran her hand over the bedspread. It was white and nubby; Gran called it ”candle wicking”. It didn’t seem like something comfortable for sleeping, but there was a warm, soft blanket folded carefully at the foot of the bed. Wiley sat up and picked up the end of the blanket, she held it to her cheek and breathed in its scent. It was Gran’s scent, a mixture of rosewater and Ivory soap.
She couldn’t put it off any longer, it was time to look for the box. It was an older house, so the closet was small. The door had the same kind of faceted glass doorknob that was on the bedroom door. Gran’s favorite housecoat hung on a hook on the inside of the closet door. The dresses and skirts and blouses (no pants) were hung carefully on the bar. The shoes with the sensible heels were kept in their original boxes, some yellowing with age. The pocketbooks and handbags were lined up neatly on the shelf above the bar. Wiley took Gran’s white, patent leather, Summer purse off the shelf; the clasp made a pleasing “snap” when she opened it. She closed it again and slid it back to its place on the shelf.
All the boxes in the closet seemed to contain only shoes and Wiley was about to give up, when she spotted a metal box tucked away in the corner, underneath the longer dresses and skirts. Just as she reached for it, she heard the front door open. Before she even had time to get scared, her father called out, “It’s me!” and walked back to the bedroom.
He said he didn’t want her to be alone right now. Whatever that means, Wiley thought. “Did you find the box?” he asked.
“Wait, what, how did you….” she was confused.
“I stopped by the hospital,” he said, “and came over in case you had any questions.”
“Well, I’ll let you know,” she answered.
Still confused, she pulled the box from the closet and stood up. She set it on the dresser and opened it. It was filled with pictures. There were pictures of Gran and her grandfather, many of her father and even more of a girl she vaguely recognized but couldn’t place. There were family group pictures, many with this strange girl in them. Wiley looked at her father and raised an eyebrow but kept digging. Under the photographs she found a bundle of letters addressed to a Dolores Jones and next to the bundle, a very official-looking document. She unfolded the document and read it; it was a birth certificate. Her birth certificate.
She scanned it but stopped when she got to entry for mother’s maiden name. It said “Dolores Jones”, not “Barbara Finney” which was her own mother’s maiden name. She read further, the line for father did not read “Farren Jones”, in fact it didn’t read anything, it was blank.
Even more confused, she sat down on the edge of the bed. “Dad,” she looked at him, at Farren, at the man who should’ve been listed on her birth certificate, “what is this?”
He told her the family secret, after all, it was her secret, too. Her mother, Farren’s baby sister, was an “unfortunate girl”. She was unfortunate enough to find herself pregnant out of wedlock at a time when that just wasn’t done. Gran couldn’t send her away in shame, so Dolores had stayed home to have the baby.
“But something went wrong,” he said, his voice catching on the words, “our father wouldn’t let her go to the hospital during the day. He wanted her to wait until night, so nobody would see her. By the time it was dark, it was too late. The doctor got here in time to save you, but it was too late to save Dolores, your mother. She held you as long as she could and then asked me to take care of you. So Barbara and I adopted you, and I loved you as much as any father could. At first, because you were my sister’s baby and then because you were your own, lovable self.”
“Daddy!” It was all she could say and she hugged him.
They went back to the hospital together and told Gran that Wiley knew the Truth. Wiley’s husband Sam came in and they told him the Truth, too. They were all gathered there, letting the Truth seep into their minds and souls, when Gran took her last breath. Her final wishes had been honored and she died, finally at peace now that the Truth was known.