“Oh, dear me, please call me Evie,” the old woman said, sniffling as she dabbed her eyes with withered fingers.
“It’s just been so many years since I’ve spoken of this. I don’t know where these tears are coming from.” Evie laughed as Sandra passed her a tissue from the box of Kleenex sitting in front of them.
“If it’s too much, we can stop today.” worry crept into Sandra’s voice; I hope she doesn’t start old lady crying. It might have been a mistake coming here, Sandra thought to herself.
“Oh no, it’s been far too many years. I need to tell this story.” she said pausing, taking a deep breath.
“My Story,” she finished firmly, looking at the young lady sitting across from her. It was hard enough to tell the story, the story of her childhood and the darkness surrounding it. The touch of madness that would define the rest of her life began here, and she would tell it. Pain was just part of the process.
Sandra looked at her worriedly, “We can take a break; can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?”
“Something stronger, perhaps?” Looking at Sandra with a wry grin, “I’m an old lady, but I’m not dead yet,” she gave a small laugh.
They sat in her living room in the old farmhouse that had been her home for many years. The rug on the floor was faded and worn with the passing of many feet. The floors still shone with the care of years, the wood furniture lovingly oiled and chairs, while old, were still comfortable. Not the gaudy orange print that so many of her generation consistently held onto, but lovingly made by the hands of her late husband. In return, Sandra smiled a wry grin, clicked her pen, and closed her notebook.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere.” she said matter of factly and stood.
“The glasses are in the cabinet to the right of the sink. And the wine is in the cupboard to the left.” Eva replied, “Unless you’d like something stronger.”
“No, No, Wine is fine,” replied Sandra quickly, her brown face cracking into a smile to reveal brilliant white teeth, “I love a good glass of wine.”
“Well, good. Because you’ll only find good wine here, pick anything you’d like; they’re all good.” she finished cheerfully, winking merrily through watery eyes.
Sandra smiled and stood finding the french door behind her, which led to the farmhouse’s gleaming white kitchen. The kitchen was meticulously maintained, the white cupboards gleamed, and the countertops contained only what was necessary. No bric-a-brac strewn around, with not even a toaster to mar the clean lines. It was amazing what you could tell about people by how they kept their kitchens. It was the most used room in any house and the central heart of any home. She could tell Mrs. Franklin was fastidious about her kitchen. Still, everything in it would be useful and in its proper place.
Finding the cabinet just to the right of the sink, she could immediately tell where the glasses were since the cabinet itself was fronted only with clear glass. Everything inside was gleaming. Mrs. Franklin might be old and living alone, but you would never be able to tell that it was becoming harder and harder for her to move about.
Opening the cupboard to the left, Sandra found rows and rows of wines and various alcohols.
“Dammn granny, you sure do like your harder stuff,” she said under her breath so Mrs. Evie wouldn’t hear.
Picking a locally bottled red and setting it on the counter, Evie thought, If I were a wine key, where would I be…? Eyeing a drawer to the left of the oven, she thought, Aha!
Opening it, she exclaimed, “First try!”
Laughing to herself, she opened the bottle of wine and poured a good bit into both glasses. She would need it if the story were anything like she thought it would be. Sandra had found Mrs. Franklin on a message board for aspiring writers. The topic of the message board was ‘True story horror,’ and her post had been simple.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
I have a story I’d like to tell, but I am no writer. Please contact me for more information.
Something about it had struck her as she was scrolling through the boards, looking for inspiration. For as many years as she could remember, Sandra had been an aspiring writer, but she never could get a story down. The endings were elusive, and the characters were never fully fleshed out. She was on the verge of giving up and doing something ‘normal’ when she’d seen the post. When she contacted the poster, the daughter simply stated her grandmother had a story she wanted to tell. It was nothing any of the family had ever known about. She wasn’t sure what it was about, but her grandmother would be happy to explain if she could please call.
Sandra had thought about it, and it seemed crazy, but why not? It was either hit on a story or let her writing go to the wayside again since she had just been ‘let go’ from a previous job, and she needed a gig fast. They had mentioned something about being ‘unemployable’ on her last day there... But hey, that’s the life of an artist... Right?
When she finally called the number, the phone rang and rang, nearly going to voicemail, and she thought it was going to when a breathless voice on the other end picked up. She introduced herself and explained why she was calling. The voice on the other end was unsurprised, and Mrs. Franklin had explained what she wanted; Someone to come to her home in Virginia to listen to her story and try to write it. The terms were that she would tell the story, be recorded, and if it were a compelling enough tale, it would be made into a book ‘like one of Stephen Kings.’ Sandra agreed but wasn’t sure about how much she could accomplish. She explained that while she majored in creative writing in college, she did not have any practical experience, but that she would do her best if chosen for the job.
Mrs. Franklin had said that it was all she could ask for. Someone to try and do their best. And she had requested to keep the audio file once done. Sandra was agreeable, so Mrs. Franklin had her daughter buy the plane ticket and arrange for a car and a room at the local BNB, and that was that. Here she was, in the kitchen of an old lady she had never met, pouring wine and getting ready to listen to her story.
“Here you go, Mrs. Evie,” she exclaimed as she moved back into the sitting room, both glasses in hand.
“Oh, thank you, Dear. Now... if you don’t mind, I would like for us to move to the patio. Would you mind carrying the glass out there?”
“Oh no, Ma’am, not at all,” she stood still as Mrs. Evie moved painfully to her feet, gripping the blanket on her lap and throwing it about her shoulders as she moved to the front door.
“There’s nothing like a good blanket, a glass of wine, and a seat on the patio to tell a good story.” she said as she shuffled along, her long, white braid bunched up and poking out of the back of the blanket wrapped tightly about her shoulders. “And bring the rest of that bottle if you don’t mind.” she called over her shoulder.
Sandra giggled at the strange old woman, ‘Yes, Ma’am. Won’t argue with that!”
After retrieving the rest of the vintage from the kitchen, holding it between her arm and chest while her hands were full of the glasses, she followed the old lady’s shuffling steps to the front of the house, where the door stood open with nothing but the screen to keep the cold out. Early fall was still warm during the day, but the cool breeze wafted refreshingly over the garden to the house.
Evie settled heavily into her cushioned chair and fussed about the blankets pulling and tucking various spots around her body until it was just right.
Sandra set the glasses on the little white table between the two rocking chairs on the patio and placed the full bottle between them. “One sec, I’ll be right back.”
She scurried into the living room and grabbed up her notebook and the recorder, which she would use to transcribe everything later in her room at the bed and breakfast.
“Would you like a blanket, dear? I have plenty.” she called through the door.
“Uhh,” Sandra looked at her full hands and backed out the door, snagging the doorknob with her elbow. It couldn’t hurt.
“Sure, Where do you keep them?”
“In the top of the closet in the foyer,” was the reply.
After setting the recording tools on the table next to the wine, Sandra found the closet in the foyer. Sure enough, a stack of warm knitted blankets ready for porch sitting was waiting for her at the top of the closet.
Grabbing one down, she closed the door and opened the screen, “Would you like your front door open or closed?”
“Oh, closed, please. I hate when smoke gets inside the house,” the cheerful reply was carried with a wink.
Smoke? Oh. Sandra laughed as Evie pulled out a pack of camels. This old lady was nothing like what she was expecting.
Taking a long drag, Evie puffed contentedly and shifted around a bit more. Sandra waited until Evie was comfortably situated in her chair, blanket over her lap and wine in her hand.
“Are we ready?” she asked after taking a sip.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Sandra replied as she moved her hand to the heavy tabletop recorder, finger hovering over the play button, waiting to start it up again, “Ready when you are.”