Alicia: Part I

Audio script available only. Please back on 6/01/24 for book format.

by Lana Copa 

Alicia. Part One. by Lana Capa...

When I was twenty, still living at home, I received a white floral embossed card in the mail! congratulating me for winning a free four-week stay at Miss Gray’s Cottage Resort, which I had never heard of in my life. My mother pointed out that it was at least two hours away, outside of Beaksburg, and that she was unfamiliar with the little resort. She said, “But it sounds lovely. Are you going?” Yes. I went. And I had to cross through Beaksburg and then take the two-lane highway for half an hour to get there. This was the first lone excursion I’d ever taken in my life out into the middle of almost nowhere. I mean, I drove past a lost post office, a bait shop, then miles down a narrow road lined with endless fields of cows. Finally, I saw a teal and amber wooden sign on the left. In vintage-style lettering, it read “Miss Gray’s Cottage Resort. Private Property.”No phone number. No business hours.   My invite said that to claim my prize, I had to check in before noon by the following day. Alone. I could have no guests, and a photo-ID, would be required. The card explained.“These conditions are in place so that the other guests aren’t disturbed by incoming traffic or unnecessary activity. Miss Gray’s is, by design, a place of comfort, rest, and solitude...” SowI was on summer break from college. where I studied poetry and music. It was the end of June. And I was so excited that I packed up and then drove two hours non-stop.      Once I’d turned left at her sign, I drove on slowly beneath the shade of massive trees for another five minutes, passing only one house, which was entirely secluded behind an eight-foot privacy fence. Two more minutes gently cruising, then I saw the beveled, wooden amber arrow, which matched that sign back on the main road. It pointed rightward.     From Promise Lane, I followed the arrow between a pair of tall welcoming trees, driving under their green leafy archway, leftward, onto a gravel path. To my right was a vast overgrown field, speckled with a small tree here or there. Another amber sign red... “Quiet Please.”     I saw this row of cottages against a hazy cotton-candy blue sky, gasped in delight and said to myself, “How adorable?Yet, in the back of my mind? I still wondered how I had been selected to win.      I hadn’t entered any drawings. Maybe it’s just random, I thought, imagining someone’s index finger sliding down a white page in the phone book with closed eyes hovering above.      Yes, we still had phone books in those days, big, fat, directories filled with the names, numbers, and addresses of perfect strangers, and thousands of them. I was still using my cartoon-pink bedroom, teen-phone, which had a separate number from our main home phone. My number was listed in the phone book under my parent’s name as a youth-phone. So I was easily findable.       And that was my internal reasoning, which I gleefully accepted. I guess the idea of going to a resort on my own for a month was too glamourous for me to sincerely care to question.    I cracked my window, to monitor the sound of my tires on the gravel. I, definitely didn’t want to break any rules, so slowed down to a quieter speed for a moment as I approached that long strip of paved parking in front of the cabins. I admired everything I saw here. Other than the unique and varied color-schemes of each of the cabins, one being white-brown-blue, another coral-lilac-yellow, and so on, the cottages were identical. craftsman style? with grainy, high peaked roofs. Each had a beautifully furnished porch. Stone skirting peeked out from behind lush beds of amethyst and cotton-white flowers.      There were black metal antique mailboxes next to each of the front doors.     Of these seven cottages, the second was the only one whose parking spot was open. So, I pulled up, there.The first cottage, though, was much bigger than the rest, painted in cool red with light brown doors and shutters. The front door had a pretty, wooden open sign hanging inside its paned window. And parked in front of that cottage were two Cadillacs, an older one and a brand new one. Shady trees sprawled over the back of its sturdy roof. Clearly, the main cottage had been here far longer than the other seven.     When I met old Miss Grey, her small frame was draped in a frilly blue dress made of something like Shiffon. One bony hand gripped a cane that stood on a wood floor. The other hand rolled out on the air as if it had an invisible string tied from it to her cheeks that drew her smile into place. Her utterance flowed like warm cocoa.“Come in, dear.”I looked into her blue-grey eyes, which must have feigned the strength needed to keep their youthful shape despite the dragging eyelids that folded over her lashes.      I registered on a form at her table, and she gave me the key...She asked, “What is your passion? If you had one wish, if you could spend your time here doing one thing, what would it be?”I wasn’t prepared to answer that, looked around at this ornate room a moment, thinking.I smiled. "Oh."“Well I suppose, pottery would be fun?”     “Then! I’ll have your kiln and supplies, delivered before supper! Porcelain? or clay. which is your preference?    My lopsided smile fell open as I huffed in glee. “Ahh sure?" Well. either, would have done. I thought, Wow I didn’t expecthat? We strolled to my cottage where, she showed me that my fridge was stocked with everything a girl wanted to eat , fresh salads, sliced peaches, yogurt, pastrami, pumpernickel. There were wrapped coffee cakes in a basket on my countertop?and? a computer on the vintage desk in my little living room, boxy and brand new.                  “Do you have internet here?” I asked.      “Oh, of course, dear. Nothing but the best for my guests.”  Ooh, this was like living in my own personal luxury public library. And there was a wall of books that I didn't have to check out to read.Leaving my doorway, she told me to relax, lounge around, and then she said “Take this solitude into your lungs as though they were two pupils soaking in the gentle daylight without a blink.” I assumed she was trying to be poetic. The wind rustled her wavy gray hair, the crown of which was in a Bavarian-style braid that framed the elegant tilt of her head. It made me think of a halo.She mentioned that Miss Gray wasn’t her real name, that her late husband, Earl Thomas, had passed away decades before and that she’d stuck with the nickname he’d given her, “Because,” she said, “I can’t be separated from my Earl Gray tea, you see. I do appreciate a good hot cup, don’t you? These days I grow my own leaves, right in the backyard. And my blend is far, far more superior to those sold on the market. You see, I’ve learned how to make it like they used to. You must? pop in sometime and try, a cup.”     I told her I’d be happy to do so.She said, “I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay here.”I reserved my excitement over having my own place for a month. Quietly, I closed the door behind her after saying, “Oh, I will. Thank you so much, Miss Gray.”  I almost laughed out loud, delighted to have escaped to this enchanting cove from my dull home life, at least for now.It was three in the afternoon. The hot sun was far off from this shady den. With the cool blue lamps aglow, I sat on my couch, trying to concentrate on a fascinating book about the history of time. But I kept getting distracted by the details of my real life.      Why do I say real life? Because somehow this ambient experience felt nothing like real life.     I wondered who the other guests were. I’d noticed license plates from as far as Louisiana and New Mexico. Then I thought of my next term’s class schedule, prerequisites I’d be taking at three hours apiece, leaving little room for the art class I hoped to start.     Then? I sat forward adjusting the coffee table! so I could have my feet up! This went on for a frustrating twenty-five minutes. Finally, I gave up and put a pillow on it to prop my feet on. And that did the trick, the table was just too low.     I huffed at it.      Then I thought of my boyfriend, Ricky, who had joined the Army on the first of April. They immediately sent him to Germany, which made me so upset. He wanted to fight for his country, he said. He wanted his favorite uncle, a former serviceman himself, to pat him on the back. I'd tried to talk Ricky out of joining, but he said “Monica. my whole life, I’ve wanted to make my uncle proud, this has been going on with me since I was five, way before you and me. I know that’s hard to understand? but, well. I’m sorry. This doesn’t mean it’s over between us” he insisted. “Besides, I’ll write. I promise.”     He didn’t write, though. I’d sent him nine letters, and he didn’t write back, just called and left me a short message once. It was impossible for me to reach him by phone, so I called his mother and she said he was fine. That had been earlier in June.I thought about Mom. She was still battling a terrible breakout of psoriasis. her forehead, nose, hands, neck. So, she refused to leave the house. It was heartbreaking to see how ashamed she felt, hiding in the kitchen all day, keeping the front door unlocked for deliveries so she didn’t have to face anyone. Her friends hadn’t come over in months.      My father was still battling his new, young boss, who kept looking for ways to entice him to retire early. It enraged him and he’d been hard to talk to lately without feeling like I was interrupting an important, ongoing argument inside his head.    My brother was still in the process of divorcing a girl who’d become pregnant with his child. I had never even met her, and he’d only known her a few months before the wedding. He said she started being a rag, not worth his lifetime. Now he was interested in a non-pregnant girl with a flashy, compact waistline. He didn’t even want the kid.   My best friend, Molly, was in rehab with an opium addiction. She’d tried to have me try some, but I was terrified of going blind or something, so I flat refused. Then she became distant until she ended up in the hospital with an overdose. I felt guilty for not being there for her. I mean, she almost died in a back alley.     And my grandmother. I wasn't close to her, but she had passed away in March. Mom inherited Leon, Grandma’s over aged Chihuahua. which peed in the house constantly. All of that left Mom too distracted to deal with another problem.She was receiving free daily deliveries of live flowers, and to our home address, because of a mistake on the order form when she'd selected Grandma’s funeral bouquets.Who’d think free flowers could turn out to be such, a curse?I mean, If she didn’t answer the front door, they’d crowd more flowers on the porch to decay. After her breakout ensued, she quit going outside to pick them up, hence the unlocked front door. The guy who could fix it would never call her back: She left fourteen messages. And since she didn’t want to deal with lawyers until her psoriasis cleared up, she just put the problem on a back burner.And so did I. stuck in my room between classes I was barely passing, depressed myself, no one to call. 1995 was a terrible year.      When I left there were over forty green glass vases filled with rotting carnations all over the living room. Mom couldn’t mourn the loss of her mother quite right with all that going on, so she’d taken to a few tall drinks of wine every day after lunch.      This cottage resort thing couldn’t have come at a better time for me. I was emotionally exhausted with dealing with people who were dealing with themselves, having no more success than I did.      I closed my eyes, set the book aside, and focused on that weird world, concluding that maybe when I returned from solitude, everything would have been self-resolved at home.      Ironically, though, I felt only more lost between two strange worlds while I thought of both of them at the same time. So, I put the familiar one out of my mind and this cottage thing came into better focus for me, at least emotionally. I decided to live in the dream while it lasted.      There was a faint tap on my front door. I opened it to Miss Gray, who whispered “I don’t like knocking much. It disturbs the others. But let’s get your back door open. I’ll meet you on the other side.”  I saw the box truck parked in the pathway, way out front, its engine off.   When eye opened the back door, there were two men and a cart waiting there with my quiet delivery. Miss Gray said “Please! place it on that wall, next to the big out let boys.”     Cautiously, they took their time, didn’t say a word, as if she’d instructed them to keep it hushed.    Once they left, Miss Gray stood in my kitchen with me. She said “I take it you’ve fired pottery in the past?”     “Yes, With my grandmother? I mean the one awn my father’s side. She passed away in, ‘88.”     “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss, dear.” it had been seven years. Being reminded of her by all this ceramic stuff was a comfort to me. My Grandma Wells used to make smores with me before I knew smores even existed, much unlike my Grandma Belle.   After Miss Gray left, I started tinkering, with my big smile all to myself. delighted! to have these brand-new tools at my indulgent disposal.      For the next week? I was absorbed in firing and glazing gifts I planned to bring back to my family. Dad’s ashtray matched Mom’s tea set, which matched a set of grey speckled dessert bowls I was working on.I made tons of beautiful, glazed pottery over several days, plus tons of messes I had to clean up every morning just to make room to make more lovely pottery. Yellow and white swirled pieces, crimson and red speckled pieces. I tried a couple of midnight blue cups with little yellow stars, which bled a little under the glaze, but looked only better that way, honestly.When I painted my pottery with the little radio on in the corner, my mind always drifted to the last normal conversations I had with Ricky or Dad or Molly or Mom, or her friends.  Pretty soon I realized that there was still no one to call. I never saw the other guests. By the fifth day I started crying the moment I awoke. I was homesick, lonesome, and lonely. No. those aren’t quite, the same things. I was, lonesome enough to grieve the still living people I loved. And. I was lonely enough to leave for a few hours. talk to anyone I might encounter.So. I took a long walk, through downtown Milford, a ten-minute drive from the resort. I, bought candy that I, didn’t even want at some little shop there. I didn’t know anyone, so. this didn’t help.When I went back, to my cottage, I considered going back home for a visit but I was afraid that, if I saw my mom feeling down, I’d just feel guilty about leaving her there so might not come back to the cottage. I whispered to myself over a salad on the couch “I’m not cheating myself out of this opportunity! No? I’d better stay!”I knew I'd feel only worse imprisoning myself at home with the rotting flowers and empty wine bottles. My grumpy dad. My attic bedroom was hot, anyway. So despite feeling soggier than my wilted salad, I stayed put.Early on the seventh morning, I opened the front door to let the cool of dawn pour inside. since all that kiln firing kept the cottage a little warm throughout the night. And I gasped wondering, hoping, that I'd caught the attention of some secret admirer here because of what I saw. I didn't even care if it turned out to be some little kid who wanted to play hop scotch on the concrete.There was uh, white envelope, now taped to my door. I pulled the card out. It read, “Congratulations! You’ve been selected for a free reading over a nice hot cup of my homegrown Earl Gray tea. Please stop in to learn about your past life from a Master Psychic, World Renowned, the Incredible Miss Gray.” I was relieved at the thought of sharing company!I giggled to myself trying to imagine this tiny old woman with her shawl and cane, being world renowned then I closed my door and grinningly looked her up online. There was nothing about her. So I thumbed through a copy of the Beaksburg phonebook, which I found in my desk drawer. No psychics listed in the whole area? nothing? I wanted to call my mother so we could get a good chuckle, but there was no phone in the cottage. I assumed Miss Gray had been kidding about being psychic in the note? so dismissed the thought.I showered for teatimeGladly shaved the stubble off my neglected calves. Then I pulled on a pair of Leggs sheer pantyhose so I could go wearing a dress. I wrapped a ribbon around my head, tied a small boe at the top of my crown. Shifted it to one side.Slipped my feet into my shiny shoes. I didn’t want Miss Gray to think I was inelegantI hoped to bea happily invited back Knot shunned to this lonely paradise for the next three weeks.She was also dressed up for tea, almost as well as the Queen of England, when I knocked at 7:30. I thought this was fitting, how we looked like a queen and her granddaughter, the princess. This feeling reminded me only more of my endearing Grandma Wells. I saw that pale toned powder buried around the teeny clear hairs on her nose in the sun’s eastern light as she bowed her head at me and stepped aside to let me in.She even wore a traditional woolen Homburg hat, like the queen. chocolate brown. I thought she looked like the living version of an aged porcelain doll. I smiled at how cute she was with her fresh yellow flower on her hat. She smiled back, not as cheerfully as the Queen, but more like a teacher with some serious routine on her mind. “Good morning,” we exchanged as I passed through the doorway.It smelled like ginger snaps that were soaked in bananas here. and a little like magnolias. I heard only the whisper of the central air. Funky, themed cuckoo clocks, all silent, their minute hands being in disharmony to one another, lined the top of the front wall of her front room. I hadn’t noticed these the other day. The back wall? was lined with all shapes and sizes of black-framed, black-and white photos. from several decades back, displaying crowds of people at places I knew nothing about.A wall of built-in shelving displayed numerous odd-themed tea sets, as if they came from all over the world, from several time periods.No pets, not even a fish in a bowl here. The only thing alive besides us was a hanging ivy plant near the west window. It’s long, abundant beard of thick, Jovian leaves looked happy and fat perched over their grey cement pot like they were a little lazy, a little heavy.I followed her in awkward silence leftward into an impressive, bright parlor: It was filled with gold for Christ’s sakes. And I mean actual gold. Its walls were littered with bulky baroque frames of gold around the dusty glass which encased historic looking documents. Egyptian-esque, gold vases as tall as umbrella stands, stood in each of the four corners. among a clutter of smaller gold vases. The tall ones, were stuffed with stalks of that puffy, pampas grass. There were gold. things. included in that room strictly for the sake of including golden things in that room, such as gold lamps where white ones would have done fine, and little gold tiles integrated like wainscoting on the lower third of the wall, except artful. I was enchanted, by the beauty of their multi-toned collage. a background of stars. and a foreground of early astrologers with their camels, gazing up at the celestial sphere. It seemed, too much, for this cottage.And the table? The most impressive golden object of all. three inches thick. with a gold pedestal. It was the room’s centerpiece, with its black-velvet cushioned, gold high-backed chairs. The smell in this room was different, like paper and wax.A folding screen here, a side table there. a shelved display of commemorative plates. a great grandfather clock, among the clutter all gold as the sun’s light, which mingled with the gleams as if the gold and the light co-enhanced one another. The room was its own powerful spotlight, emitting energy, which only increased as I stared around at everything.I’m sure she offered me a seat. I couldn’t possibly remember, though I sat with the sun to my back.“I’ll be right back.” she said. As soon as i threw my head back to exhale I noticed that the ceiling tiles were multi colored, mother of pearl. straight from the Orient. This room made me feel lost. it was so unexpected. I heard footsteps nearing. before eye could chuckle to myself, for feeling so transported from my simple pottery hobby to this unreal, heavy glamour, She, and her brimmed-hat, swooped back in, with a golden tray that held gold spoons, and a steaming, tea-for-two set, in plum-colored porcelain.Turning my attention to her chatter was the only thing which rescued me from feeling overwhelmed. She sat down across from me. “Have you finished any pottery?” she asked, taking her cup and saucer like her hand was programmed to compensate for gravity with precision balance. I took my own cup, affirming my creative progress in detail as she listened attentively.I described my glazing mistakes, which were uniquely beautiful. “How lovely those spontaneous mishaps must be,” she said.Meanwhile, my gaze kept dipping away from hers at the distracting gold things. She paused in her introduction to this psychic reading, or whatever it was, to say, “It’s all real gold. I work for kings at no charge, so they pay me with these gifts." A golden tusk caught my eye. “That, my dear, comes from Africa.” She rolled her eyes when she said “Somewhere. Can’t say. My clients expect my complete confidentiality.”Continued in Part Two.