About the Author
NicoleC lives in Virginia.
Wilson, Wilson Ford!
By Nicole C.
Continuing the short story "A Village Singer" by Mary Wilkins Freeman
Four months after the burial of Candace Witcomb, Wilson Ford skipped merrily through the village. He had just come from Alma Way’s home: she would marry him on Sunday, the day after he collected his inheritance! Wilson wanted to throw his hat in the air and whoop at the thought. Wilson checked himself as he mounted the post office steps. That old gossip, Laura, would have it all over town that something was up if he acted that way. With that reflection Wilson went in to collect his mother’s mail.
“Wilson, Wilson Ford! Is it true that your mother wants to make a flower box for her window? I think that’s very unsightly. A good rose bush ...”
Wilson ignored Laura’s gibberish and turned to her lispy brother Matthew who sat behind the counter.
“Two for ye mum”, Matthew said after his fashion, “and one fer you, Wilthon. Wath addrethed to ur’ old aunt Candane, ath uthual, though I thought it bethed to give it to you, but jutht be thure to tell whoever thent the letter to change the addreth.”
Wilson fingered the thick envelope thoughtfully as he asked Matthew what he meant by ‘ath uthual’.
“One of them letterth cometh at the end of the month. Ith like regular clockwuck”, Matthew sputtered.
As soon as Wilson found himself a safe distance for the post office, he opened the letter. Inside rested a piece of paper and next to it a stack of money! Wilson stared for a moment at the money in shock then unfolded the paper. All that was written on the paper were large sums and the words:
All expenses paid for. No action required. –C.S.
“C.S.?” Wilson murmured to himself. “Who could this C.S. be, sending a dead woman so much money?”
“Wilson! Wilson Ford”
Wilson turned to the very amused minister watching him from his doorway. A bright idea suddenly came to Wilson. The minister knew everybody in and around the village; he would know this C.S.
“Hmm, I was wondering why you would be standing in the middle of the road”, the minister said after Wilson explained what he had found. After a moment of thought, he continued, “The only man I could point you to would be Conrad Steele, but I have not seen Conrad in the village lately.” Conrad, along with his son and daughter were social outcasts, mainly because Conrad and his son Timothy had a habit of arguing with the minister’s sermon during church meetings.
“But” the minister continued, “I heard Timothy will be in the village today.”
Wilson did not stay much longer.
Wilson, now flushed with the excitement of a mystery, rushed to the market, passing a wagon loaded with sheep and stepping on a stray cat in his hurry.
“Wilson! Wilson Ford”
Wilson spotted Jack McCoy, the potter.
“Yes, Jack?” Wilson hoped Jack would not talk too much.
“What’s your rush?”
Wilson sighed, “I must find Timothy Steele. Have you seen him?”
Jack grinned, “Ahh, yes. He just passed me a few minutes ago with his wagon of sheep. Ye won’t catch him though. Timmy is one to rush.”
Wilson wondered how so soft-spoken and small a man as Jack could call the dark and foreboding (as well as locally infamous pugilist), scowling young giant, ‘Timmy’.
“Jack, I must catch him”, Wilson groaned. “Where did he go?”
After a close scutinizing pause, Jack began gently but sternly, “Wilson, unless this is er’gent, go and you wait a month or so till they come back. Timmy went home, and I don’t need you gettin’ lost ‘cause you’re curious, which I know you are.”
The Steeles lived somewhere in the mountains next to the village. Crisscrossed with a maze of muddy trails, steep climbs, and wild animals galore, no man went there if he did not know where he was going. Conrad had once made a bet to see if another man could find his house. Conrad had won and Mr. Alton broke his leg three miles on the wrong side of the mountain.
Wilson shook his head stubbornly. He was a determined, confident man who could take hard work. A climb up a mountain would not stop him. Or would it?
A story by NicoleC