37. Epilogue

Why dwell on this tale of two bloggers? Can it be considered a cautionary tale? If so, what is the essence of its warning? There is something Shakespearian about two star cursed bloggers meeting, even though Shakespeare never owned an iPad and borrowed his plots from Plutarch. Julian discovered Lana by chance. A moment of enthusiasm overtaking the need for caution connected Amy to Lana. Julian’s persistence of habit led him to discover the identity of the author. The promise of passion prompted them to meet. They almost got away with it, but anger and indiscretion led to violence and stubbornness. Talent was discovered, skill fueled the fire of fame. Fame and indiscretion led to more resentment. The demon of withheld compassion turned passion into ashes. In the ashes grew the evil of anger. Anger begat more anger, and physics took care of the rest.

Then, there is the fact of human frailty. Had any of the players been other than as they were, some facet may not have glinted in the light and caused the effect. Had Scott been less controlling and more in tune with creativity, Lana may not have taken to telling all in a blog. She may have gotten an airplane for her birthday instead of a book deal. Had Julian not been so flattened by his creative effort, he may not have found that blog in the first place. Had he not taken the blog to school like a gem he found beside the road, Amy might not have gone viral. Had Dana not guided her husband through the reefs of his humanity, the dismaying fact of his profound interest and lust, he might have felt less inclined to honor her and thus have truly saved Lana from her fate. Had Dana not gotten drunk and called Amy a whore, divulging the truth of the hurt she felt, Julian might not have been so careful. The ultimate in human frailty was the unrequited love that ate Scott’s personality out from the inside, so his love became its raging opposite. Had he gone to see a shrink like Dana Feminita, he might have found his bearings and arrived at peace. Had he been a worse pilot, he might have died and taken a few commuters out with him.

What of the story’s moral, anyone? How about, “if you blog, don’t tell all. If you tell all, don’t blog.” Amy didn’t tell all, but given the result she got, she may have told too much. “If you turn your blog into a book, don’t drag your neurotic ex husband into it.” Lana might have lasted a bit longer if Ellen DeGeneres’ producers weren’t so eager for a joke at someone else’s expense. The book might have been a dud. The intern at Harper’s might have called in sick that day, or his raging boss might have driven him to quit. “If you rise up from the slush pile, don’t get too high and mighty.” Is there anything actually going on in this epilogue?

Scott was charged with her murder, and against the advice of his lawyer, he pled guilty. He was sentenced to life in prison. As far as the state was concerned, he killed her in cold blood. As far as Scott was concerned, that was the truth. He spent his years digesting his hate. He often thought of having sex with Lana, since it had always been so good. To think of sex, to have that imagination which fuels your arousal, be connected also with the image of your lacerated body and her prone corpse, it takes quite a bit of digesting. Life in prison is a long time, and what else better have you got to do?

The evil sisters and their husbands grieved. Julian and Dana grieved. Dana’s grief was more on her husband’s behalf. She knew her Kinsey and she knew her Berne. She didn’t know about the Neuropharma stuff. She understood lust and becoming an adult. She looked at Julian as an adult, and saw that he regarded her that way too. So he had fallen in love with a being outside their union. It happens. She let him have his crying jags and always held him close during and after. Thus, her marriage prospered. She stood beside him on a blustery March day at Lana’s funeral. It was a packed affair, and there was media attention aplenty. Hers was a midlist book that would always have a readership. She was sometimes taught in schools. Her language was as bad as Salinger’s so she was a favorite with teenyboppers. Julian stood beside Damien Andersen at the funeral, and later consoled him over drinks. They hit it off as friends, and as Julian toiled on his version of “Bloggers,” a novel, Damien dutifully read, critiqued, and line-edited. When published as an ebook, it did OK. It didn’t buy him a new car. He was no Lana Andersen. His book took a crack at decrying the social evil of domestic violence. If you have a possessive boyfriend or husband, you have a problem. You can’t beat a woman. That stance alone earned it a cult following among the sisterhood.

In a cemetery in Parkersburg, not far from the Bald Eagle Airstrip, there is a simple stone that marks the grave of Lana Marietta Andersen. The seasons are there for her. In winter, she is smothered. In spring, her optimism blossoms and she lives on. In summer she flies, high among the hollows, free as a bird. Then comes the fall, and the fallen angel flutters to the ground like so many-colored leaves, and in those fragrant piles she mourns for the life that might have been. Her stone bears a simple verse, a million copies sold, memorized by school kids as a doggerel about life, nature and its implication for survival or extinction:

“ I am a bird among the cats.
A single swat and I am toast. That’s that!
That thin red line is mine, my life.
The paw lashed out as knife.
Let me speak once more undead.
I ate. I waited. Bled.”