by MK Schiller
“Shut up, smartass. I’m saying it’s going to be the best kiss you will ever have in your entire life. No other kiss will even compare to it.” I was really talking out of my ass on this one, but I was on a roll of bullshit that just wouldn’t quit.
“So when will I get this kiss?”
“Jesus, Sylvie, have some patience. All good things come to those who wait.”
“’Kay,” she sighed.
I picked up a baseball that was wedged in her nightstand. I knew it was from one of my Little League games, but I was surprised she had it. I started throwing it in the air, looking for something to occupy me from the conversation.
“Are you leaving?” she asked after a while.
“Do you want me to?”
“No. Can you stay for a while?”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to be alone.” There was something heartbreaking in that. It was apparent she was suffering. I just had no idea why.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
“Funny, smartass. I’m being serious.”
“Well, spit it out then.”
“Does your daddy ever hurt you? You know, like more than a punishment?” It was something I’d wanted to ask since I’d heard the rumor, but I’d never had the courage to.
She turned so she was on her stomach, leaning down toward me. Her hair brushed across my face, forming a tent between us. It was soft and silky like feathers raining down on me. I thought she was going to kiss me again. She flicked her fingers against my forehead instead. “No, Cal Tanner. He does not. He loves me very much.”
I winced, rubbing the area. “Okay, geez, I get it. I was just wondering because he’s different than other dads.” I wasn’t just referring to his alcohol problem, but there was something off about the way he treated her. It pissed me off.
She sat back up on her bed, taking a deep breath. I wished I’d kept my big mouth shut. “I remind him of my mother. I look like her. I guess I should stop wearing her clothes. He probably thinks he’s seeing a ghost…or maybe a raven.”
“You wear your momma’s clothes?” That explained a lot when it came to her wardrobe choices.
“Yeah, it’s all I have left of her. He’s just sad that she died.”
“How did she die, Sylvie?”
“She got cancer. I don’t have anything else to say on it.”
“I’m sorry. Do you want me to go so you can get to sleep?”
“Will you stay with me until I do? I sometimes have nightmares.”
“Sure, but I’ll stay on the floor, okay?”
“I promise I won’t kiss you again.”
“I’m not taking any chances, girl.” I chuckled, trying to lighten her mood.
“Whatever.” She threw me a pillow and one of her blankets.
She turned off her lamp and we lay there in the dark silence for a while.
“Cal,” she whispered, right before I dozed off. “I’m sorry you missed the game for me.”
“You can make it up to me.”
“How will I do that?”
“Don’t move.”
* * * *
The next day, I came home after several exhausting games of football to find Sylvie helping my momma in the kitchen.
“What’s going on?”
“Sylvie’s joining us for dinner.”
“Oh.” This was surprising. Sylvie would come over and play with Mandy, but despite the constant invitations to Mr Cranston to join us for supper, he always declined. I guessed my mother should have just asked Sylvie by herself. It wasn’t like he would have cared.
“Go take a shower, Cal. You smell like a gym locker,” Momma said, pinching her nose.
She was right. I reeked something awful, even I could smell it.
When I came back down, the table was set and my dad was home. “Hi, gorgeous, whatcha cooking for me?” It was his usual greeting to my mother, followed by a big hug and kiss. Gross.
“Meatloaf,” she replied, smacking his hand away. “Let’s eat.”
“Daddy!” Mandy squealed, bounding out of her room like a tornado.
“Hey, princess,” my daddy said, scooping her up in his arms. He spun her around until her giggles turned into shrieks.
He suddenly stopped in mid-turn, noticing Sylvie. “Hello, Sylvie.”
“Good evening, Mr Tanner.”
“You’re joining us for supper?”
“Isn’t that obvious, John?” my mother interjected.
“I suppose it is. Happy to have you.” I could tell my daddy was not happy. He regarded Sylvie and her father with reserved caution. I knew he disagreed with my momma’s opinion of her, but he wasn’t the kind of dad who would prohibit my friendship with her unless he saw a reason to.
We sat at the table. My father said grace. I opened one eye to stare at Sylvie. She had her eyes closed tightly and was squinting her face like she was praying extra hard.
“Sugar, this is really good,” my father complimented after he took his first forkful of food.
“Sylvie helped me. She’s a very good cook.”
“I helped too!” Mandy interjected.
“Yes, you did. You did a very good job with shucking that corn for me, princess.”
“You ladies all did a great job,” my father responded.
“How was work?”
“We caught some speeders on the south end of town. Nothing too exciting, but guess what happened after work?”
“What?” my mother asked.
“I headed over to Walmart to buy some batteries and I ran into Mona Simms. Boy, let me tell you she sure had an earful for me about our rude son.”
I had almost forgotten. I cringed at the punishment that would surely follow my disobedience. I caught a glimpse of Sylvie. She looked more frightened than me, and I was the one who was going to get my ass beat in a few minutes.
“What did Cal do?” my mother asked, narrowing her eyes at me.
Before my father could answer, Sylvie interrupted. “Mr Tanner, please don’t be mad at Cal. He was defending me, sir. It was my fault. Miss Simms made fun of my outfit, and he was just taking up for me.”
My father stared at Sylvie for a moment. I winced, hoping he wouldn’t ban her from our house. Instead, the corners of his mouth quirked like he was trying to keep from grinning.
“Is that a fact?”
“It is,” she said, staring down at her lap.
He turned to me. “Cal, although I appreciate your sentiment, it was still inappropriate. You don’t have to defend one lady by insulting another. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Although I wouldn’t exactly call Mona Simms a lady, but I knew better than to voice that opinion.
“I want you to write her an apology note and hand-deliver it.”
“But—”
“Or should I give you another punishment? Either write the note or you can’t go to Friday night football for the rest of the season.”
“He didn’t even go yesterday, John,” my mother replied.
My dad put his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “What? You didn’t go?”
“No, I had other stuff to do,” I replied contritely.
My father placed his hand on my forehead. “You feeling okay, son?”
“I’m fine,” I replied, matching his wide grin. The tension was broken and I started relaxing. I even heard Sylvie exhale a deep breath.
The rest of the dinner was mostly Mandy hijacking the conversation as she always did, talking about her favorite television shows, dresses she wanted to buy and all the other boring random stuff my sister talked about that I’d learned to tune out. My parents and Sylvie listened with rapt attention as if she was reciting the formula for turning garbage into gold. I did my best not to yawn.
My father leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach, staring down at his empty plate. “Woman, I knew I was destined to marry you when I first tasted your meatloaf.”
“Is tha
t the reason you married me?” Momma asked, smirking.
“One of many, sweetheart. One of many.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Like, for instance, how you always help me when I’m struggling to remember something.” He started humming then. I tried not to roll my eyes, knowing what was in store for us.
“Oh no, not again,” my mother said. “You have a song stuck in your head, don’t you?”
“Yeah, sugar. Can you please help me out? I know you’ve heard it.”
My mother sighed. “Okay, what is it?”
“Something like ‘walk away’ and a girl’s name. It’s like ‘walk away, Sarah’. You know what I’m talking about?”
“No, I have no idea.”
My father loved music, especially old music. He’d actually been in a rock band when he was younger. They’d tried to make it to California. They’d got as far as Dallas. He played the piano and the guitar. He’d tried to teach me, but I wasn’t so musically inclined. I’d snapped off his guitar strings and my piano playing had induced a series of headaches for Momma. It was decided his instruction would be better saved for Mandy.
“C’mon, honey, you know it. It’s like a one-hit wonder from the Sixties. I think we danced to it before. Hell, I might even have the record.”
“No swearing, John. Children are present,” my mother chided, although I didn’t think hell was a swear word. It was in the Bible after all.
“Sorry,” my father grumbled, walking over to the piano. He strummed a few notes, trying to find the right combination for the elusive song that had grasped hold of his mind and wouldn’t let go until he figured out the name.
“Come on, family. Surely you have to have some idea here?”
“No idea, John.”
“Don’t look at me,” I said, holding my hands up.
My father sat down at the piano bench and hit a few more keys. Sylvie wiped her mouth, stood up and walked over to him. “May I?” she asked, gesturing to our old Suzuki mini-grand. My father regarded her with surprise, but moved over on the bench.
“Be my guest.”
She sat next to him and started playing. His shocked expression was gradually replaced with awe as Sylvie expertly hit the right keys, but I’m not sure if I ever recovered. When she started singing, I thought my daddy was going to fall right off the bench. Sylvie was a damn good singer. Who knew? The sounds of Walk Away, Renee began filling up the room.
“That’s right,” my father said, slapping his knee. When she got to the chorus, he joined her. My mother walked over too and added her voice. This was weird. My father sometimes sang and played, but we didn’t sing together as a family unless it was Christmas carols. Mandy ran over and jumped on my daddy’s lap. The four of them looked so happy. I guess music had a way of bringing people together like that. I walked over and stood next to my mom. I sure as hell wasn’t singing, but I didn’t mind standing with them.
When Sylvie finished, she turned to my father nervously. “It’s by The Left Banke and it is a one-hit wonder, although the Four Tops and Linda Ronstadt have covered it.”
“Where did you learn that song, Sylvie? And where did you learn to play like that? You’re really good.”
She looked down at the piano. “Thank you. My mother taught me on both counts. My father used to sing it to her. Her name was Renee.”
My momma leaned down, patting Sylvie’s shoulders. “It’s a beautiful song, and all the lyrics came right back to me. You have an angelic voice, young lady.”
“Thank you, ma’am. It’s better than my piano playing. I haven’t played for a while.”
“You could use some practice, but you definitely have a strong basic framework. You should take lessons,” my father suggested.
Sylvie beamed at the compliments so much that I wondered if anyone had ever said a nice word to her. “Is there anyone in Prairie Marsh that gives lessons?”
My father and mother both grimaced at the same time, chiming out in unison, “Mona Simms.” We all laughed. “Look, why don’t I give you lessons? I usually give Mandy lessons after dinner. You’re much more advanced, but I’m sure you girls could learn from each other.”
Sylvie widened her eyes, regarding my father with some kind of crazy gratitude so that even he blushed—and this man never blushed. I didn’t see what the big deal was. “I would really like that, sir.”
“Great. We’ll start tomorrow night.”
I think that’s how Sylvie won her way into my daddy’s heart. She knew as much about obscure rock songs as he did and they both loved the piano. She won my mother’s by being so well-mannered and sweet.
The girl didn’t have to win my heart. She owned it outright.
Chapter Six
Present day
I arrived to class early on the pretense of grading the last few papers, but I was really hoping to get a better look. I swallowed hard as I watched her come into the classroom. She still wore the baseball hat, but I could see the deep cinnamon-colored hair sticking out in a silky ponytail. It curled at the ends. She wasn’t wearing her sunglasses and for that brief moment our eyes met before she tilted her face downward. They were large brown eyes—solid as fresh earth, sexy as melted chocolate and soulful as the majestic oak trees in the forest. They took my breath away.
She wore simple jeans and a loose V-neck T-shirt the color of mud, but even this outfit didn’t hide her voluptuous assets. My gaze followed her perfectly round ass and shapely legs all the way up the steps of the lecture hall to that very back seat. This girl had so many similarities to Sylvie, but she was different too. Sophie Becker was jaw-droppingly gorgeous, but then again, I’d always known Sylvie had a natural beauty and even she couldn’t hide that forever. Sylvie Cranston was…perfection.
I was determined to get more information this time. I wasn’t letting Sophie get away so easily, but first I wanted to talk to her openly. Talk to her without talking to her. Luckily, I was in a position to do that.
“Today, we are going to talk about the unsent letter, which is your next assignment. Just like the term implies, it is a letter you write to someone which you have no intention of sending. You will all be writing unsent letters to someone. They can be sonnets or a simple letter. The idea behind the assignment is a chance to showcase some emotional writing, as exhibited in the works we have been reading. We won’t read them out loud, so they will be completely anonymous except to Jessica and me.”
Roy Adkins’ hand shot up. I waved it away. “Mr Adkins, there is no need to point out that this assignment is not in the syllabus. This is a place of higher learning and, as your instructor, I have the right to add additional assignments.” A few of the guys groaned, but I ignored them. “Do not look at this as additional work, but rather an extra opportunity to impress me. I hope some of you will, as it is a rare experience for me. Now, it won’t take much time. It only needs to be a paragraph or two in fact. I just want a clear indication of your writing skills through an informal outlet.”
A girl in the front row raised her hand. I nodded toward her. “Can it be to anybody we want?”
“Yes, anyone.” I paused for a moment, trying to coax the next words to come out evenly. “Dead or alive. It’s your choice. I have an example of an unsent letter, which I wrote when I was eighteen. It’s to give you a perspective on the assignment.” I took the folded paper out of my pocket, questioning why the hell I’d thought this was a good idea in the first place. “I wrote this to someone I cared about very much and in some ways, writing it brought me some peace.”
I cleared my throat and stared at the shaky words mocking me on the paper, flavored with yellowing tinges of time.
“Dear Sylvie, I keep forgetting that you’re not with me anymore. I keep going to the lake, looking for your pretty face, but you’re not there anymore. I keep walking in the woods, staring at the fallen leaves, wishing for your sweet embrace, but you’re not there anymore. I tap on your bedroom window, hoping you’ll greet me, but you’re not there anymore. The only plac
e I find you now is in my heart and troubled soul. There you live as if you’d never left. You will be there forevermore.”
A sob escaped in the first row. Melanie Adams had a tissue out. Shit.
“That was so poignant,” she said. Some of the other girls looked teary-eyed too.
“Thank you,” I replied, a bit surprised by the emotional reaction I was getting from the females. I’d only read the first paragraph, but decided that was enough.
“You loved her,” Melanie Adams said.
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to cry. I had never cried for Sylvie. Somehow, it felt like if I did, I would accept her death, and I never wanted to do that. “Your letter can be a poem like mine or in letter form. It can be anything you want as long as it’s spoken from the heart. Also, don’t forget we have an exam next class and it’s worth a quarter of your grade.”
She filed out fast with her head down as soon as class was over, but I yelled out her name. “Miss Becker, can I please have a moment of your time?”
She halted in her tracks and turned to me. She stood there like a frozen statue as the other students fled past her.
“Do I know you?” I asked her.
“I don’t think so,” she replied.
I walked over to her. She winced, staring at my feet. The limp was very slight and very few people noticed it, but Sophie Becker did. “Are you sure? You look like a girl I used to know.”
She smiled politely, but shook her head, “I get that a lot. I have one of those faces.”
“I highly doubt that,” I muttered, letting my eyes graze over her lovely body. I was in trouble. I had to stop this madness.
“Professor…err… Cal, can I speak to you?” Melanie Adams interrupted.
I turned toward her, trying my damnedest not to scowl. “One minute, please.”
When I turned back, Sophie Becker was gone.
I spent the next twenty minutes listening to Melanie Adams drone on about poetry and the great American novel. She plied me with compliments about how much she was enjoying my class and all the things she had learned. Damn, the girl could talk. I nodded when appropriate and added my own comments, but my thoughts kept drifting to Sophie Becker, Sylvie Cranston and of course…Lenore.