Earlier, when the sun had gone down, the sky had only been partially cloudy with a waxing moon. Before going to bed, the sunset had been quite pretty, even with the clouds stretched across it. It was one of those late afternoons when the sun and the moon were in the sky at the same time, something Leah had once thought impossible when she was a kid. It wasn’t until she was well into her teens that she realized the moon didn’t only come out at night.
But since sunset, a layer of thick clouds had rolled in, and now there was no moon and no stars whatsoever. To make matters worse, the few streetlights along Old Mill Road were sparsely strung while it curved and twisted its way along the edge of the river. The road felt even more desolate, cold, and lonely as it began to climb upward into thicker forest. And, as she came up on Sylvie’s old house with the peeling paint, things felt more desolate, colder, and lonelier still. Even though it wasn’t actually cold at all, this road just brought with it a chill Leah didn’t like at all.
Leah parked in the drive and walked the few steps to the door, hoping Sylvie had that coffee ready. Leah’s eyes were barely staying open on their own. She knocked on the door and called out, “Sylvie? It’s Leah.” Then she caught herself. She was being much too friendly and informal. Normally, she would never act so casual. Quickly, she knocked again and corrected the mistake. “Sylvie? It’s Detective Teal, Alvin Police Department.”
Surprisingly, Sylvie didn’t go through her usual routine of sliding the chain over and peering through the crack to verify Leah was who she said she was before opening the door. She just shot the dead bolts, opened the door, and welcomed her in. This was so unprecedented that, for a moment, Leah just stood there, stunned.
“Well, you comin’ in or what?” Sylvie asked. “You said you wanted to talk, let’s talk. I’ve had your coffee ready for ten minutes. It’s probably not even hot no more.”
Blinking her eyes wider open, Leah stepped across the threshold into Sylvie’s place. Once again, the ugly living room lamp was on, but this time the light over the kitchen table was on too, so things didn’t look quite so much like death.
The living room wasn’t as tidy as it had been on Leah’s last visit. The magazines were no longer neatly stacked, and there were a few plates with leftover food sitting on the old coffee table. But Leah had come unexpectedly. She had to remind herself that there were times her place looked like a hurricane had hit it. Having kids will do that. Kids of any age. Speaking of which—
“Did you get the baby down again?”
Sylvie smiled. One of her front teeth was crooked. Leah hadn’t noticed this before and wondered if maybe that was on account of this possibly being the first time she’d ever actually seen the girl’s teeth. Could she really have never seen Sylvie smile before?
“Yeah,” Sylvie said, “she fell right back to sleep after I fed her for a bit. Come on in. Never mind the mess. Coffee’s in the kitchen.”
As soon as they walked into the kitchen, Leah’s eyes locked on the shotgun still leaning against the wall beside the back door. She knew it would be loaded. There was no point in even asking anymore. She’d asked so many times she’d lost count, and the answer never changed. There was no way it would be any different now, of all times.
They sat at the table. Leah instinctively took the chair facing out into the room.
“So what brings you here so late?” Sylvie asked. Her voice was pleasant. She even smiled again. It felt so strange to Leah. It was as if she was talking to somebody normal. And, really, she should be very happy about that, but something inside her wouldn’t let it settle right, because she knew very well that Sylvie wasn’t normal. Sylvie shouldn’t be acting normal. She shouldn’t be happy. A half hour ago, she was yelling on the phone that she was going to hunt down and kill a man tomorrow, and now it was as though she had turned into Miss Congeniality.
Leah took a sip of her coffee. Sylvie was right, it had gotten a bit cold, but at least the girl had listened to her and made it strong. It tasted like the old campfire coffee she used to make when she and Billy would drive up into Mississippi for the weekends. That was back before their marriage. She’d been seven years younger than Sylvie. “I wanna talk about Eli, Sylvie,” Leah said. “I wanna finish what we was talkin’ ’bout on the phone.”
“Oh.” Sylvie looked away and, for a moment, her face fell. Leah watched it very closely. The girl was being very guarded with her emotions, and that scared Leah, because it meant she really did have a plan. This wasn’t just some displaced reaction; this was something cold and calculated.
The smile came back, as though by magic. “Would you like to try some oatmeal raisin cookies I made? They aren’t too good. I’m not much of a baker, but I thought I’d give ’em a try. I watched this woman on the TV make ’em? And she said they was easy as pie. So I tried to follow step by step, only she started going too fast, and I think maybe I—”
“Sylvie,” Leah said, reaching out and touching the girl’s hand, which was grasping the side of her coffee cup. “I didn’t come here for cookies. I came to talk about Preacher Eli. He’s bein’ released tomorrow and he says he’s movin’ back to Alvin. Now, that probably bothers you a mite. I know if I were you, I’d probably be bothered a mite by it, too.”
Concern fell over Sylvie’s face. “You think I should be worried?”
“That’s not what I said. I said I think it bothers you. Which means I think I maybe should be worried. Tell me how it makes you feel.”
Sylvie looked at her cup. “Mad. Sad. I dunno. Kinda like it hurts and I can’t do nothin’ ’bout it.” Turning her face back up, Sylvie revealed tears pooling in her eyes. “How do you think it makes me feel? I want the man dead, Miss Teal. I can’t rest without him bein’ dead.”
“Please call me Officer Teal, Sylvie. And him bein’ dead won’t help your rest any. I agree you need closure, but not the kind of closure you think you need. That kind of closure never actually closes anythin’. You’d wind up with his ghost hauntin’ you the rest of your life.”
“What do I do then?”
“I reckon you need to find a way to forgive him for what happened all them years ago.”
Anger flashed in Sylvie’s eyes, and for a brief second Leah thought things were going to blow out of control. But the anger was washed away by more tears. They still just stood there, tiny pools reflecting the light overhead like small blue moons.
“I can never forgive him for what he did. Not to Caleb. Or to me. He took away everything I ever had.” As she said this, her voice broke, betraying the control she’d been exhibiting since Leah had arrived.
Leah sighed. She remembered what she’d heard about Sylvie still being emotionally five years old. She had to talk to her like she was a five-year-old and this was a concept far beyond a five-year-old’s understanding.
“No, Sylvie, he didn’t. He accidentally shot your brother. Caleb wasn’t meant to die. What happened to him happened because the Lord saw fit for it to happen. For whatever reason, it makes sense in some way or another. That’s why Eli only got sentenced to manslaughter. To be honest, I don’t think he meant to pull that trigger at all. I don’t think he even meant to shoot your daddy.”
Sylvie just sat there quietly as Leah took a long sip of her coffee before continuing. The girl actually seemed to be listening.
“My own daddy was the police officer assigned to that case,” Leah said, “and he would come home at night and tell me ’bout it. I was only a kid then, but I remember him sayin’ how remorseful Eli was about what happened, and my daddy felt sorry for him on account of him feelin’ so bad. What happened to your brother was terrible, don’t ever get me wrong.”
With another gulp, three quarters of Leah’s coffee was done. She was trying to time it so she’d be done just in time to leave.
She continued talking, grateful Sylvie hadn’t tried stepping into the conversation. Instead, she just sat there with her hands folded in her lap like a little girl. Occasionally, she would lift one hand t
o the table to take a small sip of her coffee, but then her hand would go right back to her lap.
“But all the hate you’re carryin’ for Eli?” Leah said. “It ain’t hurtin’ Eli none, Sylvie. It’s hurtin’ you. You’re carryin’ it round with you like a bucket o’ poison. And every time you think ’bout how much you hate him, you drink a little bit more of that poison. Eli don’t drink any of it, you do. And that poison eats away at you from the inside. It makes you see the world as a dark, scary place where people are out to get you.”
Sylvie looked down at the table.
“And the only way you can heal the wounds you’ve got from drinkin’ all that poison is by learnin’ how to forgive,” Leah continued on. “And when you forgive, you’re not givin’ anything to Eli either. He ain’t the one gettin’ the forgiveness, you are. If someone gives you a gift and you don’t take it, who does it belong to?”
Leah wasn’t sure if Sylvie was even listening to her anymore. She was just staring at a spot on the table directly in front of her. The light above the table began to flicker and buzz for several seconds before settling back to normal. Leah sat there, waiting for a response. Finally, Sylvie looked up and answered her question. “I guess it still belongs to the person givin’ it?” she offered.
Leah was happy to hear her sounding like her old self again, even if that old self was the scared, paranoid Sylvie who called the police every time a car so much as backfired in the neighborhood. The way Sylvie had been acting when Leah got here had scared Leah into thinking Sylvie was well on her way to making some really bad decisions. Now Leah thought that just maybe she might have turned things around.
“Exactly,” Leah said. “Eli’s not acceptin’ your gift of hate, and he ain’t gonna accept your gift of forgiveness, neither. Besides, these gifts ain’t for him. Both of these things belong to you. One of them tears you up and hurts you inside, and one of them will heal you. Do you understand any of what I’m sayin’ to you?”
Sylvie sniffled. “A little, I guess.”
“Can you do some thinkin’ on it?”
Sylvie blinked away some tears. “Guess so.”
“Can you stop talkin’ ’bout killin’ Eli? Because all that’s gonna do is put you in prison, and you won’t even get manslaughter. You’ll get murder one. And then there really will be no justice in the world. And who would raise that little girl of yours? Who would be left to give her a name?”
Sylvie wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. When she spoke, there were tears in her voice. “No one.”
With a drink of her coffee, Leah nodded. “No one. That baby needs you more than you need to drink any more poison from that bucket you’s carryin’ round with you. So I want you to just relax for the next few days and let things settle. If you need me, or get anxious at all, you call me. You don’t even need to call the station first. Do we have a deal?”
Sylvie was crying. “Okay.”
Leah rose from her chair. “Now stand up and give me a hug.”
She did. And Leah felt the girl tremble in her arms.
With a look back at the shotgun, Leah asked, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I can convince you to take the shells out of that ’fore I leave, is there?”
Still crying, Sylvie shook her head.
“Didn’t think so. Just be careful. And call me if anything happens, you understand? Do not pick up that shotgun. Pick up the phone. Am I clear?”
Sylvie nodded.
Leah kissed her forehead. “You’ll be okay. Just take care of that baby. And get some sleep.” Reaching down, she lifted her cup to her lips and finished her coffee. “Tell you what I’ll do. Once Eli Brown’s moved back here, I’ll pay him a little visit and just get a feel for the man—make sure he’s as safe as I believe he is. Then I’ll come back here and tell you everything me and him talked about. Does that sound like a good plan to you?”
Sylvie nodded. “I’d appreciate that.” Her words were broken.
“Okay. I’ve gotta leave now.” Leah stepped into the living room. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.”
Once again, it was probably something that didn’t need saying.
CHAPTER 6
On Monday afternoon I came up with a brilliant plan.
It was too late to get a real sword; they were back at Disney World, and my mother wasn’t about to buy me one anyway, but she couldn’t stop me from making my own. Sure, it wouldn’t look as impressive as the ones I saw while on vacation, with the steel blades and the hilts full of gems, but at least I’d have a sword. And if I made it out of wood, I could use it to play fight with Dewey, which would mean I’d have to make two of them.
Problem was, I wasn’t so good with building stuff when it came to wood. Not that I was all that bad; I just didn’t have any experience. But I knew somebody who did. My sister, Carry. And Carry was home right now, in the living room, watching television. And my mother was at work, so the timing was pretty near perfect.
All that remained to my plan was to come up with another plan on how to get Carry to help me.
I decided the direct approach was the best. So I walked into the living room where she was sprawled all over the sofa and just asked her straight out if she’d do me a favor,
“Well, I guess that depends now, don’t it?” she said smugly.
“On what?”
“On what the favor is, dork.”
I didn’t feel we were off to great start with her calling me a dork already, but I decided to press on. “Will you help me build a couple swords from some of the wood Pa left in the garage?”
She didn’t even look at me. Her eyes were glued to that television screen. “What are you talking ’bout?”
“I wanna make two swords so me an’ Dewey can pretend sword fight with ’em, but I need your help on account of I ain’t no good at woodwork and stuff.”
She laughed. “And you think I am? You do remember the non-tree tree fort we made when you was little, don’t you? That thing didn’t last through the night.”
The drapes above the sofa were open and sunlight was pouring into the room, casting my sister in the shadow of the sofa cushions. It made it hard for me to see her properly. “Yeah, but we was just kids then. You’re almost an adult now.”
“Tell Mom that. She still thinks I’m twelve.” She hesitated and added, “No offense.”
“None taken,” I said honestly.
“Anyway,” I said, “I’m thinkin’ swords might be easier to make than forts. They don’t seem to me like they’d be all that complicated.”
I stood there, waiting for her to reply, but a response never came. She just kept watching her television show. After what felt like at least five whole minutes of waiting, I asked again. “So?”
“So, what?” she asked back.
“So will you help me?”
“I’m watching The Facts of Life right now. Maybe later.”
I looked at the television. “This is a rerun. You’ve seen this one at least a hundred times. I think I’ve seen it more than half a dozen, and I can’t even stand this show.”
“So what? They’re all reruns. The show ended in May. I wanna watch it again, ass face.”
“Hey! Mom told you to stop callin’ me that!”
“Oh, you gonna tattle on me?”
I kicked at the gold shag carpet with the toe of my sock. “No. I just really want you to help me make a couple swords so me and Dewey can pretend sword fight. Please? It’ll only take an hour.”
She turned her head and stared at me. “An hour? You think I have an hour to stand around and make stupid swords with you? Please.”
I sighed. “Okay, then a half hour. It won’t take long, I promise. They can be real simple.”
Lying there with her head on the rise of the sofa’s arm and one leg thrown over the top and the other askew along the cushions, I could tell she was considering it. Finally, she pushed herself into a sitting position. The sunlight from the window lit her blond hair from beh
ind, making her look almost like an angel. “Fine! I’ll help you make simple swords,” she snapped. “But they’re gonna be real simple. And you’re gonna owe me somethin’ for this. Don’t you forget it.”
My heart flipped over in my chest. “I won’t,” I said, smiling. “I promise. Cross my heart.”
Crossing your heart and promising your sister you owe her one is like signing a pact with the devil. Especially if your sister is Caroline Josephine Teal. Oh, she helped me make the swords, all right, and they turned out not half bad. We made them from two pieces of narrow pine. One piece was about two feet long and it made the handle and blade. The other was maybe six inches and we nailed it across the other maybe six inches from the bottom to form the cross guard of the hilt. Carry figured out how to use my pa’s old belt sander to taper the long piece down into a point. When we were done, they looked pretty good. Even better than I’d hoped.
“There,” Carry said, as I inspected our handiwork, one sword in each of my hands. “You happy with ’em?”
I beamed back at her. “I sure am. Dewey’s gonna love ’em.” The garage smelled like old car oil, which was strange because there hadn’t been a car parked in here for as long as I could remember. It was too full of wood and tools and other junk left over from my pa after he died that my mother had never bothered cleaning up or getting rid of. We had the garage door open for light and the sun picked out specks of dust scattering through the air.
“How long we been out here?” Carry asked.
I checked my watch. Uncle Henry had bought it for me last fall—it was a Timex, just like his. Except for when I had baths, I always wore it. “Just over half an hour.”
“That’s a lot of my time. You remember our deal?”
I fell silent, trying to figure out what she was talking about. I didn’t rightly have any idea what she meant.
“We had a deal, ass face. You promised if I made you your swords that you’d owe me one.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “What do I owe you exactly?” I realized now that I’d been so excited at the prospect of getting my swords made that I never confirmed what the “one” was that I owed her and that the whole deal was probably a mistake.
Close to the Broken Hearted Page 7