Close to the Broken Hearted

by Michael Hiebert

The Honda managed to make it to the curb and Leah continued driving, hoping Sylvie wouldn’t be too agitated when she arrived.

  She made it up past the courthouse, which pretty much marked the east end of Main Street. Most of the buildings and shops were flanked by the courthouse at this end and the library at the other, although the city had been doing recent development down past the library: mainly a small strip mall called Brookside that Carry and her friends hung out at. It was convenient because before it went in, Leah had to drive all the way into Satsuma to do most of her shopping.

  Main Street didn’t officially end until you continued past the courthouse and came to Hawk Tail Crossing where the road transformed into an iron bridge that went over the Old Mill River. After the bridge, Main Street became a highway that took you out of Alvin.

  Leah drove over the bridge, hearing it rattle beneath her wheels. Under the bridge, the river ran low and slow. There hadn’t been much rain lately. Some days, that river could be high and so fast you’d think it was going to wipe out everything in its path.

  Right after Hawk Tail Crossing was the turn for Old Mill Road that led the short distance north up to Sylvie’s place. Nobody lived between the turnoff and Sylvie’s house—the area was just filled with forest on either side of the road. Mostly it was tall old oaks that cast the road in shadow. But among the oaks were lots of birch and maple, plus the odd elm and cedar. The woods broke tightly against the road, and if you stared into that dense forest you saw the trees quickly constricted and became closed very fast. They became full of thick, dark trunks wrapped with lichen. The boughs of most of the trees were covered in Spanish moss that hung like wild demon hair. Strangler fig and ivy wrapped around the bases of trees, and, in places, climbed up near the tops, choking everything off.

  Leah didn’t think the state of the woods probably helped much with Sylvie’s mind—the way she was—living way out here by herself with just the baby to keep her company. Those woods conjured up all sorts of nightmarish images in Leah’s mind even in the afternoon daylight. Once the sun went down, if you weren’t careful, your brain could get away on you about it, Leah was sure.

  The baby was lying in its bassinet, sound asleep when Leah arrived. She was glad to see that. She figured whatever emotional state Sylvie was in had to rub off on the child in some way, so if that baby was sleeping, things couldn’t be that bad.

  But she soon reassessed this idea. Sylvie seemed awfully upset as she escorted Leah outside to the backyard to show her what she found.

  “Someone’s been out here again,” Sylvie said.

  “Now what’s happened?”

  “Look.”

  Beneath Sylvie’s house was a cellar, although to call it a cellar was really giving it more credit than it deserved. It was more like a crawl space. There couldn’t have been more than two feet of room between the ground and the floor of the house.

  It was enclosed, and to access it you had to enter through two tiny wooden doors that were made of what looked like tongue-and-groove cedar boards. They were constructed at an angle set between concrete sides. The doors weren’t very large, maybe a little more than three-feet square each. A wooden block was attached to the center front of one door that swiveled through a notch built into the frame of the other to keep them closed. There was no other lock.

  The left one was wide open. The right one (the one with the swivel-block attached to it) was closed.

  “This is how I found ’em,” Sylvie said shakily.

  “Open, like this?” Leah asked.

  Sylvie just nodded her head.

  “Sylvie,” Leah said. “This little piece of wood ain’t much holdin’ these shut. The wind could’ve blown this open, or even an animal could’ve swiveled that block of wood loose.” Leah scanned the backyard, wondering where the brodifacoum that killed Snowflake might have come from. She also had her eyes out for any indication of where the cat may have gotten sick that she and Chris might’ve missed. “It’s been pretty windy lately. I don’t think this is any indication that anyone’s been in your backyard.”

  Leah could hear the panic rise in Sylvie’s voice. “They ain’t never blown open before. Besides, that little piece of wood would’ve had to blow around off the other door. I don’t think that’s possible, do you? I think someone’s been here.”

  Squatting down, Leah closed the open door and swiveled the block back into place. It was a pretty tight fit, she had to admit to herself. She wasn’t about to say that to Sylvie. “Anythin’s possible,” she said instead. “I don’t think anyone’s been in your backyard. It’s either the wind or some other simple explanation. Maybe you left it not quite closed all the way and all it took was a bit of wind to do the rest?”

  “I ain’t never been in that cellar in my life,” Sylvie said adamantly. “I’m scared to death of what might be down there.”

  Leah looked up at her. “What you mean?”

  “I dunno. It’s just so . . . dark.”

  “Sylvie, there ain’t nothin’ in your crawl space ’cept maybe some mud.” She opened the door back up again, took her pocket flashlight from her small-item pack, and shined it around inside the immediate area. It had a dirt floor that was pretty much level. She couldn’t see anything other than dirt going back as far as her flashlight would allow her to see. “There’s nothin’ in here.” She really should’ve probably gone under the house and taken a proper look, but truth be told, Leah had two fears in this life that she didn’t tell nobody about. One of ’em happened to involve being stuck in tight, enclosed, dark spaces and the other was an irrational fear of spiders. Looking into this crawl space, even from outside, Leah was quite sure it fit both criteria all too well. It was dark and confining and probably the home of more than one spider. She didn’t even like the view from the cellar doors. It gave her the creeps. She thought about Sylvie. We all have our own monsters. Some of us just hide them better than others.

  She shined the light around a bit more. “There’s nothin’ here. It’s clear.”

  “I still ain’t ever goin’ in there.”

  Leah stood up. “Nobody’s askin’ you to.”

  “Well, somebody went in there,” Sylvie said.

  Leah let out a long breath. “If there ain’t nothin’ in your crawl space, then why would someone want to go in there? It don’t look like the most comfortable place in the world to me. I wouldn’t go outta my way to be crawlin’ round underneath your house in the muck.” The dirt Leah could see from where she stood did show what could be scuff marks, but they really weren’t indicative of anything positive, so Leah just wrote them off. They could’ve been made anytime. Orwin could have stored things under the house back before he left and they could still be from then.

  “I think it was Preacher Eli,” Sylvie said. “He’s probably tryin’ to figure out some way to kill me. Maybe he’s gonna put a bomb under there.”

  Leah closed her eyes and thought happy thoughts. This was going to take all the patience she could muster. “Now, Sylvie, I went and saw Eli Brown just like I promised I would.”

  This got the girl’s attention. Her eyes went wide and she moved closer to Leah. “What did he say? What happened? Did you mention me?”

  “Slow down there, girl. Yes, I mentioned you. He told me in no uncertain terms that it would be a cold day in hell before he stepped anywhere near you. He said he deeply regrets what he done and that he can’t possibly make amends to you so there’s no point in even tryin’ to apologize. So he won’t be botherin’ you. And he certainly ain’t puttin’ no bombs under your house.”

  Sylvie looked disappointed and dubious at the same time.

  “Sylvie,” Leah said, “the man is old. He’s not the same as he used to be. He’s done his time. He just wants to make peace with himself.”

  “He’s foolin’ you.”

  “No, he’s foolin’ you,” Leah said. “And that’s sad, cuz he ain’t even doin’ anythin’, and you’re lettin’ him control your life. He’s harmless.”
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  “Then who opened my cellar door?”

  “Nobody opened your goddamn door. The wind blew it open!” Leah stopped. She couldn’t let herself get angry. “Listen,” she said, much more quietly and calmly, “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go on thinkin’ Eli Brown’s out to get you. It ain’t healthy for anybody. It definitely ain’t helpin’ you get on with your life. Now I went and talked to the man. I don’t know what else I can possibly do to make you believe me.”

  “You honestly think the wind blew this door open? Even though it ain’t ever blown open before?”

  “I do,” Leah said, although she wasn’t quite certain she really did. “And there’s no real discernable footprints or scuff marks that I can make out anywhere around here in the dirt.”

  “The dirt’s hard packed here.”

  “You’d still think I’d see somethin’. All I see is your shoe prints goin’ back and forth toward this area from the back door. They’ve made a track. Even if there had been footprints, they’re lost now. I really think it was the wind, Sylvie.”

  “It hasn’t been that windy. We’ve had windier times. It didn’t blow open then.”

  Leah shrugged. “I can’t explain that. All I can say is that it makes no sense that someone would come and open your cellar door. Ask yourself why would they do it, Sylvie? To go into your crawl space and get all dirty? And why would they leave it open? Why not close it if they’re gonna do something sneaky? Why leave evidence?”

  This one seemed to stump Sylvie. She looked deep in thought.

  “You really have to start askin’ yourself questions like these,” Leah said. “Or you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

  “What if someone’s tryin’ to make me crazy?”

  Leah didn’t think that would be much of a challenge. But then she chided herself for having a thought like that gallop around her mind. “Nobody’s trying to make you crazy, Sylvie. Again, ask yourself: Why? Why would someone want to make you crazy?”

  Again Sylvie looked deep in thought.

  “Exactly,” Leah said after a few seconds of silence. “There is no reason.”

  Sylvie let out a deep breath. “I guess . . .”

  “You gonna be okay?”

  “I guess so.”

  “How’s the baby?”

  “She’s fine. Sleeps a lot.”

  “I noticed she was sleepin’ when I came in. That’s better than cryin’, ain’t it?”

  Sylvie shrugged. “I dunno. I like it when she’s awake. I like the company.”

  At that, Leah felt a twinge of pain in her heart for the girl. “Well, you just wait. Before you know it, she’ll be fifteen and you’ll wish she just kept quiet all the time. Trust me, I know.” Leah smiled.

  Sylvie smiled back, but it was a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “Well, speakin’ of which, I best be goin’. I have to get home and make sure my kids don’t starve themselves.”

  Sylvie looked at the door still open where Leah had left it. “Okay.”

  “You want me to close that ’fore I go?”

  “No, I can do it.”

  “Okay.” Leah took one more look around the yard. Then, right before heading toward the back door, she turned and asked Sylvie, “By the way, have you ever had a problem with rats?”

  Sylvie looked confused. “Rats? What do you mean?”

  “You know, rats. Have you ever had them in your house or anythin’ and had to get rid of ’em somehow?”

  “No, why?”

  Leah shook her head. “Just wonderin’. I’ll talk to you soon. In the meantime, you take care of yourself and that baby. And find her a name, goddamn it.”

  Sylvie gave her a hint of a grin. “I’m tryin’.”

  “Well, try harder.”

  “Bye,” Sylvie said. “Thanks for comin’ out.”

  Leah walked into Sylvie’s kitchen, hearing Sylvie swing the cellar door closed outside. Along with everything else, Leah now had a new unsettling feeling in her stomach because she really didn’t like how tightly that wooden lock clasped between those two doors. Sylvie was right. It was very unlikely that the wind blew that door open.

  CHAPTER 13

  Just like when she found Snowflake dead on her back doorstep, Sylvie couldn’t get to sleep after finding the cellar door open outside. She hated the fact that the police wouldn’t believe her. She didn’t blame Officer Leah. If she was honest with herself, Sylvie doubted she’d believe her stories either. And she had called the police so much, she was almost like that boy in that story about the wolf.

  But she felt so vulnerable, especially it just being her and the baby way up here all by themselves out amid all the woods like they were. But then, Sylvie never really had felt like she had anyone. Not since Caleb died, anyway. It always felt like people could just be taken out of her life so easily. And they had been. First Caleb, then Mother, then Pa. One by one, they was gone.

  That’s partly why she jumped at dating Orwin Thomas when she had the chance. He was the first boy to show interest in her. Sylvie had a difficult time with relationships of any sort. She had no friends at school. So when Orwin Thomas, the number-one tight end for the Satsuma Westland Eagles, asked her out, she felt compelled to say yes.

  Unfortunately, it was only a month after they started dating that Orwin tore out his anterior cruciate ligament.

  It was during a rivalry game between Satsuma Westland High and Mobile Evercrest High. At the half, the score was tied at seventeen. It was right at the top of the third quarter that it happened. The Mobile Evercrest Panthers kicked off to the Westland Eagles.

  Terrance Williams caught the ball on the fifteen-yard line and managed to run it to the thirty-five. The offensive team took the field, led by quarterback Barrett Mosley. Orwin Thomas had played tight end for Mosley for a year and a half and Mosley trusted him as much or more than any other player on the team. That’s how good Orwin Thomas was. He would tell Sylvie all the time about how much he had college written all over him. There was even talk that he’d be able to write his own ticket, that he could go wherever he wanted after he graduated: Ole Miss, LSU, or Alabama. Football was the one thing in this whole big world that Orwin Thomas was good at.

  Then came the next huddle. The call was a pass to Orwin, who would run out and down the edge of the field ten yards before cutting back in to make the catch. Mosley made the count and Orwin started his run. In the stands, as she pretty near always was, Sylvie sat watching her man. She was damn proud of him.

  Orwin made his run down the field and cut in behind the Panthers’ defenders just as the football was sailing straight into his open hands. The throw was slightly high, so he had to jump for it.

  That’s when it happened.

  Two hits at near on the exact same time.

  One came from the front, the other from the side. Both came low, both caught his knee. The side hit may have come slightly ahead of the one from the front. They tore his ACL completely to shreds, ripping apart his knee.

  Remarkably, Orwin made the catch. But it would be the last catch he’d ever make. The doctors told him he’d never play organized football again. Certainly, all thoughts of college flew out the window with that catch, because a football scholarship was the only way Orwin was going to college. He didn’t have the smarts to do it any other way.

  It turned out, other than football, he didn’t have much ambition either. He dropped out of twelfth grade fewer than two months later. Sylvie knew then that things were taking a turn for the worse, but in the back of her mind she wanted to stay hopeful. After all, Orwin was all she had.

  Even though he had been in the twelfth grade, she was only in the eleventh. Yet, she was two years older than him on account of her missing school due to what had happened to her when she was younger. She had been set back three years of schooling. After her pa died, Sylvie had spent a couple of years in foster care, but was on her own when she met Orwin. She reckoned now that was half the attraction for him: that she l
ived on her own and was pretty easy pickings—something she now hated herself for.

  Orwin Thomas was eighteen when Sylvie let him move into her place in Alvin. Everything about their relationship was like fireworks. When the romance clicked, it went off like hand grenades. Except, usually, it wasn’t so much the romance but Orwin’s temper going off like firecrackers on the Fourth of July.

  “Where’s the goddamn beer?” Orwin liked to yell when he came home from work. He did a lot of odd jobs around town, but mostly he pulled late-night shifts at Emmett’s garage. One particular evening he seemed downright ornery.

  “Maybe you drank it?” Sylvie offered.

  “I didn’t goddamn drink it! Have you been drinking my beer, bitch?”

  Sylvie tried to laugh off his anger. “No. I don’t like beer.”

  “Well, there was beer here last night, damn it!” He slammed the refrigerator door.

  “Maybe we can go get some more?” Sylvie asked softly. She was always trying to keep his temper in check.

  “With what? You think I’m goddamn made of money? I work and work and work my ass off and come home to this goddamn house and it’s always a fucking pigsty.”

  Sylvie looked around the house. She had spent the day cleaning it because she knew Orwin liked it clean. There was nothing she could do when he was like this. But she did feel bad for him. She knew he was hurting about losing his football scholarship and he was the one bringing home the money.

  “Is dinner at least ready?” he asked.

  “It will be in ten minutes.”

  “What are we having?”

  “Pork chops.”

  She knew he wouldn’t argue with that. Orwin loved pork chops.

  “How ’bout I go get you some more beer?” Sylvie asked.

  This is the way it usually went. She tried to keep him appeased because, many nights, neighbors would call the police after hearing him yelling at her through the thin-paned glass of their small house, calling her all sorts of things before sometimes stomping out into the dead of night, occasionally not to be heard from for a day or two.