It had always been her belief that no man could ever look at her and not see visions of her naked in colored lights. Surely, no man could deal with that. She had never been able to forgive herself. Even at confession, a priest once scolded her for telling the same sin over again for which he had already given absolution. She usually went to different confessors, but had apparently slipped up.
“Do you not have faith, woman?” he said firmly. “Do you not believe in the power of the forgiveness of God himself? Your sin was erased long ago, but, you are committing new ones every day you refuse to forgive yourself.”
He had gotten through to her, he really had. But, she was not able to stop memories that brought her pain. Sometimes she wondered if seeing a professional would help relieve her emotional turmoil. She had believed time alone would heal her. More than ten years had not accomplished that. How would Greg feel about having a wife with emotional problems? Or, a wife who had practically been a prostitute? How could the two of them have a life together? It wasn't going to happen.
She tossed the Kraft ledger onto the coffee table in disgust, and tried to sleep, hoping her bad dream would not return.
In the morning, she awakened to the sound of Greg dropping his cup of hot coffee on the floor. She felt his kiss on her lips through bleary-eyed yawns. Then she started to get up so she could help Pops clean up the mess in the kitchen.
“Go back to sleep, Sylvie,” he mumbled, chomping on a biscuit while he rushed out the door. “You were up late. It doesn't matter what time you get to St. Louis, does it? Just take it easy.”
But, of course, Sylvie would not even consider sleeping while Pops struggled with the mess on the floor and a crying baby who wanted her breakfast. She began mixing the cereal and mashing the bananas as if she did it every day. The broken cup was already in the trash, and Pops was getting the mop from the pantry.
“She's getting attached to you already,” Pops said. “I'm glad she'll have a momma now. What do men know about all those girlie things?”
“I'm not so sure I'm the expert on girlie things either, but I will certainly try. She might end up teaching me,” Sylvia added. “I'm thinking that it would be best to tell her about her real mother when she's old enough, though. We haven't talked about it, of course, not yet. This is all happening so suddenly.”
“Suddenly,” Pops mused. “And yet it really took almost seventeen years to happen. I think he always loved you, even as a boy.”
“He proposed when I was eight,” she added. “Up in the hay loft. It was more romantic than this time.” Sylvia laughed, but Pops sat down across from her with a serious look about him. He hadn't even put the mop and bucket away.
“He told me about that,” Pops said, “and even as a young boy, I knew he meant it. That's why I think he married so quickly, or so it seemed, after we had all realized you were never coming back. Then, on top of that, he picked a girl that looked just like you.”
“What?” Sylvia exclaimed. “I did not know that. And, I thought he got married shortly before Debbie was born. I mean, a respectable time before, like a year or so.”
“No, he married in 1997,” Pops clarified. “They were married fifteen years when she died.”
Sylvia was so stunned, she sat holding the spoon mid-air so long poor little Debbie tried to stretch her neck to reach the waiting bite. Pops took the spoon from her hand and continued to feed the baby while Sylvia stood and began pace slowly and thoughtfully around the kitchen.
“I don't know why this shocks me so much,” she explained. “It shouldn't matter when he got married. But, isn't it funny that Debbie is an only child? Why didn't they have children sooner?”
“You two should have talked,” he said. “I guess there hasn't been much time for that. He needs to tell you a lot of things, just things you should know.”
“Well, I have things to tell him, too,” she admitted. “Maybe we shouldn't rent the reception hall just yet, Pops.”
“Oh no, nothing is going to keep the two of you apart,” he said. “Not any more.”
“We can't be sure of that, can we?” Sylvia said sadly. “What if I turn out not to be the person he thought?”
“Don't think that way, Sylvie,” he assured her. “We know the real you already, better than anyone in the world, and we love you. What did you do? Commit a murder?”
“No.”
“Well, even if you had, that boy would love you, believe me. He's obviously scared to tell you about his problems, so I think you guys should have dinner together alone tonight and talk things out. I'll put something in the crock pot so it can cook while we're gone. Then when he gets home tonight, I'll leave with little Debbie for a few hours. We can go get ice cream, play at the park, and go sit with some of my old friends in Herculaneum. I'll bring her back in her jammies and asleep for the night. How's that sound?” he asked in a way that sounded like a statement of how it was going to be, not a question.
“Sound like that's that,” she answered.
They packed a diaper bag and headed for St. Louis. Little did they know that they would not be arriving home that evening at all.
# # #
The Dark Basement
Pops had a hard time getting his body situated in Sylvia's little blue roller skate of a car. He tried three times before figuring out that he would have to put his feet in first, follow with his butt, and squeeze his head in last. They had pushed the seat back as far as it would go. With little Debbie in her car seat behind Sylvia, Pops could reach her fine, almost as if she were right next to him—as she nearly was. If he needed something from the diaper bag, that was another matter entirely. He would need to unfasten the seat belt and bend to an almost yogic position.
“It's only an hour drive,” Sylvia assured him. “Do you think you'll be all right, Pops? I could go by myself, really.”
“Don't worry about me,” he said. “I'll be fine, but I sure do wish we were in the truck.”
“Uses too much gas,” Sylvia commented. They had already been over it all. He didn't like going somewhere if he wasn't the one driving. That's what his protests were really all about.
When they arrived at the tall brick stairway that led into Sylvia's apartment building, Beverly from across the hall rushed to open the door before Sylvia had even reached the entrance.
“You won't believe what happened,” she shrieked. “Somebody tried to get into your apartment. Luckily, Andrew and Ruby, the couple upstairs, were just coming in from a late movie, and he almost caught the guy. Had him by the ankles, but he squiggled away. At least he didn't get in, thanks to Andrew. The guy was trying to pick the lock and dropped his tools. The police took them as evidence.”
“I'm surprised no one called me,” she said, her mind now preoccupied with no excuse for not opening that door to expose her secrets to all the world—or at least her future father-in-law. She had planned, in her mind to quickly pass Pops a key to the basement and ask him to go ahead of her. She thought he wouldn't be able to see much from out in the hallway. What excuse she would devise after that was unclear. Her idea involved grabbing the box, taking them to Ted Drewe's for ice cream and quickly heading back to Pevely, hoping Pops would not ask to use her bathroom first. Now there was no way of avoiding it. He was going to insist on making sure she was safe inside, and he was not going to leave her alone. Pops was going to see her apartment.
“They did try to get you,” Beverly added. “Nobody had your cell number, but the police said they would call your work if they had to. What an adorable baby,” she said, finally noticing her asleep in the car seat.
“I turned my cell phone off because I didn't want it to wake the baby, and I didn't think anyone would be calling me,” she explained. “I didn't even think to give anyone the house number.”
“Well, you should give the police a call. They will have some questions, especially since you told everyone someone had put a note under your door last weekend.”
“I will,” she promised walking to
ward the door with her key in her hand. “But, St. Louis police are very busy with all the crime here. I'm sure they don't have much time to pursue near-misses. They probably put out an APB on the guy. Maybe they'll patrol the area a little more thoroughly, but that's about all I expect them to do.”
“Thanks for keeping an eye out,” Sylvia added, trying to end the conversation politely and get about the tasks at hand. She was going to say that she needed to go upstairs and thank Andrew and Ruby, whose names she had not even known until now. But, they were both at work anyway. Everyone seemed to be at work except for Beverly who worked nights. It was, after all, a Tuesday morning.
Sylvia ushered Pops and the car seat filled with baby into her humble abode. She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, waiting for his reaction to seeing the proof of what undoubtedly was some form of mental illness.
“Good God Almighty!” he exclaimed, too stunned to even place the baby on some solid surface to relieve the pain in his shoulders. “What on earth have you done here?”
“It started when I was a child,” she began, “the collecting. And, I couldn't stop myself. I kept them in storage lockers during college until I finally had a permanent place of my own. I don't know why I do it.” Sylvia held back tears, unable to think of anything else to say.
“This is wonderful,” he gasped. “I've never seen anything like this anywhere. It's amazing!”
“What?” was all she could say. “You really think so?”
“You must have a million dollars worth of horses here,” he said, finally putting little Debbie on the sofa just a few feet away. He sat in the only other chair across from her and still had not stopped gazing around the room. He looked up and down and all around. Everywhere the eye could see, there were horses.
“Packing these up is going to be a chore, that's for sure,” he pondered. “You're going to have to get Greg to build you a whole room just to display them. It's like a museum. You could charge folks to look at them.”
“Pops,” she said seriously, seated on the edge of the couch, touching him on the knee to get his attention, “tell me now. You honestly don't think I'm crazy?”
“Not for collecting horses, no,” he stated, trying to joke her out of a strange mood she seemed to have acquired. “Now for falling in love with my crazy son—that's another matter altogether.”
He laughed. But, she didn't.
“Sylvie, what's the matter?” he said softly. “You really thought you had some kind of serious problem? Why? I don't understand.”
“People say that this is an obsession, that it's a sign of psychological distress. That's what people say.”
“To hell with what people say,” he said. “I love this. So, I guess I'm crazy, too. Why do people want to label other people just because they do something a little out of the ordinary? Who wants to be ordinary anyway? That's what I think.”
She lunged forward and hugged Pops with the biggest embrace he could remember ever having. It almost knocked him off the chair since he had not been seated all the way to the back. Collecting herself, sniffling back the tears that no longer needed to emerge, Sylvia rose, put a smile on her face, and went to the kitchen to get the basement key from the drawer.
“Somebody needs to go down to the basement, Pops,” she said. Do you want me to stay with Debbie, or do you want me to go get that box of Marshall's Meats documents? I think I know right where it is. It should probably be me.”
“No way are you going down into some creepy basement locker,” he said emphatically. “Not now after the latest news. What's the number? I'll find it, and I promise I won't disturb anything. I'll put back everything exactly the way I found it.”
Sylvia gave in to Pops and to logic. She handed him the key, then followed him to the door as he insisted that she fasten the chain-lock behind him.
“Shall we have a secret knock?” she teased, “so I'll know it's you?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. “That's a good idea.” They decided on Beethoven's 5th. Although he didn't know what it was called, he recognized the beat. What decent bad guy would knock on a victim's door using Beethoven's 5th?
She took Debbie's bottles from the diaper bag and put them in the refrigerator. The baby started to stir, so she picked her up. Her head was sweaty. Sylvia took her to her only other room, her bedroom, and laid the stretching, yawning child right in the middle. The opportunity to jump wakened the baby fully and Sylvia had to almost force her to lie still enough to get her diaper changed. Then she wondered where to put her. This was not a child-friendly environment.
This apartment was no place for a crawling, reaching and grabbing infant. Debbie's eyes gleamed with excitement. Then Sylvia remembered some of her earliest acquisitions from when she was only a child herself. Sure enough, on her dresser were the little plastic horses. She examined them to be sure the edges were not sharp, and that they were made of soft, not hard vinyl. When she guessed them suitable for Debbie's tender gums and constant slobber, Sylvia picked out one of them. She snapped up little Debbie under one am, as she was nearly to the edge of the bed by the time the horse decision was made. The baby giggled hysterically as if she knew she had almost gotten away with falling on the floor. What fun that would have been!
Although the child protested returning to the confining car seat, she was easily appeased when Sylvia gave her a bright shiny golden palomino to play with.
“Yes, sweetie, that's a horsie,” she cooed to little Debbie, “the most beautiful creature on earth. You are going to love horses. I can tell. God-willing, you can learn to ride Nippy if his arthritis gets better, and if he lives long enough. That would be so wonderful. Yes it would, yes it would,” she sang, making the baby laugh.
It seemed as though Pops should have been back with the box of Marshall's Meats memorabilia by now. Looking at her watch, she realized she didn't know the exact time he had left. Something did not feel right, though, and she wanted urgently to check on him. He probably just could not find the box, she tried to reassure herself.
Grabbing the car seat with Debbie in it, Sylvia carried her across the hall and knocked on Beverly's door. There was no answer. She must have gone out, Sylvia assumed. Or, she might have been sleeping since she works nights. Sylvia decided not to disturb her.
“Well, we'll just go down to the basement together,” she cooed to Debbie. “Yes we will, yes we will,” she sang to the baby who was playfully taking in all her new surroundings.
Walking like a peg-legged pirate, the heavy car seat leaning against her hip, Sylvia made it to the rear of the long hallway and rested at the top of the basement stairway.
A sudden sound startled her, and she jerked around to look behind her from her perch on the second step as she planned to move the car seat down the stairs one at a time, making her way in front of it. The noise was the old lady in the apartment next to hers, the lady who it was believed Arthur Caplan had sneaked in behind under the pretense of helping her with her groceries. That had been the night that the note was placed under her door.
“Excuse me, ma'am,” she called out once, then a second time a little louder. The old woman was hard of hearing, obviously, and when she realized that Sylvia was calling to her, she turned immediately and came toward her.
“Whatever is the matter, dear?” she asked.
“Oh, I'm fine, I think,” she said. It must have appeared as a strange place to be standing with a baby.
“What a beautiful child,” she commented. “I didn't know you had a baby. She must be a very good baby. I've never heard her cry. But, then, I don't hear so well.”
“I wanted to talk to you about a man that might have sneaked into the building last weekend. Someone thought he might have been helping you with your bags. Do you remember anything about that?”
“Why, yes I do,” she said kindly. “Is there a problem?”
Sylvia told her about the note and the attempted break-in again last night.
“Oh, my goodness,” the la
dy cried out in distress. “I feel so terrible. But, why don't we go into my apartment and talk—unless you're busy. If you are going downstairs to check on your laundry, I'd be happy to watch the little darling for you. It seems like it would be quite an ordeal to get that baby and the car seat down the stairs.”
Sylvia came back up to the landing and thanked the lady immensely. She found out her name was Mrs. Cynthia Martin, a widow, and she had been living there for thirty-five years, back to when she and her husband lived there together. She had never had any children. Her puffy cheeks and rosy nose made her look like Mrs. Santa Clause. She knew it was best to let older people talk freely, even if they seemed to be rambling. That was often when they told you things you needed to hear.
She had met him on the street, actually the steps. This man, who said he had just come from the Garrett's apartment to visit his sister, Ruby, claimed he had to go back in because he had left his jacket there. Since he was going back in anyway, Mrs. Martin thought it only courteous that he offered to carry her bags in behind her. She was sure it was okay, because he reached into his pocket for the spare key his sister had given him. But, Mrs. Martin insisted that hers was already in her hand so she opened the lock.
Indian Foot Lake Love Story Page 9