45

Sylvia

Monday, November 13th, 1989

This morning after breakfast, I step outside to check the temperature. The sun is bright and warm, but the air is so chilly that it stings my bare wrist. I stare out over my yard and look at the tall domes of ruby and burnt copper gold leaves. This weekend I had a rare burst of energy, so I spent the morning raking but afterward I didn’t have the strength to bag them all up. So I’ve left them there; I’ll probably never get around to it.

And today, I have something else to do.

The wind picks up and plucks through my wind chimes, causing them to tink, and the tops of the leaf piles to get swept away. I wrap my robe tighter around me and go back inside and shut the door.

I climb the stairs to my spare closet on the second floor and run my fingers along the selection of clothes. I settle on a respectable pistachio green pant suit that I haven’t worn in ages, and take it down from the rack. It’s still in its wrapper from the cleaners and when I peel back the plastic it smells powdery and musty, but it’ll have to do. I go to my room and pull out a black turtleneck from my mahogany dresser—the drawer catches and I have to bump it with my hip, cursing it for the millionth time. I select a pair of matching black shoes with thick socks. I put on a little lipstick, pull my hair back in a bun, and get dressed to leave.

St. Mark’s Episcopal School sits high on a hill in a pretty neighborhood speckled with old homes so that it feels like its own quaint village. I arrive just before lunch, and park in the visitor’s parking space. The school is all done up for fall and Halloween: in the front yard under a soaring oak tree, mountains of pumpkins are hemmed in by hay bales for a makeshift pumpkin patch. The tall classroom windows are plastered with paper leaves in deep jewel tones of red and green, and parked on either side of the front door are two tawny scarecrows, greeting those who walk past. Giant jack-o-lanterns line the ornate stone path leading up to the school and the whole scene is so picturesque that for a moment, I forget why I’ve come here, and what it is I’ve come to do.

I walk slowly along the cobblestone path to the entryway; the stones are so well-worn that their tops are smooth and slick like polished rock. A nearby church bell clangs, signaling that it’s half-past the hour and a squirrel scurries past, nearly tripping me, and fetches a fat acorn that rolls near my feet.

I walk past the scarecrows, pause at the heavy glass doors, and take a deep breath before pushing them open.

Inside, the school is cozy and smells of cinnamon. A cornucopia of fall potpourri—pinecones, dried holly branches, rosemary, and cinnamon sticks—is splayed out over the receptionist’s desk. She’s a tiny, stout woman with a tight, graying perm and gold glasses.

“May I help you?” she asks, smiling.

“I’m here to see Principal Spencer,” I say.

“I’m sorry, she’s in a meeting.”

My heart sinks; I know I won’t have the courage to come up here again. I’m just turning to leave when the receptionist asks, “But would you like to wait in her office? She shouldn’t be much longer.”

I follow her down the hall to Roz’s office and it occurs to me that she didn’t even ask me my name. She must assume I’m an old friend or relative—and probably harmless because of my white hair—but it disturbs me just how trusting people can be.

Her office is lovely. Homey yet professional and crisp at the same time. One wall is a sheet of glass that looks out over a lush courtyard with drooping, ancient crepe myrtles and monstrous hanging ferns. On the opposite wall, Roz has hung a giant wall calendar that features the paintings of Claude Monet, which seem to echo the tranquil garden outside. For each day, she has filled in an exacting schedule, color-coded in red, blue, and black ink by topic: Admin., Teachers, Students. There are thank-you notes from parents and graduates gone off to college taped around the calendar, with pictures of Roz and each graduating class in order by year from floor to ceiling.

But it’s the wall behind her desk that threatens to pierce my composure: it’s her family wall, and there are framed pictures of Leah and Lucy. Leah and Lucy dressed in their Easter bonnets when they were little. Leah and Lucy at summer camp. A family portrait with Roz and her husband and the two girls, all dressed up, posed in front of a wooded lake scene. And what breaks my heart most of all is how Roz has carefully framed her girls’ best works of art. A giraffe painted creatively to look like a zebra from a 4th grade Leah, a homemade Valentine “for my familee, luv Lucy Belle!”, and most gut-wrenching of all, a picture that Lucy drew when she was four—a giant face that has freckles, red spots, and a dot, that she titled, “Freckles, Belly Button, and Hurt.” My eyes are roving all over this wall and I’m lost in reverie when the door opens behind me, and before I know it I’m on my feet and shaking hands with Roz.

“Hi, please keep your seat,” Roz says and disappears behind her giant pine desk that the midday sun has turned the color of weak tea. She’s dressed in a smart black suit but looks smaller than I remember, more diminished.

“Do I know you?” she asks, and I see a flicker of recognition cross her face—maybe she saw me on television—and so I quickly say, “I was your nurse. When Leah was born.”

“Oh! That is you! Of course!” She smiles and takes off her glasses. The edges of her eyes are lined with crow’s feet. “What can I do for you?”

A lump forms in my throat, but I manage to say, “I’m here about Lucy.”

The corners of her mouth tighten and she lets out a heavy sigh.

“I … I may have some information for you,” I say. She just tilts her head and stares straight ahead at me, her mouth a rigid line. I can feel the edges of her weary impatience, so I rush in and quickly fill the gap of silence.

“After I left the Labor and Delivery Ward,” I say, “I worked for many years as a nurse in the Psychiatric Unit. And there was a woman who came to us one night. She had been held captive by the Starrville Police. The sheriff, and some other powerful men in Starrville, were operating an elaborate sex ring, and—”

“I’m sorry,” Roz interrupts, rubbing the bridge of her nose, “but what does any of this have to do with my daughter?”

“Well, the woman told me that sometimes there were children present,” I say, fumbling around and suddenly feeling like the lunatic she perceives me to be. “And I went to the police here and tried to tell them about it but they wouldn’t believe me, but I just know that these same men—”

But before I can finish Roz has put her hand up for me to stop talking. “I’m sorry, Mrs. … what was your name again?” Roz asks, the principal in her coming out and suddenly I feel foolish for coming up here, for approaching her like this, at school, out of the blue.

“Mrs. Parker. Sylvia, Sylvia Parker,” I stammer. “I know what I saw happened years ago, but I believe these men are still active and­—”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Parker, but I can’t take this. I can’t listen one second longer. I’m trying to hold onto what little peace in life I’ve found and I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“But if you’ll just hear me out, I promise I’m not making this up,” I try, one last plea, but she’s now on her feet, glasses back on, and she crosses the room to open the door without another word.

I walk out of her office meekly, with my head down, tears forming in the corner of my eyes. I’m so embarrassed I don’t even say goodbye to the cheery receptionist as she calls out after me.

Inside the station wagon, my face burns. I’m furious with myself for bungling this. I back out of the parking lot and drive away, feeling sadness and shame blistering over me.