66

Sylvia

Sunday, December 17th, 1989

I’m driving over to the Spencers’ house. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but earlier this week, one night while I was dicing onions for a stew, I had the small, portable television on in the kitchen. It was muted because I was listening to the radio, but I always like to watch Wheel of Fortune so I had it on while I was chopping away, a candle burning next to the cutting board to try and cut the fumes from the onions. Just after the show ended and a commercial ran, I looked up to see Sheriff Greene on the six o’ clock news. I set the knife down and was washing my hands so I could turn up the volume when a banner ran across the bottom of the screen that said: MISSING CHILD’S PURSE FOUND IN BIG WOODS.

I gasped and Sheriff Greene was talking but my head was spinning so much I couldn’t make out all of his words. They flashed a picture of Lucy—it looked like a school portrait—and then followed that with footage of Big Woods and then the hotline number to call, just before the segment ended. I managed to piece together that they had discovered Lucy’s purse in Big Woods, evidently just before the Thanksgiving holidays, but were only just now making it public, as a plea for help. They were painting it as the same scenario as all the other cases, but I know the truth.

As I dried my hands with a towel, my mind was already made up: I would try and talk to Roz again. I couldn’t let her think that Lucy was out in Big Woods when I knew differently.

It’s early, and the town is quiet, but I’m driving over there now hoping to catch Roz at home, hoping that it will be more disarming this way, and I’m also hoping that the husband might come to the door. Maybe he will listen to me.

I found their address easily enough in the phone book, and it’s a neighborhood I know well so I’m turning down their lane now, driving under a canopy of trees whose leaves have been shorn off by winter. My body is coursing with adrenaline, but I know this is the right thing to do. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. If I can just get the whole story out this time, then I will have done all I know to do.

I approach their drive but think better of turning in and park on the street instead. Their house is a two-story white Colonial set back on a high hill. It must’ve been a showplace in its day, but this morning it looks like it’s fallen into neglect. The yard is littered with curled, dead leaves and tall, spindly weeds choke the walkway leading up to the front door. The husband must’ve let the yard go, and I think to myself that their house looks marked by tragedy.

The shutters are all open on the front of the house, so as I’m making my way up the drive, I decide to try the side door, instead. Maybe I won’t be shooed away as fast if they can’t tell who’s out there. But as I’m walking along the side of the house, I feel like a prowler so I turn, with my head down, and walk up to the front door.

I stand as close to the door as possible and rap the brass knocker a few times, still keeping my head down, hoping to look as demure and nonthreatening as possible. I hear footsteps padding toward the front door but I don’t dare look through the window to see who it is.

The door opens slowly and it’s Roz, looking annoyed and standing there with a maroon bathrobe on, an eye mask parked on top of her tangled hair. I hope I haven’t woken her. I look up at her, hoping to be invited inside, perhaps, but she steps outside toward me instead, leaving the door just cracked behind her.

“It’s you again,” she sighs. I beg her to please listen to the rest of my story. She seems to contemplate hearing me out, but then looks over her shoulder as if she’s concerned about who else might be listening.

“I told you to leave us alone,” she says. She doesn’t sound angry, just weary and resigned. Before she shuts the door and slips back inside, I manage to shout out my address.