67

Sylvia

Christmas Eve
Sunday, December 24th, 1989

Had I known the girl would go out there on her own, I would’ve never told her all that I did. I thought she could get her parents to listen, urge them to go to the police.

I see now that it was foolish, telling her all that, but once I started I couldn’t stop. To have just one person who believed me after all this time, who listened … I couldn’t help myself.

But now she’s missing, too, and I feel terrible.

They found her car, a sky-blue Ford Tempo, on the side of Omen Road, parked in a shallow ditch. She’s been missing since Friday afternoon.

It’s 6:45 in the morning. The police have just left my house. I was sitting in the half-dark kitchen at my wooden table in a thin nightgown, heating oil in a frying pan when I heard them knocking. I grabbed my forest-green sweater and pulled it around my shoulders before making my way to the front door. I looked through the peephole and saw Sheriff Greene standing there with two other officers, their radios crackling and bleating on my front porch.

I opened the door and cold air shocked my bare ankles, the wind violent and cutting, so I invited the officers in and they took a seat in the living room on my ratty brown sofa, the side lamps giving off weak, warm light.

My hand flew to my mouth when the sheriff told me that Leah had vanished, and I was still trying to wrap my mind around it all when he mentioned that they were there to talk to me because Roz told them that I’d stopped by their house last Sunday. He didn’t come right out and say it, but it seemed like I was under suspicion, and I knew that having Leah’s diary would make me seem even more suspicious, so I kept it to myself.

But let me start with last Thursday, the day that Leah came over. She stopped by the house late in the afternoon, a few hours after lunchtime. I was surprised to hear a knock at the door. It startled me—it wasn’t Owen’s soft knock, but I still crept quietly to the front door and checked the peephole before answering.

I recognized Leah from all the constant news coverage of her family. She was pretty and slight with shiny light brown hair and her pert nose was covered with a delicate spray of caramel freckles. I invited her inside, but she declined, saying, “No thanks, I’m fine out here,” and took a seat on the wooden porch swing. We’d had a warm snap and it was lovely out so I didn’t try to persuade her otherwise. I sat across from her in my tattered wicker chair and told her everything: about Delia, about the cemetery, about Omen Road, about how the police wouldn’t listen to me. I even told her I was her delivery nurse—which surprised her—but I didn’t tell her about Hank. It seemed like it would be too much. She was quiet, as if she was taking all this in, only asking me a few questions, namely about the location of the cemetery.

I stepped inside to make us some tea and returned with a tray of candies. She was very polite, and after she selected one, she said she’d better get going, she needed to get on home but had wanted to hear what I had to say. When she left, she turned back and gave me a gentle hug and said, “Goodbye, Sylvia, and thank you.” When she pulled back from me, there were tears in her eyes.

I feel silly now that I didn’t think that was strange, the way she said goodbye, and that it didn’t occur to me to call her mother, or to even question that she was out of school in the middle of the day.

And then the next day while I was upstairs stripping the sheets off the bed for the laundry—my usual Friday routine—the doorbell rang. I rushed downstairs but by the time I opened the door, there was no one there. I looked down and saw that a gift had been left for me, wrapped in shiny red wrapping paper out on my stoop. As I stepped out to pick it up, I glanced down the street and saw Leah’s blue Tempo pulling away.

How sweet, I thought, the girl brought me a Christmas present, and for a moment I let myself enjoy the fantasy that she and I might become friends of a sort. I went back inside and sat down at the kitchen table and unwrapped it.

At first I was puzzled. Why would she bring me her diary? But once I read it—which I did in one sitting, breathlessly—I understood. She knew I was the one person who would believe her.

And I did. I read about the dreams and when I got to the part where Lucy appeared to her in a dream and told her that she was in the bad church, I knew without a lick of doubt that Hank—or Owen, rather—had her in the church cellar.

But my throat closed up when I thought about telling all that to the sheriff just now.

“Have you had any contact with Leah Spencer?” Sheriff Greene asked, his voice weary.

“Yes, yes I have,” I said, my mouth going dry. “She stopped by this past Thursday.”

All the officers looked up at me then, in surprise, and they each straightened up, cats coiled above their prey.

“This would be the twenty-first? And what was the nature of her visit? Why did she stop by?” the sheriff asked, jotting down notes in his notepad.

I started to speak but couldn’t find the words. I looked down at my hands, they were shaking. I didn’t want to talk about this in front of the other officers, so I looked squarely at the sheriff and asked, “May I speak to you in private?”

The other officers looked befuddled, but Sheriff Greene didn’t miss a beat, picking up my meaning. “Excuse us,” he said to his deputies, as he followed me down the hallway toward the kitchen, closing the door behind us.

I leaned against the countertop for support, afraid I might swoon. “I believe I know what happened to Leah,” I said in a low voice.

The sheriff nodded for me to go on.

I drew in a deep breath and continued. “I told her everything. I told her about that girl from years ago, Delia, about the police in Starrville, about the sex ring,” I said, my voice shaky. “I told her, obviously, and unfortunately, exactly where the cemetery is.”

This time, he didn’t look at me like I was crazy; he just studied me for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on his mustache.

“So I believe those same men have her,” I offered, my voice now bolder. “Those same men who took Delia.”

The sheriff met my eyes and held my gaze. I was shaking, and he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t tell if the gesture was condescending or conciliatory, if he was being sincere or merely trying to comfort a senile old woman.

“Thank you for cooperating with us, Sylvia,” he said, his voice stable and calm. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

He turned to leave and I was just about to tell him about Owen and the church cellar, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t force the words from my mouth; I’m not certain he would’ve believed me anyway. And there’s no time for that anymore: Leah is out there, and she’s out there because of me, because of what I’ve told her. So I’m going out there, too.

And there’s also something else that held me back from telling him, something that’s harder to name, something even murkier, but that something is this: I want my face to be the one Owen sees before he’s captured and exposed.

He’s a monster, I know, but he’s a monster I couldn’t stop, and monster or not, I’m still his mother and I might just be his soul’s one last shot at salvation, if only I can talk to him. Maybe I can reason with him—tell him I’ll do my best to protect him, convince him to hand the girls over to me. If they are even still alive. I don’t know, I’m not thinking clearly and there is still a small, irrational part of me that hopes he’s not involved, that he stopped all of this after Delia, that he doesn’t have the girls at all. So I must go out there.

But because I know that’s unlikely, and because I know he’ll kill me if he does have them, I cross the room and go over to the rolltop desk. I sit down and tear off a sheet of fresh stationery and compose a letter to Sheriff Greene.

Dear Sheriff Greene,

I didn’t tell you everything. I have my reasons and I hope you’ll understand.

I believe a man by the name of Owen Goforth—the Reverend Owen Goforth—has the girls and is keeping them locked in his church cellar. The name of his church is the Starrville Church of Christ. Look there.

He is not a good man. How do I know?

He is my son.

My hands are shaking and I realize I’ve been holding in my breath as I’ve been writing. I sign the bottom of the letter and seal it, and climb the stairs.

I step into my bedroom and pull Leah’s diary off the top of my dresser. I mark the pages that I think the sheriff needs to see, and then place it together with the letter.

I get dressed in heavy winter clothes and then go over to my bedside table. There is a framed picture of John, taken on our honeymoon—his eyes are a glittering blue, his smile flirty with new love—and I lift the picture and press it to my lips, then hug it to my chest before setting it back down. Tears are spilling down my cheeks and I sit on the edge of my bed, sobbing.

I wipe my eyes and take a few deep breaths and stare out the window. The roof of my neighbor’s house is lined with sparkling Christmas lights, still on from the night before. I watch the branches of their bare trees rattle in the wind, and think of Leah and Lucy out there in the cold.

After a few moments, I pick up the receiver on my powder-blue bedside phone and punch in Hattie’s number. I’m not going to tell her what I’m up to; I just want to hear her voice. It rings and rings though, and when she doesn’t answer, I leave a message and say goodbye. I want so badly to say goodbye to someone.