| Mrs. Carmody spent the next few hours alternating between attending to her usual household chores and keeping a weather eye on Sybil’s house. No one stirred. Even Sambo disappeared from the drive and didn’t return. Around noon, Walter, Mrs. Carmody’s husband, shuffled up from his workshop in the basement, looking for some kind of nourishment. "What’s up, love? Nothing ready yet? I’m gettin’ a bit . . . peckish." "For pity’s sake, Walter, food’s in the fridge. Help yourself. Can’t you see I’m busy?" Walter peered at his wife over the rim of his glasses and rubbed his shiny head in puzzlement. "Yer still watchin’ Sybil’s house then? Ye’ll be wearin’ yer eyes out pretty soon. Give it a rest, love, an’ let’s have a bite." Mrs. Carmody faced her husband of forty years with dual emotions—annoyance and remorse—sweeping over her. Since retiring six months ago, he spent most of his time puttering in the basement. The rest of the time it seemed he was always there—over her shoulder. She couldn’t get used to suddenly having to prepare lunches every day. And most annoying of all was his habit of saying, for no reason at all, "You all right, love?" To which she would invariably reply: "Why wouldn’t I be." Then seeing his crushed look, she’d immediately feel a rush of guilt. But today she had no time for guilt. "Walter," she said, "where would anyone buy a fresh turkey this time of year? I don’t fancy the grocery stores selling many in July." Walter’s cherubic face strained with the effort of concentration. "I suppose, love, the meat market down on the highway. Why?" "I told you, Sybil is cooking turkey over there, and if I knew where she bought it maybe . . ." Right then, Sybil’s front door opened and down the walk came the red-haired man. He lugged an armful of boxes filled with paper—it looked like—and deposited them at the curb. "There he is, Walter. Look!" Walter reached the window just as the man, big and bear-like, turned and ambled back up the steps. "Looks like an ordinary chap," he said. "Not strange at all." "Walter, any man who puts up Christmas lights in July is strange, I don’t care how ordinary he looks." "Maybe he’s just trying them out . . . you know, to see if they’re to keep or throw away." Mrs. Carmody didn’t hear. She was watching two little boys—the paper boy, Bobby Janes and another boy—sauntering along the sidewalk in front of Sybil’s house. They stopped and inspected the boxes closely. Then shaking his head, Bobby hurled Sybil’s paper at her porch and headed across the street. Mrs. Carmody rushed to the door and jerked it open. "Bob . . . eee!" she squealed, waving her arms, "Come here!" "Oh, Mrs. Carmody, I’m sorry. We’re late because . . ." Bobby’s tousled head tilted up to face her, his eyes big blue saucers of shame. "Don’t worry about the paper, Bobby; it’s all right. I . . . just want to know what was in those boxes by Sybil Mundy’s curb." Bobby glanced at his companion and raised his eyebrows. The other boy shook his black curls and nudged Bobby. "Tell her; go on. I told you it was awful strange . . ." "For goodness sake! What was it?" Mrs. Carmody reached out to Bobby as if she intended to shake the words from his lips. "Well, Mrs. Carmody, we didn’t see nuttin’ in those boxes, ‘cept Christmas paper. Like somebody’d just been unwrappin’ gifts or somethin’; there wuz bows with tape still on ‘em and stuff . . ." "That’s it! Nothing else?" Mrs. Carmody’s chins quivered, her voice betraying both excitement and disappointment. "Well, you’d better get along. No sense making everyone else wait for their paper." She shut the door in their faces and heard Bobby’s angry retort. "Told you half of ‘em wuz nuts on this route." The rest of the day passed quietly; nothing happened across the street. Darkness finally fell. The moon rose, the stars shone, and Sybil’s porch lights winked, the Christmas colours taunting their way like an army of red flags through Mrs. Carmody’s dreams. |
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| Sybil's Secret Part Two |
| To read part Three of Sybil's Secret, please click the 'next' button below. |