Next morning the lights were gone. Gone—as if they’d never been! Walter sat at the kitchen table gazing fondly at his boiled egg. From across the room, he heard his wife’s gasp and dropped his spoon. "You all right, love?" "No! Walter, I’m not all right. The lights are gone! They disappeared overnight. Now what do you make of that?" "Guess they took ‘em down," he said. Mrs. Carmody squeezed into her new pink polka dot dress. Sensible white shoes and a white handbag that looked like a cast-off of the Queen’s completed her summery look. She combed her fluffy, faded-blond curls and added a touch of color to lips and cheeks. "Walter, I’m off; got to get my hair done . . ." She peeked out the window and her jaw sagged. Sybil was wheeling her new bicycle down the path with Sambo riding behind in that silly red cart, looking as smug as only Sambo could look when going for a ride. But, where was the man? Curiosity shifted momentarily to envy as Mrs. Carmody watched Sybil mount the bicycle with one graceful move and pedal quickly out of sight. Huh! she thought, I daresay I’d look that way, too, if I’d spent a lifetime riding a bicycle! ******* Ruth Priddy, Wallacetown’s only hairdresser, greeted Mrs. Carmody with a smile and a mouthful of Bobby Pins. "Only be a sec, dear. Grab a magazine . . . be right with ya." Sitting on the hard vinyl chair watching Ruth shape tiny curls around her finger before pining them to poor old Dora Cassidy’s head, Mrs. Carmody felt weary. She leaned back and closed her eyes. Images of Sybil raced through her mind in ever-widening circles until eventually, under the hypnotic rhythm of the hairdresser’s soothing chatter, she recalled the day—almost ten years ago—when she first asked Ruth Priddy about Sybil Mundy . . . "Who is that odd-looking old duck that rides around on that old bike with that big yellow hound cantering after her?" "Ohhhh," Ruth answered, yanking Mrs. Carmody’s curly locks back till they snapped. "You mean the one with that frizzy ole’ grey perm, what dresses like a man, an’ wears that bright orange tam perched on the side of her head like she was French or something?" "That’s her!" "Didn’t ya just move into the old Randal place?" "Yes." "Well, that ‘old duck’ is your neighbor. Lives right across the street in that little brick bungalow with all them flowers." "Mercy!" "Yep, Sybil Mundy’s quite a character ‘round these parts. Nice enough, long as you keep on her good side. But don’t you cross her. They say she turns the air blue sometimes." "What about her husband? She married?" "Naw, never married. Just lives with Sambo—that’s the dog. She come home one day ‘bout two years ago, an’ had him in her bicycle basket. He was just a pup then. I asked her once where she got him . . ." "She tell you?" "Ya kiddin’? When I asked where she got him, all Sybil said was, ‘Found him.’" "She grow up here?" "Nope. She moved here from Sarnia ‘bout thirty years ago when her father, Orson Mundy, come to take over as the new undertaker. She was about twenty then . . . I think. Went to work in the Post Office the first year she moved here. Stayed there, too. She’s the Postmistress now." "Didn’t she ever have . . . you know . . . a boyfriend?" "Naw, although she wasn’t bad lookin’ back then. Tall rangy girl, she was. Used to have nice auburn hair. But she wore the most god-awful old clothes . . . always a tad strange. Kept to herself. Spent most of her time workin’ in the garden or gallivanting’ around on that ole bike. " ******** Mrs. Carmody yawned and fidgeted. Nothing’s changed, she thought. She’s still odd. For even though Sybil had retired last year and Sambo was now too old to run, they were still a familiar sight in Wallacetown: Sybil on a new bicycle and Sambo behind in that ridiculous doggy cart riding along like a king on the lap of luxury. To Mrs. Carmody they’d always been a mystery. And now this: a man, Christmas in July and— "Ready, dear?" Ruth shook her by the shoulder and Mrs. Carmody arranged her questions and sat in the chair. |
| Sybil's Secret Part Three |
 |
 |
 |