An hour later, back on the street and thoroughly disgusted, Mrs. Carmody thought what a waste of time—not to mention money—her trip to the hairdresser had been. Ruth hadn’t a clue what Sybil might be up to. Hadn’t seen her in a few days, and she’d never seen anyone remotely resembling the red-haired stranger. With the sun hot on her face and disappointment a cold lump in her stomach, she wondered . . . should I go on home and try to endure Walter’s endless puttering and hovering, or go for a walk in the park? Yes, maybe the park. A nice little stroll might be just what I need. Never know who I might run into. She decided on the west trail that wound its way to the creek, and giving her freshly shaped curls a reassuring pat, she set off. Towering maples spread their branches on either side of the trail like a comforting canopy of green. Sunlight, shimmering through thick foliage, dropped dappled splashes of gold on the well-trodden path, while birds flitted above her head, their songs a joyful testament to summer. Twigs crackled under her heavy footfall, sending squirrels scurrying upward to safety. The trail twisted snake-like, then meandered toward the old wooden bridge spanning Fullers Creek. Eventually, leaving the shady coolness of the maples behind, she stepped, blinking, into the sudden brilliance and started up the hump-backed bridge that curved over the creek. Mrs. Carmody reached the top of the hump and stopped—riveted to the spot. For there, sprawled still as a picture at the foot of the bridge was Sambo; and propped up against the railing sat Sybil Mundy’s bicycle. Her first thought was that Sambo had died; then his head lifted and his tail thumped in welcome. Mrs. Carmody’s hand flew to her breast. "Oh, Sambo!" She whispered. "You gave me a start." Then remembering the bicycle, she stammered, "Where . . . where’s Sybil, then? She wouldn’t have left you alone . . ." Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed a movement. And this time the shock was so great that she grasped the railing with both hands. About two hundred feet away, at the edge of the creek under the giant weeping willow, sat Sybil, her head resting on the shoulder of the huge red-haired man! Afterwards, Mrs. Carmody could never remember how long she stood there, her mind absolutely refusing to believe what her eyes were seeing. It was the shrill whistle of the noon train pulling into the Wallacetown station that finally penetrated her numbed senses. I have to get off this bridge, she thought. Now! Before Sybil sees me. But before she had a chance to move, the man stirred, dropped a quick kiss on Sybil’s head and slowly rose to his feet. Mrs. Carmody watched the big man pick up a large brown paper bag and walk—his head bowed—in the direction of the train station. He didn’t look back. Sybil sat motionless under the weeping willow—a silhouette in stone. It was Sambo, yawning, emitting a strange little half-whine that brought her head around with a jerk. She reached out, picked up her tam from the ground, jammed it on her head and strode up the path to the bridge. Straddling the bicycle, she looked up at Mrs. Carmody. "Well, ‘spect you’re satisfied now." Her voice seemed flat, somehow—the bite gone. Mrs. Carmody didn’t feel a speck of satisfaction. "Listen, Sybil, I’m sorry . . . I only went for a walk. I didn’t know you were here. You don’t have to . . ." Sybil reached into the bicycle basket, unfolded a blanket and spread it on the ground. She motioned for Mrs. Carmody to sit. "Oh, no! I don’t sit on . . ." But Sybil’s grey eyes, candid and clear, commanded. Mrs. Carmody couldn’t escape. She walked down the steep wooden incline, stepped over Sambo and forced herself to sit on the blanket. Sybil did not sit, but strode—hands deep in the pockets of her cotton trousers. She gazed out at the creek and a vein throbbed over her left temple. "His name is Leonard Wilkes," she said. "We almost married more ‘n forty years ago." Now the edge was back in her voice, the words falling on Mrs. Carmody’s ragged nerves like lashes from a whip, each one more brutal than its predecessor. "Sybil, I’ll go now; I was just curious, you see. I mean the lights and all . . ." "No! I’d rather you know the truth than spread a mess a’ lies." Sybil dropped beside Mrs. Carmody, folding up like a jack knife. She said, "I’ve never told a soul before—what we quarreled over—not even mother; but now, you see, it don’t matter." "Is he gone, then?" Mrs. Carmody sensed something—some kind of finality in Sybil’s voice. |
| Sybil's Secret Part Four |
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