| Sybil's Secret Part Five |
"Yes, like before. You see, Mrs. Carmody, we were havin’ Christmas yesterday. The Christmas we should a’ had in 1957. Leonard’s grandmother had died and left him her house. He’d moved in and we were to marry the week before Christmas . . ." She shook her head and her lips spread into a tight little smile. "I was so young," she said, "and spoilt and—jealous." "Jealous!" Mrs. Carmody exclaimed. "There was another woman?" "Oh, no; not that. A woman I’d a’ fought. It was a dog." "A dog! You quarreled over a dog?" "Yes, but not because I didn’t like Fritz—that was his name—but because Leonard worshiped him. Couldn’t go the length of himself without that dog. Like a shadow, he was. Even slept on his bed. Leonard had this old jalopy, and we used to go for drives on Sunday, and Fritz used to sit in the back and put his head over the seat between us. Leonard wouldn’t hear of leaving him home . . ." She smiled; her voice became softer. "He was a stubborn cuss." "He sounds like you," said Mrs. Carmody. "Like you with Sambo." "Yes, now; but not then. I forced him to choose—me or Fritz." The train whistle blew a long mournful sound. Sybil’s head jerked upward and she shivered as if she’d caught a sudden chill. "Leonard," she said, "had come over to my house—that was when we still lived in Sarnia—to fetch me. We were goin’ to measure his windows for new curtains, and he brought Fritz with him. Anyway, that dog got in my way. I tripped over him and I . . . I had a fit. I told him to go home and not come back ‘till he got rid of that damn dog. And he yelled back, ‘What about the wedding . . .and Christmas?’" Sybil bowed her head. She seemed to run out of words. "What did you tell him?" "Well, I was mad, Mrs. Carmody—real mad. I stuck my head out the door and screamed, ‘WE’LL HAVE CHRISTMAS AND THE WEDDING WHEN YOU COME BACK—WITHOUT FRITZ!’" "And he didn’t come back!" "No, not ‘till yesterday. See, we moved here soon after. I saw him again though—twice. Went back to visit relatives a couple of times. First time I saw him on the street. He didn’t see me; I didn’t have the nerve to speak. Next time I saw him was at church. He was with a woman. Some months later, he married her. She was American—from Michigan." As Sybil spoke of Leonard Wilkes, the brittle edge of regret melted from her face. And Mrs. Carmody watching trance-like, felt a pain she couldn’t identify and saw the young Sybil—impetuous, headstrong, and in love. "What brought him back, now . . . after all these years?" Sybil didn’t answer. She picked up a long twig and tossed it back at Sambo. He looked up but made no effort to retrieve it. "Gettin’ old," she said. Then letting out a long sigh, she bent over, put her hands on her knees and set her lips, her face falling back into its everyday "Sybil" look. "I kept track of him," she said finally. "Mother always got the local paper sent down. After she died, I never cancelled it. I used to see his name now and again. He took over his father’s store—the hardware store. Over the years, I watched . . . saw the birth announcements of his two boys . . .their graduations . . . engagements. Had the odd letter from a school chum who told me in passin’ that Leonard was not happy. Took me years," she said, "to admit I was to blame. It was after I found Sambo that I realized—" "Sambo!" "Yes. I was ridin’ down by the tracks one day, ‘bout twelve years ago. I stopped beside the creek and watched the train go by. Anyway, a man threw him off one a’ the boxcars. Just up and hove him like a sack a’ trash. He landed almost at my feet, poor thing. He wasn’t much to look at, just a scrawny pup, but I couldn’t leave him there, so I took him home and . . . well, now I don’t know what I’d do without him." Sybil blinked fast and Mrs. Carmody looked away. Good, God! She thought. Sybil Mundy’s soft as butter. "Then," said Sybil, "A couple of months ago, I saw an obituary—his wife ‘ad passed away. I waited a decent spell, an’ I wrote him a note—a sort of combination sympathy-and-friendly-letter-type note. An’ last week he wrote back. Said he was comin’ down to Wallacetown. He’d be in on the early mornin’ train. That was yesterday." "Oh, Sybil," said Mrs. Carmody, "I never would have dreamed . . ." "No, you wouldn’t," Sybil answered curtly. "Nobody would." |
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