The bold July sun climbed in her window at precisely 7:30 am, in devilish conspiracy with the clock radio’s alarm, which blasted her sun-drenched eyes into reluctant wakefulness. Mrs. Carmody jabbed at the clock’s off button, cutting short the giggling female announcer, whose usual morning prattle about "nothing" ensured her listeners of an awakening more brutal than the crowing of a barnyard rooster. She heaved her creaky old bones from the snugness of the bed and stood at the window. Impatiently her hand reached for the tasseled cord, intending to draw the drapes and block the intruding sunlight. Then she hesitated. Across the street, something—or someone—moved in the shadowy stillness of Sybil Mundy’s front porch. Mrs. Carmody dropped her hand to the table and retrieved her glasses. She thrust them firmly on to her nose and leaned forward for a better look. A strange red-headed man was stringing Christmas lights from one end of Sybil’s porch to the other! "Mercy!" She cried. "A man and Christmas lights! In July?" Within minutes, she stood at Sybil’s back step, her fat finger held down hard on the doorbell. From inside, the unmistakable melody of "White Christmas" drifted through the open window, along with the mouthwatering aroma of roast turkey. Mrs. Carmody released the bell and waited. The brisk scuff of slippers across rough linoleum was followed by a burst of muffled curses. The door swung open and Sybil stood on the threshold, her frizzy grey hair festooned with bits of shiny tinsel. From one hand dangled a glistening white angel, her wings outspread as if she’d just flown in from Bethlehem. "Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Carmody. What on earth you doin’ here already! It can’t be more ‘n eight. I’m awful busy this mornin’. Don’t have time to stand around jawin’. . ." "Sybil! There was a man on your porch! I saw him; he was putting up Christmas lights. And what’s that in your hand? And there’s tinsel in your hair; and it smells like . . . like turkey in there." "Now, look here, Mrs. Carmody, I don’t have to tell my business to the whole neighbourhood. And I guess I can cook myself a turkey whenever I please." Sybil’s annoyance wafted through the doorway, accompanied, now, by the opening strains of Bing Crosby’s velvety rendition of "I’ll be home for Christmas." "Sybil . . . is . . . is something the matter?" called a male voice. Mrs. Carmody’s neck stretched, and raising herself up to her full five feet, she peered quizzically over Sybil’s shoulder, but in vain. She saw nothing—no face to accompany the unfamiliar voice. "Now, Mrs. Carmody, you’ll have to be off." Sybil’s usual gruff manner veered toward rudeness: "Like I said, I’m busy, and yes, if you must know, I’ve got company. Just an old . . . friend. He dropped by fer a visit. He’s helpin’ me clean out the attic; I’m gettin’ rid of a lot of old junk I’ve been meanin’ to throw out fer years." And with this tantalizing but thoroughly dissatisfying tidbit, Sybil Mundy closed her door firmly, leaving Mrs. Carmody standing in silent bewilderment, peering through the back window and down the hallway to the front porch, where the red, green, and blue Christmas lights blinked off and on, off and on in the blistering summer sun. "Sybil Mundy! What kind of fool do you take me for?" Mrs. Carmody’s darting green eyes blazed with indignation, and patches of crimson clung to her cheeks like blushes, as she bustled around to the front of Sybil’s tidy brick bungalow. Flower beds lined the front walkway: Sweet William, Morning Glory, and Baby’s Breath trembled in the light breeze. Somebody had been busy for the flowers were freshly watered. Sybil’s old hound, Sambo, dozed on the cobbled path. He lifted his tail dejectedly as Mrs. Carmody’s lumpy legs bent into a half-crouch beside him. He sneezed and shook his head violently; his watery, weak eyes blinked. He looked sadder than ever as he gazed at the twinkling porch lights. "Poor old Sambo," cooed Mrs. Carmody, patting the old dog’s shiny coat. "Looks like you’ve been left in the dark, too. But never fear, Sambo, I’ll get it out of her yet. Thinks she can fob me off with some excuse about cleaning out junk. Well, we’ll see about that. Sybil Mundy’s having Christmas in there, and I intend to find out why!" |
| Sybil's Secret by Marlene McCarty |
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| To read Part Two of Sybil's Secret, please click on the 'next' button below. |