Sylvia
by Sarah Daly
Sylvia was dead. Sylvia with the red ribbons and brown hair. Sylvia with the pretty dresses and shoes. Sylvia whose skin was so pale, she gleamed like the moon. Sylvia who knew all her secrets. Sylvia who lent her novels. Sylvia whose laughter made her feel like there was soda pop in her veins. Sylvia who had taught her to skate. Sylvia who hated arithmetic but loved penmanship. Sylvia who had wanted to be class president but was told that women couldn’t vote. Sylvia whose mother spoke French. Sylvia whose Father owned a bakery. Sylvia whose brother had died in the war. Sylvia whose sister worked in a streetcar.
Sylvia had turned purple and had died, so they said. Sylvia’s sister had brought home the ‘flu.’ They all got sick, but Sylvia was the only one who died.
Helen couldn’t go, of course; she couldn’t go to her best friend’s funeral. She wasn’t allowed to go anywhere, not even to school. She hated Church and funerals, but she wanted to see Sylvia, to see if she were really dead.
Her mother had brusquely relayed the news that, “Sylvia had passed.” And she didn’t believe it. It was too astonishing. Only a few days had gone by since Sylvia had snuck over and pressed her palms against the front window. Sylvia’s breath had steamed up the chilled glass and they had shouted and heard each other, kind of. Except that their voices sounded far away and muffled like they were underwater.
She couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. She didn’t want to cry. She couldn’t cry. She wanted to scream. She couldn’t scream.
She had looked fine, then. She had looked happy. Sylvia’s skin had been flushed because she had run all that way in the cold weather, but otherwise she had seemed perfectly normal. Her mother wasn’t as strict with her, like Helen’s mother was. She let Sylvia go to the store, and she had bought a peppermint stick, which she pulled out of her pocket and Helen had gasped in envy. It was winter and it was dull and Helen was not even allowed into the tiny backyard. Their house was shut up tight except for the small ventilation windows in the kitchen and the bathroom. Christmas was over and she had gotten nothing interesting and there was nothing to look forward to. She wasn’t even allowed to go to the library; she had read every book in the house over and over again, even the hard ones like Moby Dick and The Last of the Mohicans.
Sylvia had gotten her some candy too, but there was no way to give it to her. The window didn’t open and Helen’s mother would not let anyone into the house. She had frowned and shook her head and yelled at her to keep it. Sylvia had nodded and then Helen thought she heard her mother coming into the room so she mouthed goodbye and left, and when she looked at the window later, she thought that she could still see Sylvia’s palm prints on the glass.
*
At night, Helen dreamed that Sylvia was there, in the room with her. That she was in her closet, rooting through the dress pockets, feeling for pennies. When Helen reached for her, Sylvia vanished into the darkness. Then she dreamed that she was in the woods near the cemetery and that Sylvia was ducking behind trees, teasing Helen, like she sometimes did. The scene melted and she was in St. Xavier’s and everyone was weeping and she searched frantically among the bowed heads for Sylvia with her red ribbons, but couldn’t find her. When she looked ahead, she saw Sylvia lying still and dead, in her coffin.
Nothing seemed right. Helen’s hands swept and polished and scrubbed but her ears and eyes were closed. There was silence and shadow everywhere. No matter how much she cleaned, the dirt never seemed to leave. Though her mother kept her busy from sunup to sundown, her appetite was gone. Though her father brought home books for her to read, they remained on the shelf. Nothing seemed right.
One day, she feigned a headache and sat at the window, watching the world go by. She saw men trudging to the Ford plant, housewives beating rugs, soldiers with knapsacks slung over shoulders, a few kids playing. She tried to wave, but they did not see her. She observed several carts, one or two automobiles, even an ambulance rumbling by the narrowly spaced homes.
Then she saw it. The wagon. Overloaded with what looked like dummies or mannequins. Except, they were people. Or what had been people. Laid out, piled on top of each other, suffocating each other, the tarp that was supposed to cover them long since blown away. Their purpled limbs bounced in grotesque motion as the wheels dipped in each and every pot hole. Rings and watches and eyeglasses flashed in unison under the winter sun.
The driver was loosely holding the reins of the thin horse which trudged along slowly, overburdened with death. He wore a cloth tied around his face, but his eyes were wide and staring, lurking and searching.
Helen tried to duck, to turn, to avoid the stare but it was too late; Sylvia led her away.
The Molotov Cocktail 