LAST WORDS
LANCE FISCHER
This story has never before been told. And I don’t mean for anyone to actually read this. I’ll just write it down on this yellowing paper and be done with it. I’ll tell it as it happened; no going around the truth. Maybe it’ll help me somehow. More likely not.
I was raised in the suburbs of New York. Just about thirty miles north of the big city. My parents were of the best stock; they loved me much and there was never any tribulation that went unforgiven. We got on fine, is what I mean to say.
We lived in hilly Westchester County and in the winter I’d go sledding with my father on Parson’s Hill. Sometimes even my mother came along.
One winter-nineteen thirty-four, if my memory serves correct-my father bought me a toboggan. It was a long wooden plank of a thing, but it was the fastest ride this side of the Hudson. Only problem was, there was no way to steer it. One day I’m sitting on my sled at the top of Parson’s, looking down and preparing myself for the ride. That was some steep hill Parson’s was, and only a fool would treat it lightly. Just as I was about to push off, some dumbwit jumps on to the back of my sled and forces us over the crest and down the hill at a breakneck pace. I don’t think my dad even noticed. It was the most out of control downhill I had ever done. Looking back, it was also the most fun. But for some reason, it’s hard to admit that.
The whole way down I never once looked back to see who had disrupted my routine. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to; it was just such a crazy run, what with us practically knocking anyone in front of us out of our way. The only thing I could be sure of was that it was a girl. I could tell by the way she was screaming and giggling, giggling and screaming. I wasn’t happy about going down the hill so haphazardly mind you, but, nevertheless, I wore a big stupid grin on my face for the duration.
We came to a stop a little ways from the bottom of the hill, so I turned around to see who my passenger had been, but she was long gone. Looking further back, I saw that she had bailed out just short of the flat and was already starting her climb back up. My heart sank. I couldn’t explain it, but it was true. She remained in my sight, as I trudged up Parson’s myself, wondering who she was and why she did that. Then suddenly she turned and waved. I returned the gesture, all the while trying to see what she looked like under those bulky winter clothes and that great big hood she had worn. Undoubtedly, other, more assertive boys may have run over to make her acquaintance, but that just wasn’t me. I must have been twelve then, still a simple boy who was never really interested in the opposite sex. Until then, that is.
She disappeared over the crest of the hill and I stopped, milling over who she was. After some time, my father’s call broke my thoughts and I continued uphill to him.
That evening I sat on the floor by his feet as he listened to the evening news, a boy completely enraptured by the day’s events. Soon after, I went to bed, still fascinated by the excited feeling stirring inside me.
Saturday morning came and went and there was no sign of the girl-my girl-on Parson’s Hill (or any other hill in the neighborhood for that matter; trust me I checked). In fact, I can’t recall seeing any girls out sledding that day. Maybe I’m wrong. It was so many, many years ago. An old man can’t be expected to remember everything, after all. These days I’ve got to file away certain things in order to remember certain others. But one thing is for sure: that day I didn’t find the girl I was looking for.
Winter bowed down to spring as Mother Nature woke from her slumber. The days were cool and the nights crisp and buzzing with life. I had mostly forgotten about my one-time passenger, as boys of that age tend to do with things that once so strongly held their attention.
On Wednesday nights I attended St. Michael’s youth group. Can’t remember what we actually called it. It was supposed to be a sort of religious recreation, but mostly we just played ball or chummed around with each other. On our last session, just days short of summer vacation, my friend James had brought his cousin Sybil in with him. And wouldn’t you know it was the girl that had stolen a ride on my sled! I don’t know how I knew, but I did. God works in mysterious ways, indeed.
That last session went on without any of the usual game playing. Instead, the instructors had us discussing things that we would like to do over the summer. Lots of kids-mostly boys-boasted of the wonderful summer jobs they had lined up and the even more wonderful things they would spend their earnings on, others said they would play outside each and every day the summer had to offer before they set foot back into school, and others still said they would read every last book listed in the library’s book club.
I wasn’t thinking any of those things, but was busy watching. Sybil, as James had introduced her at the start of that night’s meeting, was the subject of my observations. I took in as many of her features as possible: the green eyes, the reddish-blonde hair, the light complexion of her skin, the freckles on her cheeks. She wore what looked like a school dress, although I wasn’t sure if it was.
As countless voices droned on about their summer plans, I sat with hands under chin, staring at a girl I didn’t know but desperately wished to. There was nothing sexual about it, I was practically devoid of any feelings of that nature. It just wasn’t my time yet, I suppose. But there she was, looking right at me and smiling, deep dimples in each cheek. And then it occurred to me that I was staring and she was staring back. I looked away immediately, surely red as the strawberries Mom used to serve with milk.
She caught me looking at her two more times over the course of the evening. It didn’t seem to bother her. In fact, I thought she rather liked it.
Our parents used to carpool when it came time to bring us home. We all sat around the foyer of St. Michael’s in wait for them to pick us up. I was sitting alone on a bench, under a life-size woodcarving of Jesus holding out his right hand. After awhile, James came over and joined me. I wanted to ask about his cousin, but couldn’t. Too shy and all that. But as luck would have it, she came bopping her way on over to us, sitting down right next to me. Boy was I terrified. I couldn’t speak. James would say something pert and I would just nod or shake my head at him. Sybil thought it was amusing. Don’t you ever talk? she asked me. I only smiled and nodded. After James had had enough, he popped me one on the arm and asked if I didn’t have it bad for his cousin. And with her right there!
Of course, I offered no answer; I was too busy looking at the space between my shoes. James, in his romantic genius, got up and said he’d leave us two lovebirds alone. I didn’t want him to go.
“Aren’t you the boy with the sledÉthe one I rode with that day?” she asked after he had left. It amazed me that she knew or remembered and a smile touched the corners of my mouth. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I managed.
“That was fun.”
“Yes,” I said again.
“I’m staying with my Aunt Judy-” that was James’ mom, “-for the summer. Maybe, I’ll see you again.” It was only half a question.
“Sure,” I said, still looking at my shoes. Then, without knowing what hit me or how I managed, I actually said, “That would be nice,” and looked at her not quite in the eyes.
“Sibb! Mom’s here. Let’s go!” It was James.
And before I could turn my head to look at her fully, she planted a kiss on my cheek.
It sealed our fate.
We ended up getting married, the two of us did. Very early on, too. In the beginning it was good-it was heaven, quite frankly. We had loved each other without the slightest reservation. But we ran into trouble along the way. I won’t try to sugar coat it-I promised myself I wouldn’t-I’ll just state it plainly.
Sybil was hooked on the bottle. She was what we used to call a lush.
It did not happen all at once; it built up over time. Should have seen it coming though, and maybe I did, but we were young and strong and stupid, and so didn’t seek any help. We hid it as best we could; I hid it, mostly. I can trace that demon back to her first drink, a drink she took on the day of our wedding. We had married in the courthouse with only my immediate family present. (Sybil’s family was mostly gone and by then she had been staying with James for years.) Afterwards, we all drove out to O’Rourke’s for a little after-party and I shelled out the first round, a round that included my Sybil. She refused at first but I insisted, it being our special day and all.
It was the first real drink to part her lovely lips and the beginnings of a diseased wedge that grew between us.
We existed as best we could. Me working at the GM plant, her staying home nursing the bottle. We were never able to have any children. In retrospect, that was surely a blessing. Would’ve been a heck of a time for any child trying to grow up with her as a mother. We did try, though. I thought maybe she’d have no choice but to clean up her act. We never found out.
One day after work and a stop at the corner bar, I walked through the front door of our apartment in what was then Tarrytown. As I did, I heard Sybil talking loudly to herself in the kitchen. Her volume increased as I crossed what served as our living room and dining room, and stopped as the sound of my first step on the kitchen’s tile floor announced my presence. What I saw disturbed me, to say the least.
Her back is to me as she stands at the stove with all the burners working. The old woman next door is pounding on the wall between us. There’s white flour everywhere, somehow even on the ceiling. Our little electric fan is in the sink. Small white fragments of broken dish are littered here and there. The icebox is open and its contents are sprawled out on the floor, covered in wet flour. Slow condensation rises out of the box like steam. There’s a loaf of bread on the counter with a deep handprint in it. And there’s the booze. Bottles everywhere I look.
To this day I don’t know how or where she obtained it all from. Maybe I’ll ask her soon.
“YOU!” she screamed, as she turned to face me. She had draped a white apron over her head, but hadn’t tied it at the back. Maybe she thought she was cooking or something, I don’t know. What I do know is that she had a long knife deep in her chest. It was buried nigh to the hilt, but there was hardly any blood to be seen. Just a tiny red ring around where the blade had gone in. I was in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening to meÉto us. All the suffering we’d endured; all the feelings and apathy suppressed. It was all for her.
But I was relieved. It’s horrible, yes, but over the years I’ve come to accept that the truth-the honest-to-goodness truth and not simply something close to it-was mostly like that.
Sybil looked through me with her angry eyes just like I had stabbed her myself. She pointed, jabbing her finger at me again and again as if a corpse identifying her killer. The red ring grew larger as she did.
Her eyes widened and she took a shaky step forward. I stood my ground, more out of terror than courage, as her accusing finger and wretched moaning summed up our pitiful circumstance: it was all my fault.
She fell forward on her face, driving the tip of the blade through her back.
Six and a half years later I was released from prison. Manslaughter charges; they couldn’t get me for murder, and rightfully so. I had nothing to do with it. But, you understand, someone had to go down for it; the public demanded a conviction, and so a convict I became.
What ever happened to Sybil was left a mystery to me, except that she had not lived. Better to let it alone, I thought. Start fresh; forget the past; move on.
I moved out west, rebuilt my life. Maybe it was easier to do back then. Opening a business-nothing remarkable, just a small town hardware store-was what provided for me and my family. Yes, I remarried and had two beautiful children, although none of them are with us, not a one survived the accident that day.
The dream had been taunting me for three weeks by that time. It came most every night, and was getting so that I didn’t want to sleep anymore. I tried to go some nights without closing my eyes, but that only lasted two or three days and then exhaustion prevailed.
Every time the dream was the same. I would be driving-always alone-on Old Route 100 in Delaney. I would round the turn, passing the ball field on one side and the executive park on the other. The red fence would approach on the right and I’d travel with it that way for a clip. It would be leaning out at an impossible angle towards the highway and I’d shoot nervous glances its way, as if it was the last, weak defense against some marauding supernatural army. At one point, a few hundred yards before the fence came to end, there would be a great big tree in the grassy shoulder that extended from the fence to the roadway. My head lights would catch its enormous trunk as I rounded the bend. My car would charge on, steering wheel locked, heading directly for that rock solid tree-trunk. I would be screaming toward it, hopelessly slamming the brake pedal and gripping the wheel as hard as I could.
Then it would end, and I’d wake up flailing or yelling or both. There would be no more sleep after. My day, no matter the hour, would have begun.
Old Route 100 was an actual highway. We used it maybe once a year, mostly when traveling to and from the Delaney County Fair. Opening day was nearing by then, maybe three months away, and I had promised the children that we would go. But I’ll be honest with you, I was deathly afraid. The plan brewing was to leave early morning so that we could return when it was still light out. That, maybe I could deal with.
Some weeks later my nightly battle with slumber was lost-as always was the case-and sleep overtook me. The next morning I woke, having been undisturbed all night. As suddenly as they began, the dreams had ceased.
Nine more dreamless days past and we piled into the station wagon. The drive over to Delaney was uneventful. Once there, we spent the day enjoying the fair’s various games and shows and food, and, of course, each other’s company. We had a wonderful time. I was grateful for that and I’ll never forget it. Close to my heart, it lies.
As for the ride home, it was another story.
Trista and William JR. were asleep in the far back. They loved to sit back there and goof with each other and the passing cars. My wife and I spoke quietly in the front. We rounded the turn on Route 100, nearing the fence, and Ella, my wife, had gently taken my hand in hers. She knew about the dreams, you see. Up to that moment everything was well, I think, and I had even got up the nerve to look away from the roadway and give my wife a thankful glance-just a little something to show my love. As I did, she pulled away and pointed out through the windshield.
“Lookout!” she yelled, and then the figure was upon us. I swerved to the right anyway, attempting to lessen the blow as best I could. But there was no impact initially, just a white blur, and for a second I thought we had avoided a great disaster. Then the true impact-the one that was inescapable-came just as I was marveling at our good fortune.
Darkness engulfed me.
When the daze finally passed, I saw the trunk of the tree from my dreams framed by the windshield, or rather where the windshield once was. The gnarled trunk was horribly close, as if there were never any engine in the car to begin with. I looked at it, a foot or two from my face, still dazed, when I spotted someone peering at me from behind. The interloper hid away just as I coaxed my slow eyes onto him. Or was it her? Consciousness drifted from me as I wondered.
Sometime later my eyes opened upon the gravel riddled shoulder. How it happened I cannot explain. I grasped the driver’s side door and pulled myself up off the ground. Vertigo overcame me, but the mangled hulk of the car offered good support. As my head cleared and my vision focused, again I spied the person behind the tree, and again the figure slipped away from sight, although this time through an opening in the fence. All at once I knew it was her that had done this.
“Stop!” I yelled, suddenly angry. So angry that I forgot about my family and the accident and everything else. I gave chase.
I passed by Ella’s body but did not pause. Her positioning was enough to tell me she hadn’t made it. Thankfully, the children were nowhere in sight. I slipped through the jagged opening in the fence, gouging my side and tearing my shirt. I bled and wondered how she had passed through so easily.
It was still very dark, not so much as in my dreams, but enough to make it hard to navigate the cemetery, for that is what I entered when I emerged from the other side.
I looked frantically from left to right, my blood boiling. Low lying fog wafted lazily around the headstones and few mausoleums. Terror had full grasp of me now but I ignored it, adrenaline and tunnel-vision calling the shots. Then I spotted her.
Her.
Sybil.
My first and truest love was wearing the white one-piece dress and apron she had on the day she died, only now it appeared the drab gray of prisoner dress. The apron was worn correctly this time, and a black stain marked the place of entry the carving knife had made high on her chest.
My head pounded, each heartbeat sending a pang throughout, and I pressed the side of one fist to the middle of my forehead, shutting my eyes tightly. When again I looked, she was somehow farther into the night.
She stood, hands at her sides, motionless. I too remained still, waiting for her to give some sort of sign. What did she want me to do? Why should she torment me all these years later? “I knew it would be you!” I yelled accusingly. But it didn’t seem to matter. She turned darker now, the color of menacing storm-clouds, and walked slowly downhill through the cemetery.
After a moment, I followed.
When I reached the place where she once stood, she had somehow traveled into the distance. It was an unexplainable phenomenon; never was there any detection of her moving away from me. She only stood as before.
Now I ran, wanting to catch her, to wring her neck, to kill her even though she was already dead. I charged at her, crying through clenched teeth, tears leaping from the sides of my face. As the distance closed, her miserable expression became evident. It did not alter my intention.
Finally upon her, I dove, meaning to catch her with both arms and drive her to the earth, but I passed through her like an arrow through the air and slammed head-first into the grave marker behind her.
Later, when I woke, it was still dark save for the light of the not quite full moon. There would have been silence if not for the relentless song of the numerous crickets throughout the grounds. I put a hand to my head and winced. The blow had been very hard. I attempted to get to my hands and knees, and then saw her bare feet and the hem of her charcoal dress close by to my left. This time there was no anger-only fear-as hot liquid filled the front of my pants. I fell back on my ass and elbows, blubbering incoherencies and pleading her forgiveness.
Her arm rose from her side as she pointed behind me. I turned to look at the headstone and read:
Sybil Rose Geary
1923-1949
May She Rest In Peace
The world became black, so black as my heart.
