Infallible Jacqueline would soon be by to help. Thank God.
Her first memory of Jacqueline’s presence was when Sylvia was about three. Sylvia had stolen her dad’s underpants from the washing basket, and secretly put them on. In those days, she wanted to be a boy. But then she peed her pants and the undergarments were saturated with yellow. Jacqueline didn’t say a word. It was their secret. She took away the enormous soiled Y-Fronts and soaked them in soapy water. Then she took Sylvia to the bathtub, pretending that the child had muddy knees and it was easier to put her in the tub. The pee was humiliating enough, but being discovered in her father’s giant underpants was doubly shameful to a small child, even a Tomboy like Sylvia, and Jacqueline sensed that. Never did she mention it to anybody. So loyal.
Grace had occasional little mishaps in bed but, just like Jacqueline, Sylvia never made a big deal out of it, or she pretended she didn’t even notice.
The other indelible memory of Sylvia’s was when Jacqueline took her to her church. Sylvia’s parents’ church was uneventful, with only white people looking sour and bored, but Jacqueline’s was wild with song, full of Praise-The-Lord. One man, in a wheelchair, was rocking so hard he popped out. The force of it set him rolling about the floor, still singing, praising the Lord even harder. After that, Sylvia begged to only go to Jacqueline’s Baptist church—it was so much more fun! But her mother told her to wait until she was older—then she could choose. But by the time she was older, Sylvia had lost interest in church of any kind.
She had been brought up with so much goodness around her. The neighbors, Aunt Marcy, Jacqueline. She knew she’d had a blessed life.
Earlier that evening, Mrs. Wicks had brought Sylvia another tasty meal in a casserole dish—wouldn’t accept no for an answer—such kindness.
Sylvia rolled over in her bed for the umpteenth time but couldn’t even close her eyes, let alone sleep. She decided to tackle her father’s closet. She’d pick out the right suit for him and make a Goodwill pile and a Special pile. What she would do with the Special pile she had no idea, but at least it was a start. Tommy was not her father’s size.
She got up and walked with trepidation into the spare bedroom, which her father had used as a dressing room. There were two Regency-style single beds and a chest of drawers to match. She opened the top drawer. It smelled of rose-scented paper liners, and was full of lavender bags that her mother had once bought on a trip to France.
The walk-in closet was stuffed with hand-made shoes, too small, unfortunately, for Tommy’s feet. The same could be said for the tailored suits, which was a shame as some of them harked back to the sixties and were pretty stylish. Sylvia stood on a stool and rummaged through the shelf above. There were hats—even a top hat that folded flat, which she remembered her father had said belonged to his father. It was an opera hat, designed to sit on, so when you went to the theatre, it didn’t take up space. There were shoeboxes, all clean, meticulously organized. Except for one that nestled in the top right hand corner. Strange, thought Sylvia, it was unlike Jacqueline to let dust gather. It was obvious that it hadn’t been touched for years. She reached over on tiptoe and grasped the shoebox with both hands. At a closer glance, she saw that it was sealed tight with duct tape. Why sealed? Could there be a pistol inside? She didn’t think so. Her father was not a pistol kind of man.
She sneezed from the musty attic smell of the box. It reminded her that the attic would have to be next; it didn’t even bear contemplating the amount of junk that must be up there. Maybe the luxury of having $247,000 in her bank account, despite the guilt attached to it, would stave off selling the house a while longer. The idea of sorting through it was horrifying; the memories, the sheer
Her first memory of Jacqueline’s presence was when Sylvia was about three. Sylvia had stolen her dad’s underpants from the washing basket, and secretly put them on. In those days, she wanted to be a boy. But then she peed her pants and the undergarments were saturated with yellow. Jacqueline didn’t say a word. It was their secret. She took away the enormous soiled Y-Fronts and soaked them in soapy water. Then she took Sylvia to the bathtub, pretending that the child had muddy knees and it was easier to put her in the tub. The pee was humiliating enough, but being discovered in her father’s giant underpants was doubly shameful to a small child, even a Tomboy like Sylvia, and Jacqueline sensed that. Never did she mention it to anybody. So loyal.
Grace had occasional little mishaps in bed but, just like Jacqueline, Sylvia never made a big deal out of it, or she pretended she didn’t even notice.
The other indelible memory of Sylvia’s was when Jacqueline took her to her church. Sylvia’s parents’ church was uneventful, with only white people looking sour and bored, but Jacqueline’s was wild with song, full of Praise-The-Lord. One man, in a wheelchair, was rocking so hard he popped out. The force of it set him rolling about the floor, still singing, praising the Lord even harder. After that, Sylvia begged to only go to Jacqueline’s Baptist church—it was so much more fun! But her mother told her to wait until she was older—then she could choose. But by the time she was older, Sylvia had lost interest in church of any kind.
She had been brought up with so much goodness around her. The neighbors, Aunt Marcy, Jacqueline. She knew she’d had a blessed life.
Earlier that evening, Mrs. Wicks had brought Sylvia another tasty meal in a casserole dish—wouldn’t accept no for an answer—such kindness.
Sylvia rolled over in her bed for the umpteenth time but couldn’t even close her eyes, let alone sleep. She decided to tackle her father’s closet. She’d pick out the right suit for him and make a Goodwill pile and a Special pile. What she would do with the Special pile she had no idea, but at least it was a start. Tommy was not her father’s size.
She got up and walked with trepidation into the spare bedroom, which her father had used as a dressing room. There were two Regency-style single beds and a chest of drawers to match. She opened the top drawer. It smelled of rose-scented paper liners, and was full of lavender bags that her mother had once bought on a trip to France.
The walk-in closet was stuffed with hand-made shoes, too small, unfortunately, for Tommy’s feet. The same could be said for the tailored suits, which was a shame as some of them harked back to the sixties and were pretty stylish. Sylvia stood on a stool and rummaged through the shelf above. There were hats—even a top hat that folded flat, which she remembered her father had said belonged to his father. It was an opera hat, designed to sit on, so when you went to the theatre, it didn’t take up space. There were shoeboxes, all clean, meticulously organized. Except for one that nestled in the top right hand corner. Strange, thought Sylvia, it was unlike Jacqueline to let dust gather. It was obvious that it hadn’t been touched for years. She reached over on tiptoe and grasped the shoebox with both hands. At a closer glance, she saw that it was sealed tight with duct tape. Why sealed? Could there be a pistol inside? She didn’t think so. Her father was not a pistol kind of man.
She sneezed from the musty attic smell of the box. It reminded her that the attic would have to be next; it didn’t even bear contemplating the amount of junk that must be up there. Maybe the luxury of having $247,000 in her bank account, despite the guilt attached to it, would stave off selling the house a while longer. The idea of sorting through it was horrifying; the memories, the sheer
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