her a wink and said not to worry. He and Sheila conspired to hide the puppy somewhere in the house overnight, until Jenny came by in the morning.
In sixth grade, Sheila went to summer camp with Sally, and one night, the girls were sitting around talking about being homesick. Sheila kept saying how much she missed her father.
The girls got the sense that her mom got along better with Sheila’s sister, Susan. It wasn’t always easy for Sheila to live in the shadow of Susan, who was both glamorous and a quintessential good girl, always saying and doing the right things. Susan was calm, smart, popular—and Mrs. Walsh was close to her and proud of her.
“Then you had Sheila, who was more rebellious,” says Jenny. The girls suspected that Sheila sometimes wondered if she disrupted the image of the perfect family. In their observations, Sheila didn’t think she measured up to her family on a lot of fronts—in looks, in behavior, maybe in smarts.
Among the girls, she wasn’t as centered and introspective as Marilyn was, or as book smart as Jane and Sally. But she had an ability to connect with people that the other girls found not just impressive but inspiring. Starting in grade school, several of the girls volunteered together at a local nursing home, passing out cookies or reading aloud to residents with poor eyesight.
For most of the girls, the natural impulse was to gravitate toward the youngest, healthiest residents. Not Sheila. She’d head straight for the oldest and the sickest. She’d hold hands with the most wrinkled, the most senile, the most medicated old folks she could find. Oxygen tanks didn’t scare her off. She’d just sit there, smiling and chatting.
“People had hoses up their noses, and it would freak some of us out,” says Cathy. “But Sheila, she was so comfortable.” It was like she connected right to people’s hearts.
She’d been extremely close to her own grandmother, and in fact, she could get close to anyone’s grandparent. Later, in high school, Sheila got a job in an assisted-living facility, passing out and collecting food trays. Jenny’s widowed grandfather lived there, and every day, even if Sheila wasn’t on the schedule to service his room, she’d stop in to keep him company. “He thought she was adorable. He just loved her,” says Jenny. “He’d always flirt with her, and she’d flirt with him right back.”
S heila started turning boys’ heads at a very early age. When she was in first grade, Duffy Madden had a mad crush on her. His dad was one of Iowa State’s football coaches. As Duffy remembers it: “Sheila’s face just glowed when she smiled, and there was something in her eyes that made me stare at her all the time. I’d call her every night at dinnertime until her mother called mine and told me to knock it off.”
For Christmas, Duffy stole a half-empty bottle of his mother’s perfume, filled it to the top with water, and gave it to Sheila as a present. She wasn’t so taken with the perfume or with him, so he tried a new tactic: feigning dislike for her. Once, at the end of the school day, he chased her out of the front door of St. Cecilia’s—she was literally running away from him—and he slipped on ice at the entrance. He fell hard on his chin, as Sheila turned to giggle his way and then stepped into her mother’s car. “I was more stunned and hurt by that than the six stitches I got that day,” says Duffy, who was just the first in a long line of boys smitten with Sheila.
In the summertime, when Sheila was up at Lake Okoboji with her family, her letters to the other girls back in Ames chronicled her life precisely—“I have 31 mosquito bites. It’s so disgusting!”—and served as a travelogue of her interactions with boys. “I danced with these three creeps who just totally grossed me out!” she wrote to Sally in junior high. “But then I danced with Joe for three songs (slow!) and I was so happy! Now I like this other guy.
In sixth grade, Sheila went to summer camp with Sally, and one night, the girls were sitting around talking about being homesick. Sheila kept saying how much she missed her father.
The girls got the sense that her mom got along better with Sheila’s sister, Susan. It wasn’t always easy for Sheila to live in the shadow of Susan, who was both glamorous and a quintessential good girl, always saying and doing the right things. Susan was calm, smart, popular—and Mrs. Walsh was close to her and proud of her.
“Then you had Sheila, who was more rebellious,” says Jenny. The girls suspected that Sheila sometimes wondered if she disrupted the image of the perfect family. In their observations, Sheila didn’t think she measured up to her family on a lot of fronts—in looks, in behavior, maybe in smarts.
Among the girls, she wasn’t as centered and introspective as Marilyn was, or as book smart as Jane and Sally. But she had an ability to connect with people that the other girls found not just impressive but inspiring. Starting in grade school, several of the girls volunteered together at a local nursing home, passing out cookies or reading aloud to residents with poor eyesight.
For most of the girls, the natural impulse was to gravitate toward the youngest, healthiest residents. Not Sheila. She’d head straight for the oldest and the sickest. She’d hold hands with the most wrinkled, the most senile, the most medicated old folks she could find. Oxygen tanks didn’t scare her off. She’d just sit there, smiling and chatting.
“People had hoses up their noses, and it would freak some of us out,” says Cathy. “But Sheila, she was so comfortable.” It was like she connected right to people’s hearts.
She’d been extremely close to her own grandmother, and in fact, she could get close to anyone’s grandparent. Later, in high school, Sheila got a job in an assisted-living facility, passing out and collecting food trays. Jenny’s widowed grandfather lived there, and every day, even if Sheila wasn’t on the schedule to service his room, she’d stop in to keep him company. “He thought she was adorable. He just loved her,” says Jenny. “He’d always flirt with her, and she’d flirt with him right back.”
S heila started turning boys’ heads at a very early age. When she was in first grade, Duffy Madden had a mad crush on her. His dad was one of Iowa State’s football coaches. As Duffy remembers it: “Sheila’s face just glowed when she smiled, and there was something in her eyes that made me stare at her all the time. I’d call her every night at dinnertime until her mother called mine and told me to knock it off.”
For Christmas, Duffy stole a half-empty bottle of his mother’s perfume, filled it to the top with water, and gave it to Sheila as a present. She wasn’t so taken with the perfume or with him, so he tried a new tactic: feigning dislike for her. Once, at the end of the school day, he chased her out of the front door of St. Cecilia’s—she was literally running away from him—and he slipped on ice at the entrance. He fell hard on his chin, as Sheila turned to giggle his way and then stepped into her mother’s car. “I was more stunned and hurt by that than the six stitches I got that day,” says Duffy, who was just the first in a long line of boys smitten with Sheila.
In the summertime, when Sheila was up at Lake Okoboji with her family, her letters to the other girls back in Ames chronicled her life precisely—“I have 31 mosquito bites. It’s so disgusting!”—and served as a travelogue of her interactions with boys. “I danced with these three creeps who just totally grossed me out!” she wrote to Sally in junior high. “But then I danced with Joe for three songs (slow!) and I was so happy! Now I like this other guy.
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