Twilight

Sylvia sat in the front seat of the fast-moving car picking at her brown plaid skirt with her gnarled fingers. Her mother would have called the wool material “pilly,” indicative of inferior design, and steered Sylvia toward more reliable brands. Blue cigarette smoke swirled around her, reminding her of her father’s Lucky Strikes and how, as a girl, she would roll down the windows of their Kingswood station wagon and dramatically plunge her torso outside, coughing and gagging, begging him to put out his butts. Now the smoke belonged to a smooth-skinned black gentleman with bulging arm muscles and a great deal of silver on his wrists and fingers. Sylvia couldn’t quite place him. The car stopped.

“Okay, lady. We’re here.”

Sylvia stared at the dark gentleman, not only trying to place the face but now also trying to understand what he was saying to her.

Sylvia’s door was jerked open. A pair of long fish-netted legs teetered atop stiletto heels. It was broad daylight, and the young lady’s evening wear confused Sylvia. She looked closer. Her hair was a ridiculously unnatural shade of red that clashed tragically with her make-up. Her near-orange lipstick overshot her upper lip in a way that made Sylvia decide that it was applied in the dark or at least without the benefit of a mirror. Sylvia held onto the side of the open car door and hoisted herself up on the second try.

“C’mon, c’mon.”

Now that she was face to face with her, Sylvia could see that she was not a girl at all but a middle-aged woman, which made her look even more ridiculous in her short skirt and tight blouse. She took Sylvia by the arm, not nicely either, her painted nails pushing into the soft flesh of Sylvia’s upper arm.

At the window the teller looked at the pair expectantly. Sylvia stared blankly back.
“Your checkbook, Sylvia. You need to cash a check for a hundred dollars, remember?” her new friend said.

“Yes, of course.” Sylvia did not remember anything of the kind, but she was not about to let on. She found her checkbook, wrote out the check and passed it under the glass to the teller. While she waited for him to cash it, Sylvia found her notebook in her purse and flipped open the pages.

Corn. Butter.

Don’t open the door to strangers. (Mark’s instructions, no doubt.)

Nilda. Baby. Formula. Bank.

“Bingo.”

“Pardon?”

“Nilda?”

“Yes?”

The teller passed five twenty-dollar bills under the glass to Sylvia who slipped them into her purse. The two women left the bank. Nilda stopped before the pair entered the car and held out her hand. Sylvia withdrew the twenties from her purse and placed two of them into the open palm.

“Where’s the rest?” Nilda lit up a cigarette and blew smoke in Sylvia’s face.

“You need more than forty dollars for formula?”

Sylvia watched Nilda smoke and chew gum at the same time wondering if her gum tasted like nicotine and worrying a little that she might inhale the wad.

“Well, I need diapers, too.”

She didn’t really look very maternal. Sylvia would have to spend some time mentoring this one. She counted out the remaining three twenties and pinched Nilda’s cheek. Nilda pulled away and ground out her cigarette butt under her toe.

“Just get in the car.”

Before Sylvia cleared her supper dishes that night, she carefully copied corn, butter, milk onto the pages of her notebook. Then she dumped her two empty cobs into the trash and placed the carton of milk into the fridge next to the butter dish. She slipped her plate into the sink of soapy water, scrubbed it quickly, rinsed it, dried it and placed it into the cupboard.

She switched on the evening news and reached for her notebook. She jotted down some of the headlines. Shooting in Dorchester. Fire in Worcester. Governor’s race heating up. She played Jeopardy with Alex Trebec, using her pen as a buzzer and always answering in the form of a question.

The phone rang at 7:45 as usual. That would be Mark. Sylvia muted the TV.

“Hello?”

“Ma, how are you?”

“Fine, fine, dear. And you?”

“What did you have for supper?”

Sylvia thumbed through her notebook. Corn. Butter.

“Oh I had the most marvelous corn on the cob from Woodman’s Farm. You know this really is the best time of year for Silver Queen.”

“You had that last night.”

Sylvia flipped back a page. Corn. Butter. Damn. She must have gotten her shopping list mixed up with her supper list.

“Well you know, Mark. You have to take advantage of the season’s bounties.”
“What did you do today?”

Bank. Check. Nilda. Formula.

“Just ran a few errands. That’s all. Went to the bank.”

“Who took you to the bank, Ma?”

Sylvia watched Alex Trebec interview the contestants. It was her favorite part of the show.  

“Mother?”

“A neighbor.”

“Ma, you can’t let neighbors take you to the bank.”

Sylvia wound the phone cord tightly around her finger. She still wore her wedding ring even though Clem had been dead almost ten years now. He would never have let Mark speak to her like this. Reprimanding her like a child.

“You don’t know my neighbors.”

“That’s right, Ma. I don’t. But neither do you. You know, the neighborhood isn’t like it used to be.”

Sylvia’s finger was purple and cold. She unwound the cord.

“Listen. Tomorrow I’ll come over. We’ll go over your check book all right?”

Sylvia unmuted Jeopardy.

“Maybe I could meet your neighbors.”

Sylvia thought about the inappropriately dressed chain smoker and the dark driver of few words.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow Ma. Don’t forget. And don’t open the door for anybody but me and Hannah.”

Sylvia hung up the phone and raised the volume.

In the morning, Sylvia washed and dressed, had her bran flakes and her Metamucil, then settled into the bathroom with her notebook.

Nilda. Babysit. 1:30. Job.

She tried hard to remember the woman named Nilda and her baby whom she was quite sure she had never met. She did not remember a conversation about a job, nor being asked to babysit. But if she had promised to sit for the child, it must be at 1:30 and she’d better get ready.

She stood and examined the toilet bowl. Not a bad morning’s work. She washed her hands and brushed her teeth and wondered what she could find in her cabinets for a baby to play with. It had been so long since Mark and Hannah were that age. Well, she didn’t know exactly what age the youngster was, but in any case, she felt proud that Nilda thought so highly of her as to ask her to care him. (She was pretty sure it was a boy.)

She had just started to pull out some pots and pans (little ones love pots and pans) when the doorbell rang. As Sylvia approached the front door she saw a rectangle of white paper over the peephole. She pulled her glasses from around her neck and peered through them.

Don’t open the door to strangers.

Sylvia pulled down the sign in irritation, crumpling it into a ball and jamming it into her apron pocket. She reached for the knob and at the last minute glanced through the peephole. There was Hannah, a bag of groceries in her arms. But Hannah had a key. This must be a test.

Sylvia swung the door open and Hannah jerked her head up, her mouth pulling itself into an unnaturally cheery smile.

“Good morning, Ma.”

Sylvia tried to take a stand; to look tall and capable and independent, but Hannah squeezed by her and hurried into the kitchen, as if this were her house.

“Ma, what happened in here?”

Sylvia followed Hannah’s voice into the kitchen. Strewn across the floor was seemingly every piece of cookery Sylvia owned. Sylvia stared at the mess hoping to remember what she was thinking. But the harder she tried the more nothing came.

“Ma? Are you all right?”

Hannah. So sweet. So loving. The look on her face now was the same one she had had as a little girl when Sylvia had fallen on the ice in their driveway and Hannah had run to her side, carefully placing snow onto her knee where her hosiery had torn. Then she remembered.

“I’m babysitting this afternoon. I was just taking some things out for the child to play with.”

The thought of Hannah as a child must have jogged her memory and she felt quite proud of herself for remembering. But now her daughter’s face had gone from caring to something bordering on terrified. She could see Hannah did not believe her. Sylvia reached for the groceries.

“Here. Let’s get these things put away.”

Hannah just watched her.

“Mark’s coming over. Did he tell you that?”

Another trap no doubt. A test of her memory. Another trick to see if she would open her door without asking who was there. Honestly. Mark left his 12-year-old home alone. Surely Sylvia had more common sense than that child, whose name escaped her at the moment.

“Of course he did.”

“Ma!?”

Sylvia whirled around to find Mark staring at her.

“Ma, the door was wide open. Anybody could come in here.”

He looked Sylvia up and down with a critical eye. Sylvia wished Clem were here to witness this effrontery.

“Ma, where are you going? Why are you all dressed up at 8 o’clock in the morning?”

Sylvia looked down at her beige polyester pant suit. If her son thought this was dressed up, he should have seen her in the red satin gown she used to go dancing in. Kids today thought anything that wasn’t blue jeans was dressed up.

“Mother’s babysitting this afternoon, Mark.”

Mark’s face took on the same look of incredulity as Hannah’s, before solidifying into an intrusive stare.

“For whom, Ma?”

Honestly. The hoops these children made her jump through were positively outrageous. She racked her brain and made for the notebook on the end table beside Mark, but he took a step sideways and beat her to it.

“Without the props, Ma. Who do you think you’re babysitting for?”

The room was quiet except for Hannah who was crying softly in the corner.

“Mark, don’t do this to her.”

Mark stood with the book behind his back like he was playing a schoolyard game of keep away. Sylvia felt defeated. She could not remember whom she was babysitting for. And for the first time, she could see how ridiculous it must seem. Who would ask an 80 year old woman with half a mind to watch their child? She backed slowly toward the couch and sat heavily into it. Hannah dropped to her knees and laid her head in Sylvia’s lap like she used to as a little girl. Sylvia stroked her hair, noting for the first time a few flecks of gray. Mark took the chair next to her, the one occupied by Clem every evening of his life, a whiskey sour in one hand, the Telegram and Gazette in the other, Huntley and Brinkley on the TV. She reached over and took his hand. She squeezed it, trying to convey a strength she did not feel. She looked into his face, so much like his father’s. His expression, confrontational a moment ago, had melted into something like pity. Hannah looked up at her from her place on the floor, a tear edging over her lower lid, tracing a line down her cheek, settling into the corner of her mouth.

“Oh, Ma.”

Sylvia caressed Hannah’s face with her fingertips, trying to read it like Braille. Struggling to memorize each freckle and line. She studied Mark next, trying to commit to memory the angle of his jaw, the lines gathering around his eyes. It made her sad to think that soon she would forget them both, their faces evaporating like puddles in the sun.

Her children looked so expectant, like they were waiting for an explanation. The pants suit. The pots and pans. Why she thought she had a babysitting job that day. But she couldn’t explain it. She didn’t know why. She could only tell them what she did know, while she could.

She looked out her picture window at the beautiful day. She let go of Mark’s hand and folded her own in her lap.

“It’s like I’m driving a car in a blinding rainstorm” she began. “I keep trying to focus, but I can’t see through the rain. I turn the windshield wipers up faster and faster, trying harder and harder to see. And for that split second when the wipers have cleared the rain, I think I can see you. But then you’re gone. And I can’t make you out any more. I try. But the more I try the more it rains. Beating down. Louder and louder.”

Her children were watching her, as if she were telling them a bed time story like she used to so many years ago.

    “And I think I hear your voice. But I can’t make out the words. I try to understand you. But I can’t hear you over the wipers and the rain. It just gets too hard. And it makes me tired. And so I give up and sit back and just try to enjoy the beauty of the storm.”

Hannah was crying.  Mark sat without expression. Then the two of them looked at each other and Sylvia felt something pass between them. She listened hard. But it was not words. A look perhaps. She leaned forward and stared into their faces, trying to catch their meaning. But it was raining too hard. And the fog was rolling in. And the wipers were just too loud.