By Anne Sullvan
PRELUDE:
“Dummy,” said Sylvia.
“I know,” I said, “I sent the wrong column to the paper last week.”
“How could you?” she scolded. “Just when everyone wanted to find out if and how I got back from Shanghai.”
“My fingers must have slipped when I attached it.”
“You didn’t check?!”
“I guess not. I was tired and frazzled.”
“No excuse. Are you going to send the China column this week?”
“No, I can’t. I have to send another one but I will next week, I promise.”
* * * *
“Please,” said Sylvia, “I really really need it.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I countered.
Sylvia and I were in the process of straightening and cleaning the front porch and the going was slow.
“Everyone else has one,” she wheedled.
“I don’t.” I stood firm.
“You’re probably the only person in the whole wide world who doesn’t have one, and that’s all the more reason for me to have one,” she declared.
“How so? I don’t fathom your reasoning.”
“I need it. I really need it.”
“Why? You never talk on the telephone. You don’t have anyone to talk to. And you don’t even know how to dial.”
“I could get speed dial. I need it. I need it to call 911.”
“But why do you need to call 911?”
“Suppose you fall down -- it could happen, you know, you’re not getting any younger -- and break a leg. What am I supposed to do then? I don’t know how to set your leg. I’d have to get an ambulance here.”
“It’s a nice thought but I’m afraid it won’t work.”
“It would if I had a cellphone.”
“No, it wouldn’t. The problem is that I’m the only human who understands you and I’m out of combat with a broken leg.”
“I don’t know why you’re the only person who understands me.”
“Perhaps it’s because I’m YOUR person.”
Sylvia was not about to give up. “Maybe we could make a recording that says, ‘Send ambulance to Swingle Canyon.’”
“Maybe I’ll just be very careful and we won’t need an ambulance.”
“But I still want my cellphone.” Sylvia dug in all four heels. “I want one that gives me the news, the movie reviews and tells me what restaurants are in my neighborhood.”
“I could tell you that: the Eagle Guest Ranch and Mary Mac’s.”
“It’s not the same.” Sylvia began to sulk and from her appearance it was a prelude to a full-scale melt-down. She announced, “I’m going to take a nap now because I never get anything I want.”
Without a backward glance, she went into her house. If there had been a door, she would have slammed it.
I was left to finish tidying the porch by myself. When the task was done and I went inside to check my email she was snoring away.
I returned to the porch an hour later. Sylvia had ceased snoring and only emitted little puffs. I knocked over a broom which woke her as well as reminding me to sweep. She emerged from her house slowly, shook herself and stood defiantly in front of me.
“Sylvia,” I said. “I have some very sad news for you.”
“What? I suppose I’m not going to get my cellphone.”
“You’re not but that’s not it. It’s something worse.”
“What?”
“I just heard that Jacky Barrington died.”
“Aunt Jacky?” Sylvia’s lip trembled when she spoke, “Aunt Jacky who gave me my start in the newspaper business?”
I nodded.
Tears dripped down Sylvia’s face making rivulets in the dirt almost as deep as the current ruts in my road. “Jacky published the very first thing I ever wrote when I was just a puppy, my first Christmas card from Swingle Canyon,” she said. ”She encouraged me and gave me the courage to write. She was my mentor.”
“Mine, too,” I said. “Jacky was my introduction to the newspaper world. She published and paid me for all sorts of weird articles I wrote – about UFOs, the love lives of my animals, old settlers. She even put up with my refusal to enter the computer age. I was so sorry when health problems forced her to leave Magdalena.”
“We’ll really miss her, won’t we?” said Sylvia, sniffing.
“That we surely will.”
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