Nobody Knows

Nobody Knows

The flickering, buzzing lightbulb in the crystal chandelier of her mother’s bedroom woke Sylvia up from a delicious nap. It was cleaning day and her mother had yet to bring in the ladder that would reach up to the top of the vaulted ceiling so that the bulb could be changed. Her father had wired the chandelier the best he could, which wasn’t good enough. Just like the insulation under the bedroom floor and the plumbing job in the main bath wasn’t good enough. Her mother, Agnes, like in Agnes of God, called it scut work. Agnes would later complain, after the house had been sold and the whole marble coated bathroom wall next to the shower had caved in while the new owner was taking a shower, that she should have hired the work done by a proper plumber, and not allowed her not-so-handy husband, who looked good in a suit and sold insurance to his rich buddies, to do anything. He wasn’t much good at anything else anyway, but fulfilled another need she had of men. Her grandmother had said it. “You have a give and take relationship Agnes, just like me. You give orders and he takes orders.”

But Agnes wasn’t thinking about any of that today. Her precious Sylvia was having a sweet sixteen birthday party and the house, all four thousand square feet of it, had to be cleaned top to bottom. And to say that it was Sylvia’s party was a lie, or at least a stretch. It was her mom’s party to show off her precious daughter before she ran away and joined a cult or something crazy like that. She and her husband had watched an old movie recently they thought was going to be about a serial killer, because of its name, but later found out that the girl in the movie ran away to join a cult because she didn’t feel enough love and appreciation from her parents.  

The fact was that Sylvia could not have cared less about the going’s on of her parents. She knew from the look of her mom’s red and twisted hands that she was OCD and that her father was into peep shows more than anything. And then there was the poem. She found it one day as the household belongings were being sorted out before the house sold. It was a big job, and Sylvia was not supposed to be nosing around, but she did anyway. When she found the poem it was upsetting. As she read it over and over, it became a verse in her head and sung to a tune she had never heard before.

                     Ramblin’ Rose,

                     Why you ramble

  No one knows.

  Wild and wind blown,

                     That’s how you’ve grown.

                     Ramblin’ Rose

                Rubber hose,

  Nobody knows 

  About the hose.

                     Nobody knows that 

  You beat your daughter 

                     With a rubber hose.

  Nobody knows the pain

       You felt as you dealt 

                     Those terrible blows.

                     And now, much later

                     The daughter has grown

                     And has her own.

                     But the damage is done,

  And though no longer visible,

                     It is there, as it will always be. 

Sylvia was stunned the first time she read it, and quickly stuffed it back into the box. Who, she wondered, had written it?  

At the birthday party that day, only immediate family showed up. Her grandmother was one of them, always washing her hands, the dishes, and smiling at nothing. The action brought her peace. Meanwhile her mother, who had gotten up early when she discovered that her husband wasn’t in bed, but sitting in the darkened family room looking into space. She was disgusted, but said nothing, only turning around and quietly going back to bed.. There would be time to deal with him and his moods after the birthday party. Right now she had to bake the cake and finish cleaning. She also knew that if she got into it with her husband again, he would just cry or fall to the floor begging for forgiveness for something or another.   

When it was time for Sylvia to make a wish and blow out the sixteen candles, she didn’t know what to say. Her mother was holding her grandmother close and her father slouched against the refrigerator with a beer in his hands. And then out it came, a thought from some parallel universe came to her. She wished for an honest man. Good luck, her mother thought. Her view, and that of her own mother was that men were basically liars, and not to be trusted.  

But the wish created a never ending urge, and a search that would lead her into some very strange circumstances. The good news was her looks, at least at first. After high school she got a job in an upscale department store selling lingerie mainly to men who were attracted to her. She loved it. She could dress up, wear fancy underwear under her short skirt and, if she liked the man in some way, she would crouch down behind the service counter to fetch a gift box and give him a view of her perfect thighs, with the white garter belt, all the way to her equally white panties, and, as she looked up into her customer’s eyes, she could feel the power. She had him, and sometimes would agree to sleep with him. That was until one of them left two hundred dollar bills on the hotel nightstand before he left. As she picked the money up in that moment she felt nothing, but a realization came to mind. She had become a prostitute. The dent in her psyche left by her grandmother’s abuse of her mother had some how left her bereft of normal feeling. How could that be? Why in the world, she wondered, would that thought come to mind just then? But there it was and when she went back to her apartment that night she cried so hard she had to get out of bed and and quickly crumpled to her knees, holding onto the side of the bed. “Oh, my God”, she said out loud, without realizing what she was doing, “what have I become?”  There was no answer, just a presence guiding her back to bed, giving her solace and telling her to rest.  

Sylvia slept for ten hours, almost missing her work shift, and when she got there, everyone looked different somehow. Round, full faced, real. No longer mannequins who talked and walked. And one of her friends from the cosmetic counter noticed something in her as well. “Sylvia? Are you okay? You look different somehow.” “Yes”, she said simply, “so do you.” It was weird, to put it mildly. What had happened? She decided to ask her dad that question. Why she didn’t ask her mother couldn’t be explained at that moment. Probably because she knew her mother would use the opportunity to get her daughter back to Church. At least her dad wasn’t going to do that. He was living in a tent at a hot springs some where North of San Fransisco after having lived for several months with a woman Sylvia’s age. It was ridiculous, but at least he wouldn’t be judgmental. She was right.  

“Sylvia! How wonderful to hear from you. What’s going on?” After she told him about the incident at the hotel and her crying he asked, “Have you told your mother?” “No.” “I know what she would say, and besides I have a question for you.” Oh, oh. He thought it would be more about his lifestyle, but it wasn’t. “Remember when we were getting ready to sell the big house in Michigan?” “Yes.” “I found a poem stuffed away in a box. Were you the one who wrote it?” He knew exactly what she was talking about. “Yes.”, he said very carefully. “What about it? “I memorized it, and it came to mind after the man left me the money on the nightstand. I don’t understand it daddy.” “I’m not sure I do either Sylvia, let me think on it for a while and I’ll get back to you.”

He didn’t have to think about it very long. It was the real reason he had left her mother and the marriage and rode away on his motorcycle. The imprint from the beating was cruelty and his daughter had inherited just enough of it to make her the creature she had become. Flat and without empathy. Now something had happened she couldn’t explain, she had a break through and could begin recovery like he had done fifteen years earlier. The next day he called Sylvia and told her his story. She listened, but had just one more question. What to do next? And what came out of her father at that moment was to stay away from all men completely for a year. Sylvia couldn’t believe it. What bullshit, she thought, and hung up, leaving her dad with a dial tone as a response.

“Sylvia? Sylvia?, Are you there?”