Sleeping Alone

By Alexandra Hayes

Sylvia has lost two husbands: one to sudden death, a second to divorce. She has come home from dynamic work in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, to a dull office job in Calgary, Canada. Despite family efforts to cheer her, she experiences herself as lost, and still mourns her first husband. She begins to watch a handsome young stranger next door and gradually he becomes an obsession one that intensifies when he responds to her. But though the obsession opens Sylvia to re-experiencing love, it also proves disappointing. She learns she must create a new life, one in which she meets and interacts with new friends and neighbors, and remembers to pray for guidance. Sylvia no longer watches life from behind a glass window.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496945327

Alexandra Hayes

The author has written plays, television shows, history courses, and four novels. A traveler for many years, she has worked in Ethiopia, England, and the Middle East as well as the United States and Canada. In her fiction, she enjoys visiting places she knows but peopling them with characters she doesn’t know—or sometimes even like—until the story reveals them. That becomes as interesting as any journey she might take.

Book preview

One

What is reality? I don’t seem to know anymore. Five years ago I knew. I knew reality then as surely as I knew myself. Now I ask: Who am I?

Is it because my name is Sylvia? I sang that song sometimes: Who is Sylvia, that men should know her? Does anyone know me? How can they when I don’t know myself. Not anymore. Oh yes of course I can be seen, heard. I’m a body, clay housing something that is conscious, that thinks, that feels, through body mechanisms - glands, the brain. Yet are they my consciousness? The world shimmers, glides into molecules; changing, changing, changing. Who am I now, this moment?

When I woke this morning, the bedroom was gray with a silent kindling of light from the hall, and quiet, the clock silent on a table beside me. Outside the wind was still blowing hard, a sound I don’t like sleeping alone. It reminds me of the high plateau, of the run of wind across an empty Montana road where once I ran. Then, with mountains to run toward, the high star filled night sky silent above me, and the small settlement with its consoling lights behind me, I knew I belonged there, belonged on a paved highway running alone toward the Spirit that guides us all. But now, here, in this Canadian city, I don’t run and, though the city hum surrounds me, I’m alone, yes, on weekends, for the holidays. It doesn’t matter anymore – as long as I don’t think about all that I’ve lost.

In Addis Ababa, after Ian left me, I felt destroyed by aloneness. Silence oppressed me. I played the radio for hours though there was nothing but jazz and native music and African litanies on how the cultural heritage must be respected. It was my records that saved me, the Beatles more than anything. The classical I put away, those cold exercises of the intellect that Ian enjoyed. I played Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club loud, hoping the neighbors would hear, would know I was alive.

We lived next door to the Ethiopian Naval Headquarters. Not a very active place -though one naval officer was. Right before I left Addis, Deneke began to call on me, to come over to the house to drink tea. He didn’t like my records, too loud, he said, but he’d been weaned on the wailing of native voices, the smooth, sliding warble of African singing, like a reedy recorder, the voice going on and on, breathless, non-emotional yet culminating in emotion. Like a wave that finally breaks.

Malcolm and I watching the sea in Brighton; in my mind it is usually our crazy year in Europe that I remember: Standing side by side along the seawalls in England, we watched huge gray waves roll in, baptizing us with cold salt water. They seemed to me then to know where and how reality worked.

Malcolm is still with me; dead seven years, but not somewhere inside me. In my dreams he is young, vital. Last night I was dreaming of Malcolm, The dreams have followed me here. They are the same dream. He is alive and walking out from the northern mountains, making his way through heavy bush, down mountain streams, intent on coming home to me. Sometimes I dream he is sitting beside a flowing stream, or pushing through deep forests, or walking along a country road, but the dream is certain that he did not die in the plane crash, that he is alive and will find me. These dreams are logical in their own way; they imply that it is taking him a long time to make it back to me.

All the years in Addis Ababa, the message was the same. Perhaps they will change here in Calgary. Malcolm brought me to Canada after we married and, though I rented this house out when I married Ian, now that I’m alone, I will stay here.

The phone rang early this morning. I was dreaming then of a clock beside the bed that I couldn’t wind. I tried and tried, but it was broken and sprang back whenever I wound it forward. I got angry, sat up, threw it at the wall beside me. Then it rang. A loud ringing. Pieces were scattered all over; I leaned forward to brush them away; but the ringing went on; then I woke up.

It was the phone, downstairs. Eddie, my brother, was calling from Los Angels. He’s cheerful. Eddie is usually cheerful -a terrible habit at six in the morning.

Sylvia. How’s everything?

Eddie?

You O.K. Sweetie? You don’t answer the phone.

Is it Mother?

No, no, Mother’s fine. Same as always. How’s the job?

The withdrawal begins in me. I fight against it.

Everything’s fine Eddie. How’s Nancy?

How’s the house? You like that little house of yours?

You know I like this house Eddie. I’ve begun to shiver. I’m naked, having expected only a brief encounter. Mornings are cool now that it’s September.

Nancy’s fine, Sylvia. Kids finally back in school.

Want to tell me why you called?

Seem to like their classes this year. And I can tell you Nancy’s sure happy to have them out from underfoot.

Eddie is being deliberately annoying or so it seems to me.

Why did you call?

See how you are. You don’t write.

Nothing to write about.

I look out, through the window behind the phone. Nothing moving, nothing is awake.

We worry about you.

Don’t. I’m fine.

Your voice sounds sharp, Sylvia.

I’m cold, Eddie. You got me out of bed.

Ian telephoned again.

He should leave you alone.

You’re putting us on the spot.

I’m sorry.

This is the third time, Sylvia.

I said I was sorry. What does he want this time?

How should I know, that’s your business.

No it isn’t. Not anymore.

We are warming up to a familiar, brother and sister quarrel. Since I’ve come back from Africa all our exchanges develop into that.

Talk to the guy.

No! My feet shift on the cold floor.

Just business, that’s all.

No!

You don’t make sense.

Yes I do. He’s a jerk.

I notice Sylvia’s standing naked in front of the window; I back away.

I’m coming to Calgary next week.

Business?

Can you put me up?

Is it business, Eddie?

Do you want me to book a hotel? That’s what I’m asking. Should I book a hotel? His deep voice lightens with anger. My own sense of sullenness deepens.

Do what you like.

I’d like to stay with you.

I’ve got a spare room.

Fine. Then I’ll stay with you. And get yourself a cell phone.

A silence. We each wait for the other to relent.

You woke me up, Eddie. I’m not in the best of moods.

So I notice. There is another pause.

Sorry.

Well, see you kid. He clears his throat. We’ll go out to dinner. Have a good talk.

He hangs up. I stand for a minute by the phone. Ominous. Talks with Eddie have a way of turning out to be lectures. I scamper back upstairs but it’s hopeless. All heat from the bed is gone. One of the times I really miss a man -the warm up service. I’ll have to get a heating pad for the winter. I’ve read it’s dangerous to sleep all night with one. More dangerous than a man?

A cup of coffee in bed? There’s no time. A luxury I save for the weekends: Drinking coffee and reading until noon. Right now I am reading poetry. I like reading poetry in bed - the modern poets, fierce indignant young men, bold new women, voices, voice in my bed, all speaking more loudly and more certainly than I. How about Longfellow? In bed, long white beard, solemn old man. Imagine him beside me, beard trailing over the blankets, which are tucked up to his chin, looking ill at ease, saying Pardon me madam, how did I get in your bed? Or one of those thin dreamy young men in black turtlenecks and longish hair. What would they do in my bed? Be nonchalant probably, not the least embarrassed, looking around, smoking, asking, Do you by any chance have an ashtray? Quite uninterested in me of course, what would a poet see in me?

I’m turning sour. I lie a moment more, cold and irritated, then knowing the cure for this familiar sourness, get up and dress for work.

That’s the cure. Get up and get moving.

I go downstairs to the kitchen and stand by the stove waiting for the coffee to perk. I like putting my hand on the pot, feeling the warmth of it; around me, the house empty and cold. The coffee pot seems to join into my life stream.

I don’t want Eddie to come. He’s a family man. He has a lot of illusions about his good little sister. To Eddie what matters is that things go right. He’s always saying that: things should go right". By that he means smooth, no waves, and Nancy helps him play the game. A game that is essentially let things go Eddie’s way. A man’s game. Only what happens to women who make a life out of playing it?

I hope I can stop. Stop being smooth and calm, cooperative. I tell Sylvia: Start being obnoxious! But her name has turned her into a female Hamlet. Holding a skull and talking to it is right up her alley. The truth is men die or leave. Those big backs we lean against in bed at night, sighing with contentment at our safety in the dark, disappear. Overnight.

The life reminding smell of coffee fills the kitchen. I pour a cup and go into the living room. I should eat breakfast; tomorrow I will do better. I stand at the front window and drink. The old man with the dog goes by. He must be eighty if he’s a day, yet he is pulling the dog behind him on a child’s red wagon. The dog sits motionless, like an old victrola ad. Ridiculous. As is the old man to expend that energy. Like me dragging Malcolm, all these memories of Malcolm, around with me. I didn’t see his body. Burnt to ashes. Shut up Sylvia. He’s dead eight years. Begin to forget. I read once that the cells of the body go on experiencing the past even when the mind insists it has forgotten. What part of me still lives with a dead man? The living room is dark. Like a house of morgue. Watch the lady rot folks. Turn into a butterfly that didn’t make it, that decided to dry up instead.

No, this is not what I call a cheerful morning.

I don’t know about this new job. It’s very different. No respect for one thing. Instead of a teacher I’m a hired hand doing a bit of this and a bit of that in a museum office. But the truth is I’m horny. Even using the word would cause Eddie to wince. His little sister? Eddie, loving brother, don’t come to Calgary. Don’t come and find out about me.

Alive! Alive! I want to be alive this moment. Want to push my body against a man’s and feel that beautiful touching. Who knows? Who cares? Me, me, me!

The doorbell. I am upstairs putting my makeup on. I go down and open the door a reluctant crack. Mr Miller. From next door.

Good Morning, Mrs. Tennant.

Morning.

Don’t see much of you. He is short, over seventy, yet his gray, deep eyes are young.

I’m pretty busy at work these days.

Could you do us a favor?

What? I make a point of buttoning my jacket.

Mother’s having a low day.

Mr. Miller leans against the door frame. I should invite him in but I am already late for work. Besides I do not want to talk to him. I do not want to talk to anybody.

I’ve got me a dentist appointment. He points to his mouth. Damn teeth are finishing me off.

I’ve got to get to work. I was just on my way out.

He straightens, speaks more rapidly. Mrs. Tennant, could you come by this afternoon? Janice she can’t come in and Mother’s low today. Don’t like leaving her.

You want me to sit with Mrs. Miller? I feel myself shrinking.

Sure hate to cancel that appointment. Bridge is killing me.

Today?

Just look in on her when you get home from work. So she won’t commence to wander.

Wander?

When she gets herself into one of these spells, well she can get the dangdest crazy ideas… His voice trails off.

I do not want to do this favor for Mr. Miller. His wife is a large woman, rather like a pressed in squash. I’m afraid of her. He’s okay, friendly, sometimes helpful. I almost like him. Still he probably made the Squash what she is today. Men make women, build them up from shy young brides with hope chests and slender waists. Let’s not give him any points. But he is my next door neighbor.

I’ll stop by. My voice sounds as reluctant as I feel.

I knew you would, Mrs. Tennant.

I don’t get back until nearly five though.

Sure grateful to you, Mrs. Tennant.

He backs away quickly. I shut the door. Why didn’t he ask one of the other old biddies in the neighborhood? Why ask me? I have lived in this house less than a month; the Millers and I have only a nodding acquaintance across the hedge that separates our two houses. Now all of a sudden I am responsible for his wife. Why did I say yes? Why should I do anything for anyone?

I go back to the kitchen and pour myself another cup of coffee. I put my hand around the pot. It likes me, the coffee pot; at this moment it seems to be the only thing in the world that likes me. A great anger rolls up inside me. I hate everything. I want to scream it -- hate, hate. And I feel like tears. But I don’t have time. Not and catch my bus. So I’m gentle with myself. I close up the house, carefully, walk slowly away. From my house, my coffee pot, my need to cry. I’m O.K. I say to myself, you’re O.K. Sylvia. You’re into the day O.K.

Two

The Squash barely acknowledges me. In my mind I have begun to call her that. She answers the door when I ring the bell that afternoon but says nothing. Only stands holding on to the doorknob looking at me. A mountainous dumpling of flesh through which no feeling, expression or intelligence bothers to fight its way anymore. I can’t help staring at her with fascination. Is that what I will become growing old?

I’ve come to sit with you, Mrs. Miller.

Blocking the door, she looks blankly at me. Her face is red with burst blood vessels, that painful inked skin some old women get. A long minute goes by.

Your husband asked me to stop by.

A faint ripple of irritation rises in her eyes or is that my imagination?

How are you these days? I don’t see much of you.

She remains a great blot of silence.

I strike myself as ridiculous; firmness takes hold of me. I push the door open; it strikes her foot and she edges back, opening the door enough for me to slip inside. I squeeze past her, my nerves live. Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, I think. I will scream if she does.

I’ll just sit in here until your husband comes home, I say, sounding much