Title:
ORIGINAL CYN
Genre:
women’s fiction
Author:
Sylvia Dickey Smith
Website:
www.sylviadickeysmith.com
Publisher:
White Bird Publications
Purchase
on
Amazon
About
the Book: About Original
Cyn: Protagonist Cynthia Carter’s
life appears perfect—but for the fact that she and her husband, The Reverend
Wilburn Carter, are controlled by fear.
Cynthia is afraid she’ll displease Wilburn and if not him, his
parishioners. But her biggest fear is the emptiness swelling inside her.
In the pulpit, Wilburn is the hero: God’s right hand, the messenger, the revered
Reverend. At home, however, is a different story: he’s cold, controlling,
selfish and self-consumed. Every Sunday,
Wilburn stands at the podium and worries which parishioner might stab him in the
back. But his deepest, darkest fear is
that people will discover he’s a phony.
As Cynthia drowns in her lack of identity beyond what’s assigned
by her preacher-husband, she wonders if she should stay in the
relationship. Could there be more to
life than just being the Pastor’s wife?
Before she can decide, events force her to flee. If she goes
far enough fast enough, those back home will have to deal with the chaos they
created—deal with it or go to hell in their sanctimonious handbaskets. Until a
phone conversation leaves her with even more difficult choices…
A powerful, thoughtful, and thought-provoking story, Original Cyn is extraordinary. Novelist
Sylvia Dickey Smith takes readers on an unforgettable journey that spans
anguish, heartbreak, hatred, love, fear, humor, peace and joy. Resplendent
with compelling characters and an exceedingly-relatable storyline, Original Cyn is wholly—or perhaps
holy—an original tale about moving beyond the black-and-white and living life
in full, vibrant color. Sylvia Dickey Smith’s latest novel is a richly-drawn,
rewarding read destined to stay with readers long after the final page is
turned.
ORIGINAL CYN
CHAPTER 1
When the sun came up that morning, Cyn
Carter did what every other burned-out unambiguous preacher’s wife did. She
crawled out of bed, threw on yesterday’s jeans and tee shirt, and did a quick
finger-comb as Wilburn strolled out of the bathroom. “If you don’t mind
Cynthia,” he said, “can you get a move on?
I have an appointment at eight o’clock, and you haven’t even gone downstairs
yet, much less started my breakfast.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.
Big
fat hairy deal. Cyn
hustled down the hall toward the stairs. Same story, same attitude, every
single solitary day.
Out of habit, she
paused just inside the door to her son’s bedroom. His recent departure to
college left the house feeling so empty, so quiet.
“I said get a move on,
Cynthia,” Wilburn barked as he came up behind her, then stopped to check his
reflection in the full-length mirror. After a quick adjustment to his tie, he
spun on his heels and walked on, an overdose of aftershave trailing behind him.
Cyn took a long deep breath, as if his departure returned oxygen to
the room.
He waited for her at the bottom of
the stairs worry lines creasing his forehead. Cyn followed him into the kitchen
where he went straight to the coffee pot, prepared and set the night before. He
often teased that he expected the coffee ready when he got up every morning,
much like the cruse of oil in the Bible. As the story went, the cruse remained full of oil, regardless of how
much the poor widow used, implying, of course, that God kept the righteous
woman supplied with oil. Guess that made a statement about Cyn’s righteousness, or the lack thereof, for she
supplied their coffee.
“I see you’re still moping around
like you lost your best friend.” He spooned a heaping teaspoon of sugar into
his coffee and stirred, stirred—and stirred.
It made her want to grab the spoon
out of his hand and shove it up his butt.
“I wish you’d get over this notion
of having nothing more to live for since Justice left for college.” He tapped
the spoon against the rim of the cup and tossed it on the granite counter top.
“Don’t be stupid.” Her sharp words
startled her. She wasn’t accustomed to
talking back.
“Then stop acting like he died. I get depressed just looking at you.”
“You make it sound like I can
simply wish away whatever bothers me,” she said through clenched teeth. “That
bugs the heck out of me.”
“You watch that pronoun curse word, young lady.” Finger-quotes
bracketed his words.
“It’s not a pronoun.” She did her own bracketing.
“Maybe not, but you use it in place
of a curse word, so it counts as the same thing.” He tapped his forehead as he spoke as if any idiot should know that. “I
never said you could wish anything away, but you sure can do something about it.”
He took a few sips of coffee then
ambled to the breakfast table, newspaper in hand. “What I said was to get out
and go do something—get it off your mind.
Mrs. Turner and a couple of other ladies fold the bulletins on Thursdays. Why
don’t you come help them? At least it’ll
get you out of the house.”
“No thanks.”
She bit her tongue before it released the
dictum that a snowball had a greater chance in hell. Mama’s words bounced
around in her head. You can think it,
Cynthia Ann, but that doesn’t mean you have to say it.
She’d cooked Wilburn’s breakfast so
many times she could do it blindfolded, and might as well today, for all the
interest and energy she had in doing so. True to form, however, the smell of
frying bacon soon filled the house, half-cooked, the way he liked it. After plating the bacon, she basted the eggs, whites firm, and yolks soft.
All while Wilburn read the
newspaper and slurped coffee.
As she moved the eggs from the
skillet to Wilburn’s plate, being careful not to break the yolks, her mind
drifted to the night before. In their twenty-plus years, she’d never known him
to take much notice of his dreams, but he’d awakened at straight up 3:00
o’clock in a cold sweat brought on, he’d said, by the image of her vaporizing
like an early-morning fog exposed to bright sunlight.
“It’s only a dream,” she’d said,
trying to comfort him. She stopped short of admitting how close his dream
touched reality, that as of late she felt
herself fading into someone else. No, more like exploding into it.
When she put his food in front of
him, he folded the paper and laid it beside his plate, eyes still glued on the
article he’d been reading. Approaching his mid-forties, Wilburn looked every
bit as handsome as he did the day she first laid eyes on him talking to a group
of girls at her hometown church. His trim frame and impeccable taste in
clothing still made him stand out, regardless of the crowd. The sprinkling of
gray at the temples didn’t hurt either. Women, young and old, worshipped him
and envied her.
They needn’t have bothered.
Although she worshipped him herself
before they married, afterward, she’d
sworn someone kidnapped him and replaced him with a stranger. Like once he
caught her, the romance ended and doing
God’s work began. Over the years, he kept her at an emotional arm’s length.
Except for the God-talk, she had no idea what went on inside the man’s head.
But she knew what went on inside
hers. The day stretched painfully in her thoughts—clean the kitchen, make the
bed, wash the clothes, and have Wilburn’s lunch on the table at straight up
noon. She poked her eggs with a fork and bit into a slice of toast.
“Cynthia.” His voice was strident.
“What?” She glanced up to see him
glaring at her.
“Shame on you. You know we never
eat without first saying grace.”
Good lord, she’d broken the
cardinal rule of the parsonage, a rule, without a doubt, written on tablets of
stone hidden somewhere in the house.
Tempted to say “Grace,” and get on
with eating, Cyn thought better of it. Instead, when he bowed his head and
closed his eyes, she kept hers up and open, fork in midair. The memory of Justice doing the same thing
years ago, and the shame heaped upon him by his father, still rattled her
heartstrings.
However, what bothered her the most
was Wilburn’s so-called prayers always—always—targeted more than one agenda
item, each intended not for God, but for Wilburn’s audience and more often than
not, her.
After the blessing, Wilburn glanced
her way then back at his food. “You haven’t said anything about my sermon
yesterday.” He reached for the blackberry jam and spooned a mound onto his
toast. “Didn’t you like it?”
The exact same question, word for word, he’d asked her over breakfast every
blessed Monday for the last twenty years. This
time, she said nothing. Just kept eating, but not tasting.
An uncomfortable silence filled the
room.
Wilburn broke it. “It’s evident
you’re still thinking of no one but yourself.” He shoveled in another mouthful
of eggs. “You’ve acted like this ever since Justice left for college.”
Their son Justice, a young teen
when they first moved to Mobile and into the century-old parsonage, soon
started calling his dad’s church the “Do Right Be Good Church,” but never in
front of his father.
“I miss Justice, yes, but the boy
leaving for college has nothing to do with what I’m going through.” She tried
to explain the unexplainable. “It’s not the empty nest that bothers me. It’s
me. I’m empty.”
“You’re just depressed. Probably
time for your period or something.” He shrugged. “Anyway, if you want something to do, as I said, every Thursday,
several women get together and have fun folding the bulletins. If you want to—”
“I don’t want to fold your damn
bulletins.” She spat the words through clenched teeth.
Wilburn stood and slung his napkin
onto the table.
“Watch your language, young lady.” He stormed out of the kitchen, slinging
words over his shoulder as he tromped down the hall. “I’ll be home for lunch,
Cynthia. See that it’s ready on time. Think you can at least do that much?”
The front door slammed behind him,
leaving a tension she could pierce with one of Justice’s epées. Did other
dutiful preachers’ wives ever daydream about murder?
Over the years, Cyn had learned not
to push. After growing up with an abusive father, Wilburn shied away from
physical violence, but he learned the more
manipulative ways of his mother. Add to that, he suffered the aggravation of an
older brother who acted like Mr. Perfect in front of their parents, and tormented Wilburn without mercy
behind their backs.
To say Wilburn never crossed the
line wasn’t totally accurate. On occasion,
he resorted to his father’s ways of dealing with frustration. He never hit her
or Justice, but a couple of times he came mighty close when she questioned one
of his religious beliefs, and he couldn’t
convince her to see it his way.
Addicts filled their cravings with
something. His father used alcohol. At times,
Cyn wondered if Wilburn’s extreme religiosity was a type of addiction. The
thought of that bothered her as much as his lack of intimacy. The distance
between them wasn’t new, but it hadn’t improved over the years either. In fact,
it seemed to have grown worse.
She’d vowed to be the submissive
wife, to honor and obey him at every turn, and Lord
knew she’d done that—for decades. So why hadn’t it worked? Why, instead, did
she feel like some soul-sucking monster slipped in and gobbled her up from the
inside out?
Cyn shoved
the chilling questions aside, shifted her brain into zombie-mode, and loaded the
dishwasher, wiped the table, made the bed, and started a load of laundry, her
14,200,656th load—but who’s counting?
After the laundry, she ran the
vacuum, boiled a couple of eggs for the tuna salad she’d make later for their
lunch, and then headed outside with a mug of hot coffee. Strolling through her
flower garden, the one place where she found peace, she cupped a late-blooming
gardenia in her palm and inhaled, letting the fragrance soothe her soul.
She wished Wilburn understood her
feelings. Wished he wanted to understand them. Perhaps if he did, he might not
resent her reluctance to go to church every time someone unlocked the frigging
doors. Instead, he nagged about the responsibility she’d accepted when she
married a preacher. “He forgets he wasn’t a pastor when we married,” she
muttered, “and he certainly didn’t consult me before enrolling in seminary.”
She felt trapped, like she lived inside the world rather than outside where
the air smelled fresh, where possibilities came true, or had the chance of
doing so. She longed to breathe, to flap her wings like the baby bird after it
outgrows its shell and pecks its way
out.
Lost in rumination, she hadn’t
heard the back gate open and close until
a familiar voice called out, “So that’s why you didn’t answer the doorbell. I
hoped I’d catch you out here.”
“Dee?” Cyn dumped her coffee into
the thirsty soil and hurried to meet her younger sister. “Sweetheart, I thought
you were headed to Europe or something.”
“Operative word, headed, until they diverted my flight to
Mobile. Mechanical problems they claimed. Canceled the whole trip until
tomorrow. I stood in line at the ticket counter for over half an hour trying to
make a connecting flight before my boss texted and said, ‘Hold off,
complications of some kind.’ So, anyway,
I took a taxi and here I am.”
They embraced for the longest, each
bubbling with the joy shared by sisters, who couldn’t be more different, yet
never got enough of each other.
As a baby learning to talk, Dee
struggled to pronounce her older sister’s name, but could only manage the first syllable, Cyn. The nickname
stuck, much to Cynthia’s delight and their mother’s horror. From then on,
everyone except Cynthia’s mother called her Cyn. That is until she married
Wilburn.
He swore no one would ever call his
wife Cyn again. A person might be born in sin, but that didn’t mean he’d let
someone call his wife that ugly word.
However, with Dee, Wilburn met his
match. She simply ignored his order, acted like she hadn’t heard him. The girl
knew no fear. All her life, she slashed through any obstacles in her way as if
they existed to encourage her, to prod her into action. Perhaps the red hair
and freckles had something to do with it. She spent her childhood fighting and
scratching through taunts in elementary school until the bullies ran. Unlike
Cyn, she did not tolerate bad behavior or fools.
Arm in arm, Cyn and Dee strolled
into the house while Dee chattered about her adventures as a foreign
correspondent. “You should see my new cameraman.” She flicked her fingers,
laughing. “Hot, hot, hot.”
Cyn smiled, wondering what it might
feel like for a man to turn her on again, or to be more accurate, for her to
turn on a man.
“Now, tell me about my favorite
nephew. How’s Justice? He’s in college now, right? What a neat kid—takes after
his mom, that’s for sure.” Dee gave Cyn’s waist a gentle squeeze.
“I’m afraid he takes more after his
Aunt Dee.” Cyn laughed. “A thought goes in his head and comes out his mouth.
Got himself in trouble a few times because of it too.”
Dee raised her eyebrows in
question.
“I remember one night at a church
picnic when a bossy deacon ordered Justice to go
gather wood for the bonfire.” Cyn smiled at the memory. “Justice felt
demeaned by the way the guy spoke to him and countered with, ‘You want
firewood, go get it yourself.’”
Dee doubled over with laughter. “He
didn’t? Really? Good Lord, I’ll bet Wilburn had a coronary.”
“Wilburn wanted to beat the kid
black and blue, but thank goodness he
didn’t. Ate a big piece of humility pie with the deacon, though, that’s for
sure. And Justice received a heated lecture from his dad on the topic of
courtesy.” Cyn smiled, remembering how embarrassed she and Wilburn were over their
son’s behavior. Later that same night, Justice had asked Cyn why he should
treat someone he did not respect with that same courtesy and respect his dad yelled about. Put Cyn back on her heels for a
few seconds, but when she felt the answer in her heart, she knew it to be true.
“Justice, you treat all people with courtesy and respect, not because of who
they are, but because of who you are, a person who treats others with—”
“Respect and dignity,” he said,
finishing her sentence. “Okay. I see what you mean, Mom. Thanks.” He’d given
her a big hug and went on his way.
She never needed to talk to him
about courtesy again.
Cyn and Dee spent the day catching
up on the goings-on of family and friends. That, plus Dee’s latest love
interest, which changed as frequently as the weather.
Wilburn always asked why Dee didn’t
pick one man and settle down. What did she want to do, hump every man in the
country? Cyn hated it when he started in on Dee.
The two sisters dropped any further
mention of Wilburn until he called after lunch
to cancel lunch. “And don’t bother about dinner either,” he added. “I’ve got a
building committee meeting this evening and will likely go straight from it to
the deacon’s meeting.”
“And you’re just now telling me? I
already prepared—”
“The building committee, Cynthia,”
he said as if his precious committee took precedence over everything else, especially
her. For months, the committee had been working on an expansion project and
planned to present their proposal to the deacons for approval later that
evening. Last minute rehearsal, she guessed, but she figured he knew about the
meeting before now.
She slammed the phone down and
threw the spatula across the room. Before it landed, however, she realized with
him not home for dinner she and Dee could breathe easier, longer.
Dee shrugged. “Well, at least
you’ve already got tomorrow night’s dinner done.” She stood at the sink
cleaning up after Cyn’s prep for a canceled dinner. “I swear, girl, I don’t
know what you ever saw in the man. He’s good-looking,
if you like that type, but he’s a turd, big sister. I know it. You know it.”
“He’s not that bad.” Cyn laughed,
but her words felt like fish bones in her throat.
Dee glanced over her shoulder. “If
he isn’t, why didn’t you tell him his call came too late. Look at this mess,
all for a man who surely knew of a committee meeting before now. Good Lord, if
I didn’t know better, I’d think we still lived in the twentieth century.”
Relieved when Dee’s ringing cell
phone and her subsequent exit of the room ended the conversation, Cyn moved to
the sink full of dirty dishes, took one look, and shuddered. Bits of greasy food floated
to the top. Not-so-greasy bits swam around the bottom, waiting.
She shuddered at the thought of
putting her hands in that mess under the pretext of cleaning the dishes. It
stood to reason, use dirty water, get dirty dishes. Oh, they might look clean,
but without a doubt, they contained more germs than before they took the
plunge.
All her life, Dee argued
dishwashing should be done one way, and
one way only. Put in a stopper, fill the sink with hot, soapy water, and plunge
every filthy dish into the depths and scrub. Voila, the dishes came out clean.
Not on Cyn’s watch. She pulled the
plug and loaded the dishes in the dishwasher.
A few minutes later Dee returned to
the kitchen. “My boss called. Former boss, I guess I should say.”
“He fired you?”
“Used the term cutbacks.”
The two stood with their mouths
open, staring at each other. Then, Dee cracked a smile. “Look on the bright
side, you’ll get to tell dipshit I’m here after all.”
“Don’t act ugly.” Cyn turned her
back to hide a grin.
“I’m just sayin’...”
“Well, I’m just saying let’s take a
glass of ice tea outside and sit on the front porch.”
What she’d say to Wilburn about her
sister visiting, she hadn’t a clue. One thing she did know, she had to tell him
before he walked in and saw Dee, or else he’d pout for a week.
Once outside, the sounds of a
creaking swing and the rapid-moving wings of a hummingbird
soothed the silence until Dee spoke up.
“You know what? I’ve heard Catholic
nuns consider themselves married to Jesus, right? Thing is, you’re not a nun. You’re not even Catholic. But I get the
idea you married Jesus all the same, or at least to a man who sees himself as
second-in-command.”
Weary of the topic, Cyn didn’t
respond. How could she, and stay loyal to her husband? Plus, she hated to admit
her sister spoke the truth.
Cyn’s silence, however, did not
discourage Dee. “I guess when you go to church
you still sit on the front pew like Wilburn tells you to, so you can catch his
drippings from the pulpit. That’s the silliest thing I ever heard.” Dee laughed
so hard she almost spilled her tea.
“He laughs when he says that, and
you know it.” Cyn sucked through her teeth.
He joked all right, but Cyn had
come to realize that, once again, the joke fell on her. Most church members
pooh-poohed the New Age phenomenon of channeling. Humph—nothing new to her.
Wilburn channeled God every service and most times in between.
However, she certainly wasn’t going
to admit that to Dee. Instead, she changed the subject.
“There’s a women’s circle meeting
at church tonight. I’m expected to attend. Hope you won’t mind staying here
alone. Wilburn is at a deacon’s meeting, so I should get home before him. You
won’t have to face him by yourself.”
“Why don’t I go with you?”
“That’d be great, but are you sure
you really want to?” Cyn shuddered to
think what Dee might say or do at a group
like that. Shock the conservative women right out of their pantyhose and padded
bras.
“Better than sitting here by
myself. Besides, I’ll make sure those biddies don’t take pot shots at my older
sister.”
“Careful on that older stuff.”
It felt good to laugh. Cyn couldn’t
remember doing so since Justice left. His antics always gave her comic relief.
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