children directed by a physically mature but grotesquely vengeful adult? What kind of jungle was the packed little neighborhood on East New York Street?
Readers of fairy tales, devotees of melodrama, might have seen some hope radiating from the Cinderella situation into which Sylvia was descending. The prime elements of the classic fairy tale were there: Sylvia was prettier than Mrs. Wright’s true daughter Paula, but subordinated to her. Soon she found her new bed was a pile of rags in the basement. Extrapolating the situation in terms of the fairy tale, the devotees of melodrama could see an imminent rescue for Sylvia. But this was notmelodrama. This was real life. Sylvia had no fairy godmother, and her prince never appeared.
It was about October 12, or two weeks before her death, that Sylvia intermittently began to share the basement with the puppy that was kept there. The reasoning was that Sylvia was not keeping herself clean—there was some talk she had wet the bed and therefore she did not deserve to sleep upstairs with the human beings. A visit to the doctor might have shown that Sylvia’s incontinence was due to an injury to the kidneys, perhaps suffered in one of those judo flips in which Coy Hubbard missed the mattress. But the doctor money was reserved for Gertrude, who was suffering more frequent attacks of asthma and nerves brought on, she said, by her problems with Sylvia.
It was a typical basement, small and dank. Rickety wooden steps led to the bottom, turning 90 degrees to the left two steps down from the kitchen, then 90 degrees right, again two steps further down. The long flight the rest of the way down ended only a couple of feet short of the concrete east wall. Around to the left were a couple of sinks; a bare light bulb burned above. A partially clothed set of bed springs was stacked in the corner, but it was far beyond use. Sylvia’s makeshift bed was a pile of rags and old clothes, halfway under the staircase, short of the large coal furnace.
The girl’s descent to her dungeon was ceremonious. “Here’s how you do it,” Gertrude instructed Paula, Stephanie, Johnny, Randy Lepper and CoyHubbard. With that she gave Sylvia a shove, and she tumbled through the two 90-degree turns to the bottom. Coy Hubbard learned the lesson well, and soon improvised a variation. He gripped Sylvia’s hands tightly behind her and gave her a quick start with his foot.
Paula also invented some variations. Descending from the second floor, where she had been to the bathroom, Sylvia was met on the stairs by Paula’s outstretched foot, and tumbled into the living room. She was met at the bottom by Gertrude. “I hate you! I hate you!” Gertrude would shout. “You’re going to get the hell out of my house!”
Sylvia’s diet during her stay in the basement consisted largely of crackers and water, often only the former.
It was about the same time that the baths began. Still “concerned” about Sylvia’s cleanliness, Gertrude arranged for her children to bathe her about every other night. They said Sylvia was reluctant to bathe, and no wonder: The tub was filled entirely from the hot water spigot.
To overcome Sylvia’s reluctance, Gertrude or the children would bind her hands and feet and lift her into the tub. When she fainted in one of the baths, Gertrude yanked her hair and beat her head against the side of the tub to revive her. When Sylvia screamed, she was hit in the side of the head with the fraternity paddle. Eventually, Johnny tied gags in her mouth to keep her screams from disturbing the neighbors.
It was also about this time that Sylvia began her career as a human ashtray. Perhaps enticed by the smell of burning flesh the time she burned Sylvia’s fingers for stealing, and remembering the time Dennis Wright put a cigarette out on her own neck, Gertrude tried the same trick on Sylvia. Sometimes she was content to toss lighted matches at the girl. One of them set her clothing on fire, but it was
Readers of fairy tales, devotees of melodrama, might have seen some hope radiating from the Cinderella situation into which Sylvia was descending. The prime elements of the classic fairy tale were there: Sylvia was prettier than Mrs. Wright’s true daughter Paula, but subordinated to her. Soon she found her new bed was a pile of rags in the basement. Extrapolating the situation in terms of the fairy tale, the devotees of melodrama could see an imminent rescue for Sylvia. But this was notmelodrama. This was real life. Sylvia had no fairy godmother, and her prince never appeared.
It was about October 12, or two weeks before her death, that Sylvia intermittently began to share the basement with the puppy that was kept there. The reasoning was that Sylvia was not keeping herself clean—there was some talk she had wet the bed and therefore she did not deserve to sleep upstairs with the human beings. A visit to the doctor might have shown that Sylvia’s incontinence was due to an injury to the kidneys, perhaps suffered in one of those judo flips in which Coy Hubbard missed the mattress. But the doctor money was reserved for Gertrude, who was suffering more frequent attacks of asthma and nerves brought on, she said, by her problems with Sylvia.
It was a typical basement, small and dank. Rickety wooden steps led to the bottom, turning 90 degrees to the left two steps down from the kitchen, then 90 degrees right, again two steps further down. The long flight the rest of the way down ended only a couple of feet short of the concrete east wall. Around to the left were a couple of sinks; a bare light bulb burned above. A partially clothed set of bed springs was stacked in the corner, but it was far beyond use. Sylvia’s makeshift bed was a pile of rags and old clothes, halfway under the staircase, short of the large coal furnace.
The girl’s descent to her dungeon was ceremonious. “Here’s how you do it,” Gertrude instructed Paula, Stephanie, Johnny, Randy Lepper and CoyHubbard. With that she gave Sylvia a shove, and she tumbled through the two 90-degree turns to the bottom. Coy Hubbard learned the lesson well, and soon improvised a variation. He gripped Sylvia’s hands tightly behind her and gave her a quick start with his foot.
Paula also invented some variations. Descending from the second floor, where she had been to the bathroom, Sylvia was met on the stairs by Paula’s outstretched foot, and tumbled into the living room. She was met at the bottom by Gertrude. “I hate you! I hate you!” Gertrude would shout. “You’re going to get the hell out of my house!”
Sylvia’s diet during her stay in the basement consisted largely of crackers and water, often only the former.
It was about the same time that the baths began. Still “concerned” about Sylvia’s cleanliness, Gertrude arranged for her children to bathe her about every other night. They said Sylvia was reluctant to bathe, and no wonder: The tub was filled entirely from the hot water spigot.
To overcome Sylvia’s reluctance, Gertrude or the children would bind her hands and feet and lift her into the tub. When she fainted in one of the baths, Gertrude yanked her hair and beat her head against the side of the tub to revive her. When Sylvia screamed, she was hit in the side of the head with the fraternity paddle. Eventually, Johnny tied gags in her mouth to keep her screams from disturbing the neighbors.
It was also about this time that Sylvia began her career as a human ashtray. Perhaps enticed by the smell of burning flesh the time she burned Sylvia’s fingers for stealing, and remembering the time Dennis Wright put a cigarette out on her own neck, Gertrude tried the same trick on Sylvia. Sometimes she was content to toss lighted matches at the girl. One of them set her clothing on fire, but it was
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