Polly had wasted too much time being beautiful. In soliloquy she ruefully yet sincerely admitted as much. The salivating wolves about town managed to pucker up sufficiently and whistle, but it wasn't Polly's brains that the fellows were whistling at. Polly's pulchritude made her a target for mere, curious stares of disbelief amongst bashful boys; however, for Canis Lupus, the hapless maiden was true quarry.
This young and genuinely sweet lass lost hope of ever finding a companion who looked inside the person in order to view and appreciate that one's heart and soul. Soon, however, kindred spirits would serendipitously cross paths, and restoration of faith in one's fellowman would occur.
A kindly Mr. Kitchen and a luminous Josie would bring succor to a soul famished for simple but joyous friendship.
She could not have made a more simple request: kindly let me alone. Of course, Polly was far too polite and cultured to speak her mind. Her thoughts never formed into any wordy protestation that should actually escape the lips. Rather, when accosted by garrulous old men or biddies, she would find herself seized by a trifling indisposition, most likely triggered by some innate survival instinct. Consequently, by the mere lowering of her eyes, she spirited herself away to an imagined location of tranquil repose. Perhaps she might avert her glance to a object of feigned interest in the middle ground. The harmless but unwelcomed interlopers ceased to exist.
Polly hated rudeness most passionately and knew that these kindly old folk were, in general, of cheery and lovely disposition; however, as you and I both know all too well, some people are quite unaware of the tempest brewing as they noisily and lustily chat one up no matter the "weather."
Those closest to Polly were ever aware that the tragic specter of Polly's childhood lay subconsciously but anxiously in wait, struggling once again to break free of Polly's fragile will and enshroud her with a resurrected, crippling sorrow. These dear people - surrogate mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters - surrounded her with every care and protection humanly possible; yet, there is only so much one can do for the youth who despairs over her irretrievable losses.
Charles and Wilma Dexter-Hayes had brought three beautiful children into this world: Billy, the eldest, Polly, the middle child, and, nearly ten years after the birth of Polly, Rosemarie.
Polly's frail emotional state was due in large measure to heavy and tragic losses - losses greater than any naturally affectionate family member should be expected to endure. Both the youngest and the eldest children predeceased Charles and Wilma at the midway point of their otherwise happy domestic life. Hardly had the family come to terms with the devastating blow of losing the plump and golden-haired toddling babe to a childhood illness than the nineteen-year old Billy was killed in a freak accident while hiking a mere distance from the family home.
The unspeakable loss of a precious little one who adored her and a big brother who protected her was, of itself, sufficient cause to unhinge this devoted young lady. Here, though, is the rub. Charles, ever the stalwart gentleman - in every sense of the word - turned dark inside, as though he were a light switched off. He ceased virtually all communication with Polly and her mother, but for a few grunts or gestures to make known some mundane matter that his stricken soul refused to conjure up verbally. Wilma, scarcely able to deal with the loss of her babies, suffered a complete collapse of mind and spirit. Accordingly, she was taken in by a kindly maiden aunt who, despite her age, was in robust health and sensitive to the plight of her ailing niece.
Polly's world of loving and being loved came to a severe and abrupt halt.
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