The Slow Rise of Clara Daniels

by Christy English

  “Clara.”

  His voice was husky with exhaustion, and Clara tightened her grip again on the arms of her chair. She heard something else in his voice, and as she looked into his eyes, he reached out to touch her shoulder. He slid his hand down her back, caressing her in slow circles, as if to offer comfort. Clara stood up and stepped away from him. His hand dropped, and he simply stared at her, as if a glass door was locked between them, a door to which he held the key.

  Clara moved past him into her mother’s room. Darren came as far as the door, but as he watched her kneel by her mother’s bedside, he had the sense not to follow her any further. He stepped discreetly back into the hall, where she knew he would stand waiting until she emerged again.

  Clara touched her mother’s face. Her skin had a grayish hue and was paper-thin under Clara’s fingertips. She brushed her mother’s hair back from her forehead, then stood and moved without thought to her mother’s vanity table.

  Jessica’s makeup remained untouched on the table’s glass surface. The maids dusted it every day and kept the little lamps on either side of the antique table polished to a high gleam. Clara selected the colors carefully, picking her mother’s favorite blusher, foundation and powder, carrying them over to her mother’s bed.

  The housekeeper, Carol, came to stand in the doorway, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. She watched as Clara knelt beside her mother and carefully began to apply makeup to her already hardening face.

  She was skilled with cosmetics. It was the one thing her mother had taken the time to teach her. She remembered watching as a child while her mother applied each layer of paint, with reverence, as if performing a religious ritual. As Clara knelt by her mother’s bedside and spread lipstick over her lips, she realized that the worship of her own beauty was the only religion her mother had ever practiced.

  She felt tears in her eyes and let them fall as she smoothed a pearly gloss over her mother’s reddened lips. She drew a brush through her mother’s long blonde hair, the hair that the cancer hadn’t managed to take as it had taken the rest of her beauty.

  Clara laid her mother’s pearl-handled brush down just as the ambulance arrived to take her mother to the morgue. She rose from her place at her mother’s side, knowing that it was the last time she would see her. Her mother had ordered her own cremation months ago.

  She looked down at her mother’s face and remembered her as she’d been before Clara had gone away to school, before the cancer had taken her beauty. Jessica had smiled, and her blue eyes had held the promise that one day Clara would know all her secrets, that she had only to find the courage to ask.

  Clara stepped away from her mother’s bedside and let the ambulance attendants load her body onto a gurney. Her tears flowed freely, the tears she had never shed throughout her mother’s illness, the tears she had never allowed her mother to see throughout her childhood, when Jessica was near, but occupied with other things.

  Darren came and stood beside her, but he didn’t touch her as she wept. The attendants carried her mother down the curving staircase to the marble foyer. Clara watched from the top of the stairs as they loaded her mother’s body into the ambulance. They were gentle with Jessica, as if she were made of spun glass. They were careful not to jostle her gurney, though she could no longer feel pain. The red light on the roof of the ambulance flashed once in silence before it pulled away.

  Carol wiped her eyes and closed the heavy front door. The only sound in the marble hallway was the sound of the grandfather clock striking midnight.

  Darren cleared his throat, and Clara jumped at the sound. She’d forgotten he was standing there.

  “You’d better get some sleep, Clara.”

  His hand lightly brushed her arm, and it warmed her skin through the thin silk of her blouse.

  Clara stared at him for a moment before she nodded. “Yes.”

  She turned away from him and moved down the hallway to her bedroom., which was at the far end of the house from the suite that he and her mother had shared. Clara was grateful for that as she locked her heavy bedroom door behind her.

  The lamp by her bedside was on, and her bed was turned down, the soft satin sheets gleaming in the dim light. Clara took in her familiar bedroom, surprised that it looked the same as it always had, now that her mother was dead. She’d expected the change to be reflected in her surroundings, for all she saw to be as gray as her heart was.

  Clara saw the letter on the mahogany surface of her dressing table. She moved across the room and picked it up. She froze when she saw that it was from her aunt. She opened the envelope with numb fingers to find a birthday card with pink and yellow roses displayed on its front, a cheerful wish for her happiness inside. Aunt April always remembered her birthday, and her cards were always on time.

  Clara opened a drawer in her dressing table and drew out a pack of matches. She lit one and held the flame against the card until it caught fire. The flame began to consume the paper, until she was forced to drop the card onto a silver tray. She watched as it turned to ashes, then as the ashes smoldered. When the ashes were cold and had turned the same shade of gray as her mother’s face, Clara undressed for bed.

  The funeral would be tomorrow afternoon. Her mother had always hated long waits.

  9

  Palm Springs, 2013

  Clara had bought a black silk dress months before so she would have something to wear to her mother’s funeral. Jessica had been cremated in the early morning, and now Clara stood looking out over the desert behind her house, listening as a priest intoned a blessing on a body that wasn’t there. Darren held the urn that contained her mother’s ashes. At the appropriate time, Darren opened it and released her mother to the wind. The ashes scattered on the lifting breeze, swirling away towards the mountains in the distance. Clara didn’t weep, but kept her face hidden under the veil of her hat.

  None of her mother’s tennis friends were there, only a couple of the members of house staff and Dr. Matthews. They all stood in a long moment of silence that was meant to be a time of prayer. Clara looked out over the desert that was her home, watching the sunset as it filtered through the gathering clouds, painting them brilliant hues of indigo and mauve.

  She turned her head and caught Darren staring at her. He didn’t smile, and she didn’t look away.

  Clara sat motionless in the deep leather of her mother’s chair. There was a fire in the grate, since the desert nights were always cold. Darren stooped to add a log of hardwood to the fire. As Clara watched him, she found that she wanted to weep. Her mother had always tended the fire before she’d gotten sick.

  “Clara.”

  Darren faced her, his back to the fireplace. His linen sports jacket was still unwrinkled, though the day had been long. Her mother’s lawyer had just driven away after reading the will. The bulk of the estate had been left to Darren. A sizeable amount was held in trust for Clara, with Darren as trustee. Clara had almost laughed out loud when the will was read, but she hadn’t wanted to shock her mother’s lawyer.

  Clara met Darren’s gaze, but she couldn’t read his eyes. His face was in shadow.

  “Clara, I want you to know that I’ll always take care of you.”

  Her smile was grim. “I don’t think so, Darren.”

  He moved to the arm of her chair and knelt next to her on the thick Aubusson carpet. Her mother had chosen that carpet when Clara was ten. She remembered that while watching the play of light in Darren’s eyes.

  “I don’t think you should go away to school anymore, Clara.”

  “I agree.”

  He smiled the boyish smile that had won her mother’s heart. Clara could hear the wheels of his thoughts as they spun, calculating his next move. She felt his hand brush her knee, and then felt his palm press against her thigh. Still, he smiled, looking up at her in an almost beseeching way.

  “I want you to stay here with me.”

  She swallowed the bile that rose in the back of her throat. “No, I don’t t
hink so.”

  She pushed his hand away and rose from the soft haven of her mother’s chair. The black silk of her dress clung to her thighs as she stood. She heard the quiet sound of whispering silk as she moved across the room, away from him.

  “Darren, I’m leaving.”

  He was on his feet and next to her in the space of a breath. His hands were on her arms, and she watched dispassionately as he turned on his boyish charm, the charm that had conquered her mother so easily. He drew her toward him until she was close enough to smell the brandy on his breath. She turned her face away so that his warm breath ruffled her hair.

  “I know you’re grieving. You’re going to stay here so I can take care of you.”

  Darren’s hands moved down her arms and around her to slide up her back. She could feel the warmth of his hands through the silk of her dress, and her stomach churned. But she hadn’t eaten in two days, so she was safe from ruining her mother’s carpet.

  Darren didn’t seem to feel her tension under his hands. Or if he felt it, he didn’t care. Perhaps he was the kind of predator that fed on resistance. He watched her, his blue eyes hot with lust.

  He must be sure of himself. He had never let her see his desire so openly before.

  He launched into the beginning of a prepared speech, filled with lies.

  “Clara, I love you—”

  She couldn’t stomach much more. “Darren, before you say anything else, we need to talk seriously.” She drew away from him.

  Surprised at the evenness of her tone, he let her go. “All right.”

  Clara moved back toward the fireplace. She felt his gaze on her as she moved. Now that there was some distance between them, she almost started laughing. He was ridiculous, with his false declarations. He must think her a fool. Of course, he had no idea she could read his thoughts and had read them since the day they met. At least her mother hadn’t betrayed the family by telling him of their gift. Not that it was often a gift. But in this instance, as she played a game to secure her freedom and her life, the old curse served her well..

  Clara turned on him and faced him squarely, grateful that she’d had enough sense to put the distance of a room between them. She suddenly had an almost uncontrollable desire to spit in his face.

  “Darren, I know you want me. I know you’ve wanted me since you met my mother. And as sick as that is, I have no comment on it.”

  He blinked. Slowly, the haze of desire cleared from his eyes. He stood looking at her as if he wasn’t certain he’d heard her correctly.

  “Now, I make no moral judgments about your preference for young girls. It’s none of my business. I am sure, though, that Mrs. Harvell wouldn’t share my liberal views.”

  Clara watched as he digested this information. His blue eyes darkened to indigo with fear at the mention of his latest lover’s name.

  “I know I’m not supposed to know about Mrs. Harvell. I do know about her, however. I know she’s the next woman on your list. I know you plan to marry her as soon as you can without raising the eyebrows of your mutual friends. I know you’ve been fucking her and countless other women behind my mother’s back since the day you met.”

  It must have been the clear, passionless tone of her voice and the absolute lack of expression on her face. He didn’t protest or proclaim his innocence as she’d expected him to, nor did he attempt to use all the weapons of charm and sleaze at his disposal.

  Instead, Darren sat down heavily on a straight-back chair that stood against one wall. Clara watched the blow of her words fall on him, and the look of helplessness that crossed his face. She searched his mind and found, to her surprise, that he was as bewildered as he looked, and that he was in pain. Clara was even more surprised to find that she pitied him as he sat forlorn in one of her grandmother’s Hepplewhite chairs.

  She took a step toward him, and he looked up, the expression in his eyes like that of a wounded puppy.

  “I have a proposal which I think you’ll find acceptable.”

  Clara pulled a chair across the room and sat five feet away from him, close enough that he could see her eyes, but far enough away that she could escape if he tried to touch her.

  “You are going to set money aside for my personal use. Not much money, but enough. Ten million dollars will be enough to keep me until I come of age. This money will be unfettered in every way and will not be part of the rest of my trust, which will be turned over to me when I reach the age of twenty-one.”

  He looked at her. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. And she saw that in spite of his pain, he was willing to deal.

  “And what will you do for me?”

  “Well, for starters, I won’t tell Mrs. Harvell about your interest in underage girls in general and in myself in particular.”

  Clara watched as he swallowed hard. He seemed to pale under his tan. He adjusted the tie at his throat. She wondered if she would have to bring to bear her knowledge of his other lovers, but she held back.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  Darren looked at her for a long time without saying a word. Then he stood slowly and crossed the five feet between them. Clara rose to face him, poised to dodge his hands, but he didn’t try to touch her. There were tears in his eyes. For once, his eyes and his thoughts mirrored each other. With her mental shields down, Clara felt his pain like a blow.

  “You hate me, don’t you, Clara?”

  She was shocked to feel tears rise in her eyes. In that moment, she was swamped by his pain, until she couldn’t tell his pain from her own. All at once, she felt the loss of her mother like a vise on her chest, squeezing her breath away. She saw that, though Darren was a worthless human being, he wasn’t a demon. And her mother had loved him. He was the only other person who had known her mother at all. Clara felt the sorrow of that, and a tear slid down her cheek.

  Her voice was weak. “No, Darren. I don’t hate you.”

  For the first time since she’d known him, he didn’t seem like a monster. Suddenly, she saw him with the eyes of an adult instead of the eyes of a lost and lonely child. She felt her loathing for him drain away. Freed of that old loathing, she found herself empty.

  He was just a man, out for what he could get. Many people were just like him. Many were worse. He was no monster. He was just a fool. It occurred to Clara that she might never know anyone but fools for the rest of her life. Time yawned before her like an abyss. She would always be alone in the gift that set her apart.

  Clara felt her isolation crush her, the loneliness that she kept at bay most of the time through strength of will, focusing on other things. Years of solitude lay ahead of her. A long, straight road leading nowhere. She wept.

  Her tears weren’t the quiet ones she sometimes shed when she was alone. She sobbed, holding her stomach as if she might be able to stop, as if she might learn again to hold the sorrow in. But the dam had broken. Her pain mixed with grief for the loss of her mother, the woman who had loved her as much as she was capable of loving, but never enough.

  Darren’s arms went around her, and she flinched, for she wasn’t used to being touched. But his arms were warm, and he wanted her. No one else ever had.

  His hands were warm on her back as he caressed her, as if to comfort her. She started to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her go.

  “No, Clara, let me hold you.”

  She knew that the softness in his voice was a lie, that he felt nothing for her beyond lust. Now, though, she didn’t care. Maybe that was all love was, a random physical coupling of strangers.

  She saw something in Darren’s eyes that made her feel the walls of her mother’s house closing in on her. Loyalty and knowledge of another person were illusions. She would be alone all her life, as she had been alone since her Aunt April had left. And she wasn’t the only one. Everyone faced the same truth. The only difference was that they accepted it, while Clara rebelled, wishing she wasn’t alone, wishing for something that didn’t exist.

  She knew that if she fought him, he wo
uldn’t let her go. She thought of the blows she might strike against his throat, against his groin, but she hesitated because she heard the bizarre turn of Darren’s thoughts. He would have her on the floor, as he’d wanted her for years, and then he would give her the money she’d asked for. And not only the money, but everything else she wanted. He would sign away his guardianship and allow her to emancipate herself without a drawn-out legal battle. He would let her go without ever trying to see her again.

  All this would happen if she let him do whatever he wanted to her.

  She read his mind, as she’d read it since the day her mother had first brought him home. As always, she used it against him. Let him take her virginity there on her mother’s living room floor.

  Clara knew that after that day, she would never enter that house again. She might be alone in the world, but better alone and independent than trapped here for even one more hour.

  She set aside all thoughts of violence and lay down on her mother’s rug. Darren didn’t question his good fortune but fell on her like a ravaging dog.

  After it was over, Clara lay still, her breath slowly evening out. She had stopped crying. Her black dress was torn, but she knew after that night, she would never wear it again. She thought for one horrible moment that she might throw up, but there was nothing in her stomach to lose but bile.

  Darren’s weight was heavy across her body, pressing her down into the carpet. Expensive as the carpet had been, Clara knew she had rug burn on her shoulder blades. Just as she was certain that she couldn’t bear one more moment of his touch, Darren lifted himself away and looked into her eyes. His hair was mussed for the first time since she’d known him. When he spoke, his voice was smug, as if his had been the victory.

  “Clara, you have a deal.”

  10

  Mojave Desert, 2019

  Donna stood in the shade of an awning, smoking a cigarette. She looked out over the desert suspiciously, as if she expected the ground to yield up a rattle snake at her feet. Donna always had the same look on her face every time she visited Clara on location. Whether in the forest, on a mountain, or by the seaside, she harbored a healthy dislike of the outdoors.