by S. Walden
They worked in silence for awhile until Beatrice put down her pencil. “All done.”
“Would you like me to check it?” Clara offered, placing her pen behind her ear.
“What for? I know it’s all correct,” Beatrice said.
“Naturally,” Clara replied. She looked around the darkened room and sighed. “Now what?”
“Are you kidding?” Beatrice asked. “We tell ghost stories, that’s what!”
“Bea, I don’t know,” Clara said. “You know I don’t like scary stuff.”
“Clare-Bear, what’s scarier than having no electricity? Know what I’m saying?” Beatrice asked. She smiled, and this time it didn’t look wicked as before when she struck the match.
“Fine, but I haven’t got any to tell,” Clara said.
“That’s okay because I do,” Beatrice said. “Wait right here. I’m going for the flashlight!”
Clara objected, but Beatrice already grabbed a candle and made her way to her bedroom leaving Clara alone. Just in the few short seconds it took to retrieve the flashlight, Clara broke into anticipatory goose bumps. She watched the flickering of the two candles on the coffee table and shivered again.
“Okay,” Beatrice said, returning and settling on the floor opposite her sister. “We need mood lighting,” and she flicked the switch on the side of the flashlight. She held it under her chin and grinned. “This story is not really a ghost story. But it’s a scary story. Do dee do,” she sang, trying for a scary-sounding tune.
“Oh good grief,” Clara said flippantly, but she grabbed the blanket thrown carelessly over the back of the couch and pulled it up and around her.
“Stacy was driving home from a party one night,” Beatrice began. “It was late. The roads were very dark. And she was out in the country.”
“Of course she was out in the country,” Clara interjected.
“Clara, I cannot tell this story if you’re going to interrupt,” Beatrice said.
“Sorry. Go on.”
“So Stacy was out on the lonely pitch black dark country road driving home from a party. She was all alone,” Beatrice said. She paused for effect. Clara nodded.
“Suddenly a truck came up behind her and flashed its high beams,” Beatrice said, her voice rising. “Stacy was confused. She slowed down thinking that maybe the truck wanted to pass her, but it didn’t. It slowed along with her, keeping close behind her.”
Clara took a deep breath. Beatrice saw and doubled her efforts to sound panicked.
“They drove another mile or so and the truck flashed its lights again!” she said. “Stacy was beginning to get scared. She didn’t know what to do, so she kept driving home. She thought if she got home, she would be safe.”
“But why would she go home where he could see where she lived?” Clara asked.
“I don’t know,” Beatrice said annoyed. “Stacy wasn’t all that smart. Now will you let me continue?”
“Okay.”
“So Stacy pressed on the gas and floored it. The truck came after her flashing its lights and freaking her out!”
Beatrice shook the flashlight under her face for dramatic effect. Clara didn’t like it.
“She pulled into her driveway and got out of the car. She started sprinting for her front door but the man in the truck caught her! She screamed to high heaven!”
Clara pulled the blanket up under her chin.
“‘Calm down, miss. I won’t hurt you,’ he said. ‘But he would have!’” Beatrice said in her most masculine voice. She turned off the flashlight, and Clara could not make out her features. “‘Who?’ the pitiful girl asked, then screamed when a dark figure emerged from the back seat of her car holding a shining knife!”
Beatrice flashed the light on under her face, her eyes wide and wild, her teeth set in a sinister grimace. She looked like an escaped patient from an insane asylum, and Clara let out an involuntary scream.
“Ha ha!” Beatrice laughed. She turned off the flashlight and tossed it on the floor.
“Jesus Christ, Beatrice!” Clara yelled. “How the hell do you make those faces?”
“Isn’t it wonderful? I plan on being an actress, you know,” Beatrice said. She moved to the couch to sit beside her sister. “Were you scared?”
“Yes!” Clara replied, her heart still racing. “Even though your story made absolutely no sense,” she snapped.
“How so?” Beatrice asked.
“First off, how is Stacy going to be blind to the fact that a dark figure is in her back seat? She had to get in the car. How could she not see him?”
“Her car was parked in the shadows,” Beatrice explained.
“Okay then. There’s a detail you left out,” Clara said. “Second, how stupid does a girl have to be to drive home with what she thinks is a crazy person following behind her? Why didn’t she drive to the police station or something?”
“I told you that Stacy wasn’t that bright,” Beatrice said.
“Hmm. What were the high beams all about?” Clara asked. She threw off the blanket as the room warmed from the candlelight.
“Every time the truck guy saw the dark figure rise up out of the back seat, he flashed his lights to scare him,” Beatrice explained. “No one wants to get caught in the act of killing someone.”
“Why would the dark figure slit Stacy’s throat while she was driving? Then they’d both be dead from a car accident,” Clara said.
Beatrice huffed. “Clara, it’s just a stupid story, okay? The point was to make you scream with my scary face, which I did, by the way.”
Clara smiled. “You’re right. You did scare me.”
Beatrice grinned. “Want me to make the face again?”
“God, no!” Clara replied. “Why don’t we play Sorry! before bed or something like that?” She was thinking of anything to do that would erase the image of Beatrice’s mental patient face.
“Let’s have a séance instead!” Beatrice suggested.
“Absolutely not,” Clara said. “What is up with you tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Beatrice confessed. “It’s the candlelight or something. I just want to be scared out of my mind.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Well, I don’t.”
Beatrice snuggled with her sister, placing her head in Clara’s lap.
“Clara?” she said.
“Hmm?”
“You need to live a little bit.”
Clara laughed. “I suppose you’re right,” she replied, stroking Beatrice’s hair and staring into the three dancing flames.
***
Clara was reluctant to go into the cafeteria. But she was hungry. She and Beatrice were already eating too little at home, both afraid of not having any food, so they tried hard not to eat anything at all. They mostly ate sandwiches because they were cheap. Clara did stock up on soups and canned vegetables, and they heated these on the wood stove.
Beatrice complained about the heat. The few blessed days of coolness in the beginning of September did not last. Just when Clara thought the seasons were turning, the blaze of summer came back, angrier this time, one last roar of sizzling heat. With no air conditioning and the stove running, the temperature in the house grew to an unbearable degree driving the girls to strip to their underwear and lie on the kitchen tiles.
“This isn’t my idea of camping,” Beatrice said the previous night. She wiped at her glistening face.
“I know,” Clara said. She lay beside her sister in her panties and bra dabbing at her chest with the shirt she had just taken off. “I made a payment on the electric bill. I could only afford thirty dollars, but it’s something.”
Clara wasn’t sure why she thought every cent she made at work could go exclusively to paying the electric bill. There were groceries that had to be bought, gas she had to put in her car to make it to work, a payment due on her phone bill and water bill. She realized she was also due for an oil change soon. She remembered her grandmother telling her how important it was to get her oil changed. “Unless you want
your car to die,” she had said, and the words stuck. When her grandmother got too sick to drive, she gave the car to Clara. Thankfully like the house, the car was paid off, and Clara needed only to worry about maintenance and the gas to put in it.
Beatrice let out a long sigh. “Let me go to work and help you, Clara.”
Clara smiled. “Bea, you aren’t old enough to work.”
“Yes I am,” Beatrice argued. She pulled up her tank top to just below her chest and rolled over on her stomach feeling the hard, cool tiles on her warm skin.
“Legally, you aren’t,” Clara explained. “Where on earth do you think you’d find a job?”
“I’ve already found one,” Beatrice said.
Clara sat up feeling the beads of sweat trickle down between her breasts. She tried to catch them with her shirt, but they soaked into her bra faster than she could dab at them.
“Where?” she asked.
“I went to some houses on Oak Tower Trail the other day,” Beatrice said. “I knocked on some doors and asked if they were looking for someone to walk their dogs. I said I could do it every afternoon after school, but they don’t need me that much.”
Clara’s mouth hung open in disbelief.
“Close your mouth, Clara,” Beatrice said. “I have three clients. Isn’t that what they’re called? Clients?”
“You what?”
“I told the ladies I would have to ask my mom first, but since she’s not here, I guess I have to ask you.” Beatrice paused for Clara’s response, but Clara said nothing. “Here’s my schedule. On Mondays I walk Mrs. Johnson’s dog. On Tuesdays I walk Mrs. Peterson’s dog. And on Thursdays I walk Mrs. Levine’s dog. The ladies worked it out. They are going to pay me five dollars each for a thirty minute walk. So if I’ve done my math correctly, and I know I have because it’s simple math, then that’s fifteen dollars a week.”
“Bea . . . I . . . you . . .” Clara stammered.
“Will you let me? I met the dogs and they’re sweet, and they like me,” Beatrice said. “And the ladies are nice. I mean, they talk to me like I’m a little kid, but I don’t mind. Money is money.”
Clara walked through the cafeteria doors thinking about Beatrice’s statement: Money is money. She was right. No matter where it came from or how one got it, money was money. And they needed money if they were to ever get the electricity back on. Clara feared when the weather turned cold; she thought she could have the bill paid off by then, but what if she couldn’t? How would they stay warm? Would the fire be enough?
She noticed him looking at her and tried to ignore him. She went through the line pulling food items onto her tray. In that moment nothing looked appetizing because she knew how she would have to “pay” for it. And she didn’t want Evan seeing. Suddenly she felt guilty for making Beatrice use the card. Was her sister experiencing the same shame now?
Clara stood in line surrounded by impatient, hungry students. She readied her card; it was partly hidden in her hand, and she hoped the cafeteria worker wouldn’t say anything. She didn’t consider the possibility that anything would go wrong once the card was scanned, but what if it did? What if it showed an error, and Clara would be told that her mother would need to contact the state about her free lunch qualifications? What if the students around her heard the exchange? They would laugh at her.
She wanted to die. When it was her turn at the register, she thought about abandoning her tray and running for the bathroom.
“Well?” the lunch lady said.
Clara handed over the card automatically. The lady swiped it, gave it back to Clara, and called, “Next.”
Just like that.
Clara shoved the card in her pocket and walked her tray to a corner table. Her usual spot, hidden on the outskirts of the room where she would go unnoticed, exactly the way she wanted it. The only problem was that today Evan had a perfect view of her. He sat at a table in the popular section of the cafeteria. He conversed with his friends all the while keeping his eyes on Clara. She grew increasingly angry wondering how she was supposed to eat with him watching her.
She pulled a novel out of her book bag and started reading. She knew to give herself a few pages and then she would be absorbed in the story, forgetting all about Evan’s stares and her attempts to look pretty while she ate. She read about the heroine—a haughty, beautiful woman whom the men adored. They worshipped her. To be that vain and desirable, Clara thought jealously. She wondered what the heroine must have felt to know she wielded so much power.
“Hi, Clara,” she heard him say.
She looked up from her novel and forced down the tater tot she was in the middle of chewing. It made her throat ache on the way down. She looked over at the table Evan had just left noticing a few of the students looking in her direction. They were clearly confused as was she.
“Hi.” It came out as a question.
He sat down across from her. “What are you reading?”
She couldn’t understand what was happening. Why was he talking to her? Why did he come over to her table knowing it would cause a mild scene? His friends were still staring, gawking now that he settled himself on the bench across from her to have a conversation.
“I don’t know,” she replied.
Evan smiled. “You don’t know what you’re reading?”
“A book.”
“I figured.”
“I think I have to go now,” she said shoving the paperback novel in her book bag.
“Lunch isn’t over yet,” Evan pointed out.
“I guess not,” Clara replied. She looked down at her partially-eaten food. She was still hungry, but there was no way she was eating in front of him this closely. Absolutely no way.
Evan reached over and plucked a tater tot from her tray. “You mind?” he asked as he popped it in his mouth.
Clara shook her head.
“I noticed you read a lot,” Evan observed.
It was true. Clara did read a lot. Reading was her favorite hobby, a form of escape. With reading she could be anyone, anything, and for the time she was absorbed in her stories, her social anxiety disappeared. She was brave and adventurous and clever. Like Beatrice.
“Does Beatrice read like you do?” Evan asked.
“Yes,” Clara replied. “Maybe not as much. But yes.”
“I figured she did. She sounds very smart. And you can’t be smart unless you read,” Evan said.
Clara nodded. She didn’t know what else to do.
“I should read more fiction,” Evan went on. “I read a lot of manuals and textbooky stuff. It’s kind of nerdy. I guess I’m a bit of a nerd.”
He paused for a minute and smiled at her showing his perfectly straight white teeth. She instinctively ran her tongue over her own feeling the slight crookedness of her left incisor folded a little over her front tooth. She remembered a dentist once referring to it as a “kicked lateral.” She didn’t like the way that sounded as though somebody kicked her in the teeth and then laughed about it.
“I should read more fiction,” he repeated. “And I work at a bookstore.”
Clara stared at him. He popped another one of her tater tots in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
“Maybe you could recommend some books to me?” he suggested after a moment. “Do you mind?” he asked picking up her milk.
Clara was beside herself. She thought she shook her head.
Evan took a long sip then placed it back on her tray. She watched him lick his lips.
“Don’t worry. I don’t backwash.” He grinned at her and stood up. “Clara, I’d like very much for you to recommend some books for me to read,” he said looking at the cafeteria clock hanging above them. “Fiction,” he clarified. “Will you do that for me?” He looked down at her, his cat eyes cutting into hers.
She was certain that he was being serious and teasing her at the same time. In that moment something floated down her chest to rest in her belly. Something shimmery and warm that made her excited. And terrified.
She nodded.
“Okay then,” Evan said. “I’ll be seeing you, Clara,” and he walked back to his table.
Clara was conscious of two things: first, the intense longing she felt to put her lips on her milk carton where his had just been, and second, the low voices passing by her that said, “He drank her milk!” The bell rang and she didn’t move. She knew she couldn’t. She shook so violently that she was afraid to pick up her tray and walk it over to the trash. She knew she would drop it by accident.
When the cafeteria cleared, Clara thought it was safe to get up. She walked her tray over to the receptacle, positioning it over the bin’s opening, and watched regrettably as the milk carton slid out of sight.
***
Clara sat on the couch that evening balancing her checkbook. Her bank account was dismal. She paid her cell phone bill and water bill leaving virtually nothing until her next paycheck. And she’d have to wait a week for it. She felt the rising panic and tried to force it down. She would ask for more hours at work. She was a good worker and was confident her manager would give them to her. The bulk of her next paycheck would go to the electricity. The property tax kept creeping up into the forefront of her mind, but she pushed it down. She couldn’t worry about that right now. Electricity was the most important thing.
She thought of Beatrice and her dog-walking plans. She really did not want Beatrice working, but she almost felt she had no choice. Fifteen extra dollars a week could go a long way in getting their electricity back on faster. Still, Clara felt ashamed that she could not do it on her own.
“Clara?” Beatrice asked, walking around the couch to stand in front of her sister.
“Yes?”
“You promised me that you’d let me know today if I can walk the dogs.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Clara asked. She closed her checkbook and looked at her sister.
“Well?” Beatrice said. She twirled her golden locks around her fingers and waited.
“Would you have fun walking those ladies’ dogs?” Clara asked.
“The most fun of my entire life,” Beatrice responded.
Clara smirked. “Are any of the dogs bigger than you?”
