by S. Walden
“I can’t find my keys. I’ll be late for work,” Clara said. “I’m sorry you heard me say that. I shouldn’t say that word.”
“No you shouldn’t. You’re too pretty to say something so blasphemous,” Evan replied, and Clara decided in that instant that she would never say “goddamnit” again.
She blushed, and he saw.
“May I help you find them?” he asked.
“They’re either in my purse or book bag, neither of which you’re allowed to go through,” Clara replied then looked at him bewildered. She couldn’t believe she said that to him. It was snarky and rude and it made him laugh hard.
“I’m sorry,” Clara said quietly.
“For what?” Evan asked still chuckling. “And I don’t want to go through your purse anyway. Women’s purses scare me.”
“Why?” Clara replied. A grin broke out on her face.
“There are things in them, if you know what I mean,” he said winking at her.
She didn’t know if it was because she was outside in the sunlight, emboldened by nature, or simply delirious because he came to talk to her again, but in that moment, Clara was not Clara.
She plunged her hand in her purse and pulled out a tampon.
“You mean like this?” she asked waving it in front of his face.
“Clara Greenwich!” he said grabbing the tampon and shoving it back in her purse.
Clara giggled and shook her head. She watched as Evan’s face went bright red with embarrassment and felt mildly sorry for him.
“Is there nothing sacred left in the world?” he asked, smiling down at her.
She thought instantly of her desperate need for money and all of the things she was willing to do to get her hands on it. Her face fell and became serious again.
“No,” she said softly. “There isn’t.”
Evan fidgeted nervously. He was worried that she regretted pulling out the tampon and didn’t want her to. He liked seeing her that way—playful and happy.
Clara dug around in her purse some more until she finally located her keys.
“Clara—”
“Success at last,” she interrupted, but she didn’t sound happy about it. “I better go.”
Evan sighed and reached down to pick up her book bag. He handed it to her, and she threw it carelessly in the back seat. He wished he could have just five more minutes with her.
“See you later,” Clara said climbing into her car.
“I’ll be seeing you, Clara.”
***
She watched the two girls hovering around a rack contemplating the dresses displayed on it. She wasn’t at the register today. Instead, she was in charge of the dressing rooms and was in the process of hanging up an assortment of clothes she gathered, clothes that were thrown about haphazardly because the customers didn’t care. They knew someone would come behind them to clean up their mess.
She hated being in charge of the dressing rooms. It was heartbreaking to watch the girls walking into the rooms holding mounds of clothing items—new, trendy clothes that she couldn’t afford. They looked so eager, so happy to be trying on something new, coming out of the rooms in their shirts and dresses to stand in front of the large three-way mirror. They would scrutinize themselves, turn around and examine their bodies from all angles, say stupid things like, “God, I’m so fat!” when they were really the prettiest, luckiest girls Clara had ever seen.
Clara looked at the dresses draped over her arm and scowled. She walked towards the girls to hang them up on the rack.
“Oh my God. Tell me you’re carrying a size 0,” one of the girls said.
“Um, I don’t know. Let’s see,” Clara replied. She flipped through the dresses, and sure enough, there was a size 0. She pulled it out for the petite brunette.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! I fucking love you!” she squealed holding up the dress. “Isn’t this the most gorgeous dress you’ve ever seen? I mean, not like evening wear gorgeous, but looking-hot-at-school gorgeous.”
Clara nodded as she hung the rest of the dresses on the rack.
“Oh my God. There’s no way Evan won’t notice me now,” she continued. “Bye bye weird girl in the cafeteria. Hello sexy,” she said laughing.
Her friend nudged her hard. “Ouch!” she said irritably. “What the hell?”
Her friend motioned to Clara who had moved on to another rack but could hear every word. “That’s the weird girl,” her friend whispered.
“Huh?” the petite brunette replied. She looked over at Clara, her eyes going wide with recognition, her mouth turning up in a nasty grin. “Oh. My. God.”
“Come on, let’s go,” her friend urged, taking the brunette by the arm.
“Get off!” the brunette snapped, yanking her arm away.
“Brittany, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Brittany asked following Clara to the dressing rooms.
“I’d like to try this on,” she said to Clara who stood at the entrance organizing stacks of clothes.
“Sure, go ahead,” Clara replied.
Brittany started walking towards an available room then stopped abruptly and turned around. “What did you and Evan talk about at lunch the other day?”
Clara looked at her confused. “I’m sorry?”
“You know. At lunch,” Brittany said. “When you paid him to walk over to you to talk to your sorry ass. What did you end up talking about? Or were you just pretending to talk? And how much did you pay him?”
Clara was dumbstruck.
Brittany strolled over to Clara and stood within inches of her.
“He would never ever in a million years touch you. So try for somebody more in your league, okay?” she said. “A nobody, like you.” She dropped the dress on the floor at Clara’s feet. “I’ve changed my mind about this dress. It’s ugly. I don’t want it.” And she walked out of the dressing room breezily, her friend following behind.
Clara could hear the friend say, “God, Brittany. You’re such a fucking bitch.”
“Whatever” was the reply.
Clara bent down to pick up the dress. She held it up, looking it over, thinking that there was no way Brittany thought it was ugly. She just wanted to drop it at Clara’s feet because she knew Clara would have to bend down to retrieve it. She was one of those girls who enjoyed seeing other people bend down to pick things up that she threw at them.
Clara’s school was filled with girls like Brittany, and she couldn’t understand why girls who appeared to have everything—good looks, pretty clothes, nice cars—were so mean. Clara thought that if she had those things she would be the happiest girl in the world, and the world would know it because she would be kind to it.
She was only semi-aware of the tears running down her cheeks. She walked to the three-way mirror and wiped at her face, taking deep breaths and trying for control. She felt mildly angry with herself for allowing someone like Brittany to hurt her feelings, but she was sensitive. And she thought that was normal. Only a person with a callous heart would be impervious to Brittany’s words. And Clara’s heart was far from callous. It was tender and wounded, bruised by her mother’s abandonment and frightened for Beatrice. She had all the right in the world to cry, and so she locked herself in a dressing room and allowed herself five minutes to fall apart.
***
Clara plopped down on the couch that evening shrouded in darkness save for the few candles on the coffee table that emitted a soft glow. She felt restless as she watched Beatrice complete her homework, her sister’s little face screwed up in concentration as she worked the math problems on her practice sheet.
“Did you finish your novel today, Clara?” Beatrice asked feeling Clara’s eyes on her.
“Huh?” Clara replied distracted.
“Your novel. The one you’ve been reading,” Beatrice clarified as her pencil moved over the paper.
Clara pulled her mass of damp hair to the side over her right shoulder and ran her fingers through it. “Yeah.”
“And did it end happily?” Beatrice asked finishing her last problem, folding the paper, and sticking it in her math book.
“All of Thomas Hardy’s books end happily,” Clara said. “That’s why I read them.”
Beatrice considered this. “Clara?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think we live an unhappy life?”
Clara felt the bullet sear her heart. She lost her breath momentarily.
“No,” she breathed. She could barely get the word out. She tried again. “No,” she said more firmly. “We live a very happy life, Bea. It’s happy because you’re in it.”
Beatrice smiled. “I was going to say that it’s happy because you’re in it.”
Clara couldn’t hold it in. “I want a boyfriend, though,” she blurted out, and then in a whisper added, “I’m lonely for one.”
“I know Clara,” Beatrice replied. She lay down flat on her back on the living room floor looking at the dark ceiling.
Clara felt the sting of tears in her eyes. “And it’s terrible because I like somebody at school that I have no business liking.”
“Why?” Beatrice asked.
“Because he’s too cool for me,” Clara said sulkily.
“Clara, there’s nobody in the world who’s too cool for you,” Beatrice replied. “You just need some more confidence. You’re smart and pretty and funny, but you don’t think you’re any of those things. You get that from Mom, you know.”
Another bullet to the heart. How could Beatrice be so perceptive at ten years old? She was always telling Clara the things she didn’t want to hear but knew were true. Beatrice was too wise for her age, and her wisdom pierced Clara’s heart. Clara was like their mother, she had to admit. All of the insecurities came from her mother who was so beautiful and wild and passionate when she wasn’t sad. Beatrice inherited the passion. Clara was afraid she inherited all of the bad things—the sad heart, the lack of self-confidence. But Clara also knew that she wouldn’t deal with those challenges the way her mother did. She refused to sink down into depression. She refused to touch alcohol. Never in her whole life would she touch alcohol. She would never be like her mother that way.
“What’s his name?” Beatrice asked after a time.
“Who?”
“The boy you like at school?” Beatrice clarified.
“Oh.” Clara sat silent for a moment. “It doesn’t matter,” she said and leaned over to blow out the candles.
Chapter 5
Clara flew out of bed in a panic at the sound of a loud knock on the front door early Saturday morning. She bumped into Beatrice in the hallway who also jumped out of bed in a hurry.
“Are they here?” Beatrice whispered. She didn’t have to specify. She knew Clara understood that “they” meant Child Protective Services. The fear pervaded her voice.
“I don’t know,” Clara said. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
Another loud knock, and Beatrice grabbed Clara around the waist.
“It’s okay,” Clara said smoothing her sister’s hair. She gently peeled Beatrice’s arms from around her body. “I want you to go back into your room for just a minute.”
Beatrice shook her head violently.
“Please, Beatrice,” Clara said. “I’ll be right in.”
Beatrice walked back to her room grudgingly, turning back to look at Clara once. Clara had never seen Beatrice look so terrified, and she never wanted to see it again. She turned to the front door when a third knock sounded.
Very carefully, Clara pulled back the dusty curtain that hung over a horizontal window running the width of the top of the door. She pulled it back a fraction and was just tall enough to see outside if she stood on her tiptoes. She let out a sigh of relief.
It was Ms. Debbie from across the street.
“It’s okay, Bea!” Clara called. “You can come out!”
Beatrice was already by Clara’s side as she opened the door for their neighbor.
Ms. Debbie was a formidable lady, dressed in a housecoat, hair in curlers as she pushed past the girls into the living room. She took a seat on the couch and waved the girls over. Clara shut the door and walked with Beatrice into the living room. They settled themselves on the floor in front of Ms. Debbie.
“Girls, you can’t fool me,” Ms. Debbie began. “Lord in heaven, it’s hot as hell in here!” She pulled at the collar of her housecoat.
“Ms. Debbie, I don’t know what you mean,” Clara replied. She swallowed.
“Clara, give me a break,” Ms. Debbie said flatly. “I haven’t seen your deadbeat mom in a month! Where is she?”
Clara and Beatrice remained silent.
“Where is she?” Ms. Debbie pressed.
“We don’t know,” Beatrice said quietly. In that moment she felt like it were her fault that their mother disappeared. Ms. Debbie watched as Beatrice’s face fell.
“It’s not your fault your mother is gone, honey,” she said gently. “She has . . . issues. Let’s just put it that way.” She considered the girls. “Where are the lights?”
“We don’t have any at the moment,” Clara replied. “Our electricity was turned off because Mom hadn’t paid the bill for the past three months.”
Ms. Debbie growled. “How have you been eating?”
“Sandwiches. And we use the wood stove to cook even though it’s really hot,” Clara explained.
“Good God,” Ms. Debbie replied crossing herself. “And washing?”
“We heat water.” Clara lowered her eyes. “Please don’t call them,” she said softly.
“Call who?” Ms. Debbie asked. Her fat face glistened with sweat.
“The state,” Clara said. “I’m working. I’m working to pay off the bills, and Beatrice and I are doing fine. We don’t want to leave. I’m begging you. Please don’t call.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Clara, I’ve no intention of calling the state,” Ms. Debbie said. ‘They’ve got their hands in enough of our business already. But I am concerned about you not having electricity. I don’t know how I feel about you lighting fires in this house.”
“I’m responsible,” Clara argued.
Ms. Debbie thought for a moment. “I know it. I wish you didn’t have to be so responsible.”
“I’m working too,” Beatrice offered. “I walk dogs.”
“And where do you walk dogs?” Ms. Debbie asked. She smiled at the young girl.
“Oak Tower Trail,” Beatrice answered.
“Well, I imagine that’s a lucrative business,” Ms. Debbie said.
“What does ‘lucrative’ mean?” Beatrice asked.
“Profitable,” Ms. Debbie explained. “It means I’m sure those people pay you well.”
“Oh, they do!” Beatrice said grinning.
Ms. Debbie stood up suddenly. “Come on,” she ordered. “We’re going to my house for breakfast.” She waddled towards the front door.
“Ms. Debbie, we don’t want to be a bother,” Clara said.
“Nonsense. When was the last time you had pancakes, Beatrice?” Ms. Debbie asked.
“A million years ago!” Beatrice squealed running for the front door.
“Ms. Debbie—”
“Clara,” Ms. Debbie interrupted. “We are going to my house for breakfast and to discuss the logistics of this new living arrangement. You will not argue with me. Now let’s go.”
“Let’s go, Clara,” Beatrice piped up.
Clara nodded and followed Ms. Debbie and her sister out the door.
“I think you girls should live with me for a little while,” Ms. Debbie said as the three sat at her kitchen table eating pancakes with strawberry syrup and bacon. Beatrice downed her glass of milk and asked for another.
“No, Ms. Debbie,” Clara replied. “It’s really kind of you but we prefer to stay in our house.”
“Clara, you’re living in the dark!” Ms. Debbie pointed out.
“No, we’re camping,” Beatrice said. She rolled a piece of bacon up in her panc
ake and ate it like a fajita.
“Clara, what will you do when it gets cold?” Ms. Debbie asked.
“We’ll have the electricity back on by then,” Clara said.
“Where are you storing your cold items?” Ms. Debbie asked.
“We don’t have any,” Clara said. “We keep canned goods.”
“Beatrice isn’t drinking milk? She needs milk Clara,” Ms. Debbie said acting as though Beatrice was just an infant.
“We eat at school,” Clara said. “Breakfast and lunch. She gets her milk, Ms. Debbie.”
Ms. Debbie looked a little less perturbed. “And bathing? Washing clothes?”
“We heat water to wash,” Clara said. “We told you this, Ms. Debbie. And I take the dirty clothes to the laundromat.”
“It’s absolutely insane,” Ms. Debbie said. She looked at the girls sitting across from her. “Here is how it will happen,” she said firmly. “You will continue with this ridiculous arrangement until the weather turns cold. If your electricity is not back on, you will come and stay with me at night so that I don’t go over to your house one day and find two ice blocks with girls in them!”
Her eyes were wide and commanding.
“You will come to my house every Sunday afternoon for lunch and once a week for dinner.”
“Ms. Debbie,” Clara began.
“Clara Greenwich, I’ve had about enough out of you!” Ms. Debbie said. She breathed deeply, a long ragged breath that rattled in her chest.
Clara promptly closed her mouth.
“That’s the arrangement,” Ms. Debbie said. She got up from the table and lumbered to the kitchen sink. “Period.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the girls said in unison.
***
“Interested in joining a book club?” Florence asked as the girls sat in science class balancing equations.
“Are you in one?” Clara replied.
“No, but I figured I should read more,” Florence said. “We could start one. You could lead it since you read all the time.”
Clara considered the suggestion. A book club. But then who would join?
