Honeysuckle Love

by S. Walden

  She noticed he looked much older than her, and it frightened her.

  “I . . . I n-need money,” she stammered. She shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets.

  “Are you homeless?” the man asked.

  “No,” Clara replied. “But I will be soon if I don’t pay my bills.”

  The man scrutinized her. He looked concerned, but Clara thought he was faking it.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Why does it matter?”

  He didn’t respond and she was afraid he might go. All she wanted was to crawl into his warm car.

  “I’m seventeen,” she said.

  “Seventeen?” the man said chuckling. He looked her over. “Where are your parents?”

  “I don’t have any,” she replied.

  He was silent again. Thinking.

  “Come here,” he said after a moment. Clara obeyed.

  He scrutinized her face. So young. She looked scared, and he liked it.

  “Aren’t you afraid of bad people out here? Aren’t you afraid someone will snatch you up and do horrible things to you and then kill you?” the man asked. He didn’t sound like he was trying to scare her. He asked her in a matter-of-fact way.

  Clara considered his questions. Was she concerned about those things? People went missing all the time, especially poor, inconsequential people. Who would care that she’s gone? Beatrice. Beatrice would care. And Evan would, too. But were two people enough to make her turn around and get back into her car? She thought that they weren’t.

  She stood at her full height. “I’m not afraid of those things.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up and his lips curled into a grin. “Oh? And why not?” He sounded like he was trying to hide his giddiness, but Clara could hear it in his voice. Did he want to make her disappear?

  She looked straight into his black eyes. “Because I’m not sure my life is that important.”

  She thought he might see the complete brokenness in her and leave. Who wants to spend an evening with someone who isn’t any fun?

  The man looked her over. “So this is what desperation looks like,” he said thoughtfully.

  Clara bristled. “I’m looking at it too,” she said hotly.

  The man chuckled. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re out here looking for a whore. That’s how desperate you are to sleep with someone,” she said. She knew she was saying all the wrong things, but she figured she already lost her chance with him.

  “True,” the man replied. “I guess I am looking for a whore.”

  Clara stared at the ground and shuffled her feet.

  “But I found you instead,” he said quietly.

  Clara’s heart dropped. He didn’t see her as a whore. She wasted her time on him, and the hour was growing late. She would go home without anything.

  “Seventeen you said?” the man asked.

  Clara nodded.

  “You know what that makes me, don’t you?”

  “What?” Clara asked.

  “A man with no conscience,” he answered.

  Clara thought for a moment. “Well, I’m a girl with no conscience,” she replied. “So maybe we’ll get on just fine.” The man laughed. Clara felt emboldened that she made him laugh. “I need three hundred dollars,” she said. She picked a random sum.

  This time the man roared. Clara waited for him to regain his composure.

  “And why the hell would I give you three hundred dollars?” the man asked. “I don’t even know that I’d give three hundred dollars to an escort. And she knows what she’s doing for Christ’s sake.”

  Clara played her card. “I’m a virgin.”

  The man stopped laughing. “And I care about that?” he asked. There was lust running underneath every word.

  “Yes, you do,” Clara said. “You look rich. You can afford to give me three hundred dollars for what I’m willing to give to you.”

  She didn’t recognize herself. The words that slid out of her mouth so easily. She felt that woman returning. Why did she only have the words, the witty remarks, the confidence when she was crazy?

  “Why do you need that much?” he asked.

  “Not your business,” Clara snapped.

  “My business if I’m letting you in this car,” he replied.

  Clara drew in her breath. “I need to pay my property tax.”

  The irony was not lost on him. He smirked as he looked her over again. He decided she was pretty. Actually she was beautiful standing there in a coat that showed him nothing of her figure and long damp hair that framed an innocent face. He imagined her body, pure and unspoiled, and suddenly three hundred dollars seemed like pennies to him. He had planned on a cheap, quick night, but was glad to have run into her instead. She would be so much better.

  “I won’t hurt you,” the man said gently. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. But I want to make one thing clear. If I give you that much, you’re mine all night. Do you understand?”

  Clara nodded.

  “Get in,” he ordered.

  ***

  Clara stood in the middle of the dark kitchen. She was glad for Beatrice’s absence. She would not be able to face her, listen as Beatrice peppered her with questions about her evening and if she saw Evan and if they went on a date. It was not so much the shame of what she’d done as it was the feeling of utter emptiness. She thought she could do it again and again until the tax was paid. That was before it actually happened. She knew now that she would never go back to that street, never offer herself up on that sinful altar again, sacrificing something good and pure within her. She thought there was a bit of it still there, the purity, no longer in its physical form, but a part of her spirit nonetheless. She couldn’t access it though, not tonight. It was tucked far away underneath all the dirt in her heart, offended and silent.

  She shoved a few pieces of wood into the wood stove and crumpled several sheets of newspaper before throwing them in. She lit the match and dropped it in, watching the paper curl up into itself, blackened edges disappearing, shrinking until there was nothing but small dark lumps decorating the wood beneath. She closed the stove door and turned to the kitchen cabinets.

  She rifled through them searching the recesses until her hand found it. The glass bottle with the evil inside. She took it out. It was a quarter of the way full. Crystal clear, and she wondered how something that looked so pure could be so wicked. She didn’t bother with a glass. She pulled a kitchen chair up to the stove and opened the bottle.

  She smelled the contents, and her stomach churned. She hesitated wondering if she could choke down the liquid. She held her breath and took a swig. The liquid slid down her throat, burning as it went. She coughed and spluttered tasting it on her tongue, wanting it gone but having no flavored drinks in the house to wash it away. She sat with her face screwed up in a grimace, feeling the dull pains in her abdomen from time to time, wondering when they would go away for good.

  Then the liquid curled around her stomach, and she felt warm. She felt it in her chest as well, and just like that, the pains disappeared. She took another swig, this one longer. She fought the urge to gag, pushing the liquid down to feel it warm her insides, twist throughout her middle to light her up. She sat and stared at the wood stove for a long time. And then she stood up and swayed—a new sensation that made her giggle.

  She carefully walked the length of the small kitchen, clutching the bottle to her chest, breathing deeply and smiling stupidly. When she reached the sink, she turned back to the stove. The kitchen grew warm by now, and she stripped off her shirt and jeans. She wanted to burn them in the fire, but they were the only nice pair of jeans she owned. Why did she wear them for him?

  She took another long gulp of the vodka and set the bottle on the floor. She placed her hands over her breasts trying to rid her mind of the image of his mouth on them. She moved her hands to her waist, feeling him hold her still as he penetrated her. It hurt, and she screamed, but he told her it would.
It wasn’t that he was cruel or forceful, but he was determined to get his money’s worth.

  She slipped her hand in her panties and touched herself then withdrew it carefully to look at the tips of her fingers. She was still bleeding. She thought he would only do it once, but he gave her three hundred dollars, he reminded her. He was going to do it several times before taking her back to her car. The third time he made her come, even in her soreness, and she felt awash with guilt. She saw that as the real betrayal against Evan, that another man could make her body respond the way he did.

  Clara ran her fingers under the kitchen faucet. She turned back to the bottle that sat waiting on the kitchen floor. You get that from Mom, you know, she heard Beatrice’s tiny voice in the distance.

  “Be quiet, Beatrice,” Clara said aloud and walked back over to the vodka. She drank the rest, collapsed on the kitchen floor, and fell into a fitful sleep dreaming of cold streets and dark men who promised her money in exchange for her soul.

  A week later, her mother came home.

  Chapter 19

  Ellen Greenwich was tall and thin, graceful like a ballerina and strikingly beautiful with long blond hair and hazel eyes. Every movement she made looked effortless—the way she walked, the way she folded laundry, the way she ran her fingers through her silky hair. Clara often thought that her mother made life look easy—the act of giving birth no more difficult than putting a dirty spoon in the dishwasher.

  The quiet humming energy exploded into mania from time to time. Always wonderful, over-the-top joy and passion that swept up the girls, twirled them around the kitchen, and danced them out the door to the back yard where they sang and clapped for their mother. But then their father left, and the mania turned ugly. Bedroom doors ripped open and nothing but screaming. What did we do? Clara would ask herself, but she never understood. And then there was no mania. Only silence as their mother lay for days and days in her bedroom, the door locked, barring any contact. The girls were left alone to feed themselves, get ready for school. And then one day they came home, and she was gone.

  Clara held Beatrice’s hand as they navigated the icy walkway to the front door. It was Thursday afternoon, and Clara didn’t have to work. It was the first day in several weeks she didn’t have to work, and it felt great. She wanted to spend the entire evening with Beatrice. She missed her, feeling a space between them she didn’t like—something a little uncomfortable that she couldn’t voice aloud but knew Beatrice felt as well.

  “I think we should go for burgers tonight,” Clara said rummaging through her purse for the house key. “What do you think?”

  “Not at that one place, though,” Beatrice said. “Not where those girls were.”

  “No, we’ll go someplace different,” Clara replied.

  Beatrice shivered on the porch as she watched Clara dig around in her purse.

  “Why did you take the house key off your key ring, Clara?” Beatrice asked irritably.

  “I can’t remember,” Clara admitted, and she couldn’t. “Where’s your key, Bea?”

  “You told me to leave it at home, remember? Because you were picking me up from school?”

  Clara nodded.

  Beatrice searched for other things to talk about as she waited to enter the warm relief of their living room.

  “Can Evan come tonight?” she asked.

  She had been asking for Evan a lot lately, and it bothered Clara. She knew why. Beatrice still didn’t feel completely comfortable with her. Not since the letter opener incident. Evan was the one who made Beatrice feel safe now, and Clara felt sore and silently angry over it. She wanted to be the comfort, the protector, the one Beatrice trusted. She worked two jobs for it, paid bills for it, made dinner for it. But she lost Beatrice’s trust when she had her meltdown, and she feared there was no way to fix it.

  “Ah ha!” she said satisfied. “Found it,” and she inserted the key in the lock.

  “What about Evan, Clara?” Beatrice persisted.

  “I’ll call and ask him,” Clara said finally.

  “May I?”

  Clara pushed the door open. “Sure.”

  Ellen Greenwich sat at the kitchen table looking over the bills. There was something cooking in the oven, something coated with herbs and filling the whole house with a delicious, earthy smell. Ellen looked up from the papers when she heard her daughters walk in.

  “Well, there they are,” she said, and smiled sweetly.

  Clara and Beatrice froze. They stood staring for what seemed like hours. Clara reached over to take Beatrice’s hand protectively, but Beatrice shrugged her off.

  “Mommy?” Beatrice said in a small whisper. Then recognition set in as she screamed it. “MOMMY!” and ran into Ellen’s outstretched arms, jumping into her lap, clutching at her mother’s neck while she listened to Ellen’s soft, low chuckles.

  “Beatrice, you’re so grown,” Ellen said, pulling her daughter away so that she could look at her face. Beatrice’s eyes swam with tears.

  “You won’t ever leave again will you, Mommy?” Beatrice asked, her little voice quavering.

  “Never,” Ellen said. “I will never leave again,” and she pulled Beatrice close to her, wrapping her tight, closing her eyes in bliss as she breathed in the scent of Beatrice’s hair.

  Clara remained frozen to her spot. Her brain could not register the turn of events. She was tempted to call the police. There was a stranger in her house, and she wanted her gone this instant.

  “Clara?” her mother asked.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you want to come over here and give me a hug?”

  Clara moved automatically without thought or feeling. Ellen released Beatrice and stood up, taking Clara into her arms and holding her close. Clara kept her arms by her sides fighting the urge to hit her mother. She did not recognize her voice, her scent, her body. It was a stranger holding her, somebody pretending to be her mother, and she wanted to scream into this woman’s shoulder to let go.

  “I missed you, Clara,” her mother said tenderly, kissing the top of her head.

  “Did you miss me, too?” Beatrice asked. She was hungry for her mother’s attention, and Clara was in the way.

  Ellen released Clara and bent down to look at her youngest daughter.

  “You better believe I did,” she said winking. Beatrice smiled.

  “So where were you, Mommy?” Beatrice asked.

  Clara wanted to tell Beatrice to shut up and stop calling their mother “Mommy.” She never called her “Mommy.” It was always “Mom.”

  Ellen invited the girls to sit with her at the table. Beatrice went willingly. Clara fumed, glaring at her mother from across the table.

  “Girls, I had to go away for awhile,” Ellen said. She reached over to take Beatrice’s hand. She did not take Clara’s, sensing Clara would not let her.

  “Why?” Beatrice asked.

  “I was unwell,” Ellen replied. “I didn’t take care of myself. I didn’t know how. And if I couldn’t take care of myself, then how could I possibly take care of you?”

  “So your solution was to run away and leave us to fend for ourselves with all the bills you didn’t bother to pay?” Clara retorted. “We were scared out of our minds! We didn’t know where you went or when you’d come home!”

  “Clara, stop,” Beatrice scolded.

  Clara did not look at her sister. She kept her eyes fastened on her mother.

  “I’m not saying it was right,” Ellen replied. “I made a mistake.”

  “Ha! A mistake! Are you hearing this, Beatrice?” Clara asked, bewildered.

  Beatrice ignored Clara and turned to her mother. “It’s okay, Mommy. Everybody makes mistakes.”

  “I’m working two jobs because of you. We didn’t have electricity for two and half months! We were boiling water over the fire!” Clara yelled.

  “Clara, I’m sorry,” her mother replied. “I can’t imagine what you went through. I hoped that someone . . . someone like Ms. Debbie woul
d help you while I was gone. Can’t you understand that if I stayed, I still would have been no help to you?”

  “Maybe not,” Clara snapped. “But you would have been here. And Ms. Debbie’s dead.”

  There was silence. Clara felt the anger course through her veins. She wanted to put her fist through a window and scream until her throat went raw.

  “I’m going to make it up to you,” Ellen said quietly.

  “Yeah? Well there are things you can’t make up to me,” Clara replied. She was tempted to tell her mother right there about the man she slept with for money. She was angry enough to do it, but Beatrice was there.

  “You can make them up to me,” Beatrice said encouragingly. She cut a hateful glance at Clara, and Clara’s heart broke into tiny pieces, sharp fragments that fell flat at the base of her stomach, piercing the lining and making it hurt.

  She got up from the table and grabbed her purse.

  “Clara, where are you going?” her mother asked.

  “I don’t have to tell you where I’m going. You don’t get to decide to come back into this house after five months and be my mother and expect me to tell you what I’m doing and where I’m going,” Clara said. Her voice was flat, emotionless.

  “Clara,” Ellen whispered, but Clara ignored her and walked out the door.

  ***

  She didn’t know where to go. She had no place to go. Evan was at work. Ms. Debbie was dead. She drove around aimlessly, wasting gas, not caring. She was on a familiar road, and then she remembered. The cemetery just down to the right. She pulled in and parked the car in the visitor’s parking lot. She walked to the gravesite and sunk down next to the stone. No one was there. It was too cold, and she felt the snow begin to seep through her pants, turning her skin to ice and making it ache. She brought no flowers and searched around for something she could leave beside the headstone. There was nothing. She had nothing, and the tears spilled over—angry, vicious tears of longing and pain.

  “Ms. Debbie,” she cried. She clutched the headstone as great, loud sobs escaped her mouth. She tried to quiet herself. She didn’t want to disturb the others trying to rest peacefully.