Authors: S. Walden
“Sweetheart, she’s dead.”
“I’m cold, Clara,” Beatrice said quietly. She huddled close to the fire wrapped in her winter coat, scarf, and gloves. She pulled her toboggan down over her ears.
“Me too, Bea,” Clara replied, and got up for more firewood. She placed the logs on the weak fire and balled up some newspaper. Once she threw in the paper, the flames shot up, burning hot and angry, and Clara settled herself beside Beatrice to watch the glow.
“She made fantastic pies, Clara,” Beatrice said staring into the flames.
“Yes she did,” Clara replied pulling on another pair of socks.
“She loved the book Evan got you,” Beatrice went on. “She told me Yeats was her favorite poet, too.”
Clara wiped at a tear that snuck out of the corner of her eye.
“I’m cold,” Beatrice said again.
“Put these socks on, Bea. I’ve got plenty of blankets. We’ll be warm if we sleep snuggled really close beside the fire,” Clara said, but there weren’t enough blankets and socks in the world to warm the chill in the girls’ hearts, and Clara knew it.
Clara ignored Evan when he sat down beside her in health class the next day. He looked her over and decided how best to start the conversation. He knew he had a right to be angry about her reaction to his sexual history, but he wished now that he didn’t allow her to bait him into an argument. He was bothered that he felt nothing remotely close to remorse for anything he said to her. Not even the comment about her tasting better than any other girls he’d been with.
He realized he was grinning and stopped. It was the truth—that comment—but he had no business voicing it. He knew he messed up. He knew he needed to apologize. He also knew that deep in his heart the apology would be disingenuous. All of her anger stemmed from the fact that she felt frustrated and inexperienced around him. He knew it and tried to be understanding. But there was no way she was going to make him feel guilty for his sexual past. She could be as pious and chaste as she wanted. He’d fix that.
“Clara?” he asked tentatively.
“Hmm?” she replied affecting distraction, holding her latest novel up to her face.
“Will you put your book down?” he asked.
She placed it on the desk and looked at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have made that comment.”
“Which one?” she asked.
Evan took a deep breath. “The first one,” he replied. “We’ll start with that. I’m sorry for making a comment that sounded like I was comparing you to other girls. I didn’t mean for it to come across that way. I wasn’t even thinking about those other girls when I said it. I was thinking about how happy I was to make you feel so good.”
Clara tried hard to make her expression inscrutable, but she blushed in spite of her efforts. Evan saw and took it as a hopeful sign.
“I really was only thinking about you.”
“And what about that other comment?” she asked.
Evan couldn’t help but grin. “What comment?” he replied. He knew precisely what she was referring to.
Clara narrowed her eyes. “You know.”
“I really don’t,” Evan lied. He just wanted to hear her say it.
Clara lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. “The one where you said I tasted better than those other girls. You were making a comparison then.”
Evan’s grin widened. “You’re not mad about that comment one bit,” he replied. “You’re flattered.”
Clara snorted.
“And I did want to piss you off by saying that, though I knew you’d secretly like it,” he went on.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
Evan leaned in close. “Because it is the truth. You do. And if you’d stop being unfair to me by punishing me for being with other girls, then maybe I’d show you again how much you like that comment.”
She felt it instantly, the heat surging in between her legs. How did he make her want to scream at him and scream for him at the same time? She tried to ignore her sexual reaction. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s not working,” Clara said. The deep flush in her cheeks told otherwise.
“Clara, you are so pretty. And you know I adore you. So can you just get over yourself already?” Evan asked.
He waited for her to say something. She was thinking, her face screwed up in concentration, and he wondered if she was deciding to let it all go or wondering how much longer she needed to punish him.
“Do you like me for me?” she asked finally. She did not look him in the eyes when she said it.
He wasn’t expecting that. “Yes.”
She looked at him then. Her eyes told him that she believed him. “Okay.”
They held each other’s gaze for a few moments before Clara spoke again.
“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” she said. “I feel really badly about it. I just feel weird sometimes with you knowing a lot of stuff that I don’t. I know this’ll sound stupid, but it makes me feel like you have the upper hand all the time.”
Evan thought for a moment. “I don’t know what to say to that,” he admitted.
Clara flipped through the pages of her notebook. “Just please don’t compare me to those other girls. In your brain. I don’t want you comparing me. And don’t take advantage of me. You know I don’t know what I’m doing. I probably suck at all of it.”
Evan burst out laughing.
Clara looked up sharply. “That’s funny?”
“I’m sorry, but you said ‘suck,’ and I’m immature,” he replied chuckling.
Clara blushed at her poor choice of words. And then she giggled. Evan was so grateful for it and demanded she lean over towards him. She did, and he planted a kiss on her lips.
“I will never compare you to anyone, okay?” he said. “And I will never take advantage of you. Do you trust me?”
Clara nodded. She smiled and he sighed relief.
“Now the question is, what are you doing this weekend?” he asked lightly.
Clara’s smile faded.
“Going to a funeral,” she whispered.
***
Clara, Evan, and Beatrice walked to the gravesite, Evan in between the sisters and holding their hands. Beatrice wept uncontrollably. Clara had only seen her cry that hard when their mother left, the night they made the joke about her going to the store.
Clara didn’t realize how affected she would be seeing all of the flowers in the church, the pictures of Ms. Debbie displayed on stage. There were so many people there, church members who were deeply grieved by her passing. They looked frightened and empty, and Clara knew why. Ms. Debbie took care of them, and now she was gone. Who would take care of them now? Who would take care of her now? The intensity of Clara’s grief multiplied. Not grief that elicits tears. No, the shocked, numb grief of low, humming fear.
She was scared. She had come to depend on Ms. Debbie and didn’t realize it. For all of Clara’s insistence to provide for and protect Beatrice on her own, she needed her neighbor, and a new fear crept into Clara’s heart. The fear of sole responsibility. There was no adult now, only her, and she was terrified the panic would return, the darkness that almost snared her, the despair that robbed her of her will to fight. It was only temporary, but she remembered going days without washing her hair. She couldn’t remember how she snapped out of it—she thought the voices told her to—but she dreaded the day those feelings of hopelessness returned. She knew deep in her heart they would because she got that from Mom, Beatrice had said. She instinctively placed her hand on her scalp, massaging it with her fingers, feeling around for any oil. She never wanted to feel that again.
The pastor said a few words, and then Ms. Debbie was lowered into the ground. Beatrice turned to Evan who wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, letting her spill her tears all over his suit jacket. Clara watched the scene as though it was a movie and she was part of the theatre audience, separated by the screen, unable to grasp the magnitude and finality of what was happening because she was not a character in it. She was on the outside watching, fingers in her hair searching for oil.
***
Florence approached Clara at her locker.
“I think it’s great you’re dating Evan,” she said abruptly. Florence was odd that way. Sometimes good with social skills and then sometimes apparently absent of them.
“Thank you,” Clara replied smiling.
“It gives the rest of us hope, you know?” she said.
Clara didn’t know what to say.
“I mean, not that we all have to date popular guys or anything, but just the fact that we’re seen, you know?” she went on. “I mean, I doubt I’m seen, but you know what I’m saying.”
Clara nodded.
“Speaking of,” Florence said looking past Clara down the hall.
“Hey, Clara,” Evan said. “Hey, Florence.”
Florence’s mouth dropped open. She stood for a second staring at him, unable to locate the words that were usually easy for her to find, graceful or not.
“How the hell do you know my name?” she asked.
Evan smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“Did Clara tell you?” Florence asked.
“No.”
“Did anyone tell you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you know everybody’s name here?”
“No.”
“Damn,” Florence said.
Clara grinned.
“I was telling Clara that I’m glad you two are dating,” Florence said after a moment. “I told her it gives all us nerds some hope.”
Clara sighed patiently wishing Florence would understand when not to talk.
“You’re not a nerd,” Evan said. He sounded completely genuine.
“Well, a dork then,” Florence corrected.
“Or that,” Evan replied.
Florence considered him. “You’re all right, Evan,” she assessed, and Clara laughed.
“Thank you, Florence.”
“See you in science, Clara,” she said then walked off.
***
Clara rummaged through her bottom drawer for a sweatshirt. She already had on two camisoles and a long-sleeved T-shirt, but she was freezing. She had gone into the living room three times to stoke the fire, but no matter the size and heat of the flames, she could not warm the chill deep within her bones. It ached, threatening to take up permanent residence, and she was frantic to get it out.
She tore through her drawer until she came across it. Not her sweatshirt but a photograph she had hidden in the bottom, out of sight and mind, until now.
It was a picture of her and her father. She was ten years old. The family had gone to Ocean City, Maryland, one of the rare vacations they took. It was the first time Clara had ever been to the ocean. She could recall the tiny motel room with two double beds. It was dank and dingy and smelled of seaweed. And she loved it. She never thought she could love the smell and stickiness of saltwater so much, the constant wind that whipped her hair in her face, irritating and delicious all at once.
She gazed at herself holding her father’s hand. He was smiling into the camera, but she remembered his impatience. He wanted the picture taken so that he could take Clara out into the water for the first time. He was bronze, and his blond hair almost looked white under the glare of the sun. He squinted and revealed a brilliant smile. He was handsome, and he knew it.
“Now, don’t be afraid,” he said to her. She clutched his hand. “I won’t let go.”
And he led her into the sea, little by little, laughing when she squealed as the waves broke and slapped her shins.
“I like it, Dad!” she screamed above the noise of the water.
“Do you want to go farther in?” her father asked.
“No!” she said. “Not yet. I want to stay right here.”
She tried to jump over the next wave, but she couldn’t go high enough. It slapped against her legs once more, and she laughed. She kicked at the water then jumped up and down when she saw a school of minnows darting towards her.
“Dad!” she said pointing at the fish. “Look!” She tugged on his arm and lifted her face to him. He was staring in the opposite direction, and she peered around his body to see. A woman was approaching. A young thing shimmering with sun-kissed skin. She wore a black bikini that hugged her curves, her breasts bouncing ever so slightly as she walked. She strolled by them from behind, and Clara watched as her father’s gaze followed her, whipping his head around to continue staring as she headed down the beach.
As though hearing Clara for the first time, he said in a distracted sort of way, “What is it, honey?”
“The fish” stuck in Clara’s throat. She couldn’t say it and thought it was unimportant next to the woman in black.
“Nothing,” is what she did say, and her father released her hand. She froze in the water, no longer liking the way the waves smacked her legs when she wasn’t holding on to him.
“I’m going for a short walk, Clara,” he said. “You stay here with your mom and sister.”