Honeysuckle Love (31 page)

She turned on to Franklin Avenue and found a parking spot near the north end. She’d have to walk a bit. She felt her hair. It was only halfway dry. She thought that it looked prettier when it air dried. Like that beach waves hairstyle the girls at school wore. Her waves were more prominent when she went without blow-drying her hair. But she wished she could have blow-dried it tonight. She was cold, her teeth chattering before she even stepped out of the car.

She felt tiny beads of sweat forming under her arms, and then realized in horror that she had forgotten to shave! It was only a bit of stubble under her arms, but she hadn’t shaved her legs in four days. She thought for a split second that she should just go home. But she wasn’t sure when she would have another free night like this and knew she couldn’t waste it.

It doesn’t matter
, Clara told herself, even though in that instant she wanted to cry.

She took deep breaths feeling the quickening of her heart, afraid that it would turn into pounding that people would see through her coat. She didn’t want to appear as an amateur. They wouldn’t want her then. But she didn’t want to look used up either. She was confused trying to figure out how best to come across. What would they like? Aggressiveness? She was only able to be that way when she was crazy. She didn’t feel crazy now, just afraid. But she knew she couldn’t hang back in the shadows either. She would never meet anyone like that. The other women, the ones with the experience, they would take everybody, leaving her alone on the street rejected and lost.

“Get a grip,” she said out loud angrily, and exited her car.

She walked down the street, hands shoved as deeply as they would go in her coat pockets. Her head and face were freezing; she thought about her damp hair and worried about getting sick. She couldn’t afford to get sick. She needed to work. She thought about putting the hood over her head, but she was afraid it would make her look less attractive. She didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing, so she continued to walk slowly down the street, looking in shop windows. Most had been boarded up. She passed by the prostitutes leaning into car windows, talking sweetly to the shadowed faces within. Just as she had expected, the street buzzed with vehicles slowly searching up and down for an after-dinner dessert.

“You lost, baby?” she heard a woman say to her from behind.

“No,” Clara answered, then hurried along down the street.

She walked three more blocks before turning around. She thought she should just keep walking up and down the street until someone noticed her. She was afraid, though, that no one would and that she would go home empty-handed.

A car passed by her for the second time. She recognized its shiny chrome features. It pulled up near the curb, and the person inside rolled down the window.

“Do you need a ride home?” a deep voice asked from within the vehicle. “You don’t look like you belong here.”

“Why do you think that?” Clara asked. Her hands shook inside her coat.

“Because those women are prostitutes. And you’re clearly not a prostitute,” the man said. He hung his head out of the window and smiled.

He wasn’t unattractive. He had dark hair and dark eyes and was dressed in an expensive dark suit. There was darkness all around him, and Clara thought that made sense. He matched the seediness of his surroundings.

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.