Honeysuckle Love

by S. Walden

“It’s okay,” Clara said. “We can have Christmas, Bea. A small one, but still Christmas.”

  “Are you sure?” Beatrice asked. She felt the mixture of hopefulness and uncertainty.

  “I’m positive,” Clara replied. “So start thinking about what you want. Make a list and give it to me. And soon. Did you know that Christmas is right around the corner?”

  “I did!” Beatrice exclaimed, because she had been counting the days.

  ***

  Clara’s new job afforded the girls a nice, simple holiday. Once school let out for winter break, Clara doubled her workload, taking as many shifts at the clothing store and the grocery store as she could. She told fellow employees to let her know if they needed time to shop or to spend with relatives and she would pick up their hours. She saw her bank account climb, careful to allot a certain amount for Christmas dinner and gifts and the rest for bills. Every now and then the property tax loomed before her, but she tried hard to ignore it. She even managed to put the first delinquency notice out of her mind. She fretted about it for several days after receiving it, but no one came knocking. They were still safe.

  She did feel guilty for leaving Beatrice alone a lot, but Beatrice kept herself busy visiting Angela and reading books. Clara told Beatrice she couldn’t spend so much time with Angela or her mother would get suspicious. It was always Clara who picked her up and dropped her off. Sometimes Evan came over to hang out with Beatrice when he wasn’t working. He worked more often during the winter break as well though, Clara learned, so they saw little of each other once school let out.

  Clara came home one evening to find the attic ladder pulled down.

  “You just couldn’t wait, could you?” she called up to Beatrice.

  “Clara, it’s Christmas! What do you expect?” Beatrice yelled down. She walked to the ladder carrying a large cardboard box.

  “I don’t think so,” Clara said. “You’re not coming down that ladder carrying that box.”

  “Then help me!” Beatrice replied. She huffed and started sliding boxes labeled “Christmas decorations” and “Christmas ornaments” to the edge of the attic opening beside the stairs. She plopped down and waited for Clara to climb up and retrieve them, painstakingly slow and one at a time.

  Once all of the boxes were down, Beatrice handed Clara the artificial tree stand and pole and then dropped down all of the branches for the tree.

  “Wasn’t this organized last year?” Clara asked looking at the scattered branches.

  “Nope,” Beatrice replied, and climbed down the ladder.

  Clara took a deep breath. “This’ll be fun,” she mumbled.

  “It will, Clara!” Beatrice said ignoring her sister’s sarcasm and clapping her hands. “Let’s play the Christmas CDs and make hot chocolate while we decorate!”

  Clara grinned at her sister’s enthusiasm.

  “We don’t have any hot chocolate, Bea,” Clara said and knew instantly what Beatrice’s response would be.

  She didn’t wait for it but grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. Beatrice was already there, and together the girls went to the store for a sweet treat.

  Clara and Beatrice stood in the tea, coffee, and hot chocolate aisle staring at their options. Beatrice licked her lips.

  “I thought hot chocolate was just hot chocolate,” Clara said scanning the shelf. There was hot chocolate with marshmallows, peppermint flavored hot chocolate, sugar-free hot chocolate which Beatrice vetoed instantly, raspberry hot chocolate, dark chocolate hot chocolate, hot chocolate with chocolate chips in it.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake!” Clara said.

  “Don’t get mad at me about it,” Beatrice replied.

  “Just pick one,” Clara said and turned to look down the aisle at the register.

  Amy was walking towards her and she stiffened. She never saw Amy at this grocery store. She figured Amy lived on Evan’s side of town, but then she remembered Oak Tower Trail just a few streets over, and her heart sank. She instantly feared Amy lived there and that she spotted Clara at night swiping newspapers from the residents’ recycling bins. No one had made fun of her at school about it, but she panicked that Amy knew and was waiting for the perfect moment to humiliate her.

  She watched as Amy drew nearer to her, terrified that Amy would try to engage her in conversation, Clara stuttering and stammering her every reply. Amy was beautiful. There was no denying it. She tossed her long black hair over her shoulder as she walked, boring her light blue eyes into Clara’s face. Clara could feel them burning holes into her, instinctively touching her cheek to see how bad the damage was.

  Amy stood taller than Clara and wore her clothes with confidence, wrapped in a tailored dark gray pea coat that reached her hips and sporting skinny jeans and designer boots. Clara thought she was glamorous, and in that moment she felt her whole being was of great insignificance—she was just a girl with a coat that was too small for her wearing jeans from three years ago.

  Clara shrunk back against the boxes of hot chocolate as Amy passed by. She glanced at Clara’s face then up and down her body before snorting disdainfully and walking on. Clara looked down at her boots, the rubber ones fitted with wool lining that were unflattering and ugly but kept her feet dry in the snow.

  “Clara? Who was that girl?” Beatrice asked. “She looks familiar.”

  “She’s no one, Bea,” Clara said and took the box of hot chocolate from her sister’s hand. “Let’s go.”

  “Okay,” Beatrice said. “But she looks familiar.”

  Chapter 16

  Evan came over the next day to help the girls finish decorating. Beatrice was full of words that day—more than usual, Clara thought—and it exhausted her listening to her sister ramble on. She couldn’t shake her irritability and tried hard to hide it. She wished, though, that Evan hadn’t come over, and then she could wear her bad mood openly and not care. She could stomp to her room and slam her door, and Beatrice would be wise enough to leave her alone. She could cry her frustrations into her pillow, scream into her pillow if she liked, and then hopefully feel better. Instead, she walked around with pent-up rage, afraid that it would explode suddenly and frighten away the only boy she was sure would ever pay her any attention.

  “The nutcrackers go on the mantel,” Beatrice said directing Evan who had just pulled two out of a box.

  “So who started collecting these?” Evan asked placing them exactly where Beatrice pointed.

  “Mom did,” Beatrice replied. “Since Clara’s name is the same as the girl’s in The Nutcracker. She took us one year to see the ballet.”

  “Did you like it?” Evan asked.

  “Oh yes. It was enchanting,” Beatrice replied, and Clara rolled her eyes. Beatrice saw. “It was enchanting, Clara,” she insisted.

  “Mmm, very,” Clara said flippantly. She pulled the tree topper out of another box and tossed it on the couch.

  “Whatever,” Beatrice said. “You wanted to be a ballerina for years after seeing that ballet.”

  “No I didn’t,” Clara argued. “That was you.”

  “Was not,” Beatrice countered. “I’ve never wanted to be a ballerina. I want to be an actress. You wanted to be Clara in The Nutcracker, and that’s why Mom started collecting nutcrackers for you.”

  “Just stop talking about it, Beatrice,” Clara snapped. The mention of her mother was too much.

  “Well, that’s the truth,” Beatrice said in that sulky way that children do when they want the last word without provoking further argument.

  Clara was in the middle of closing up the box when she excused herself and stormed out of the living room. She heard Beatrice say, “She’s just mad that she’s not a ballerina.”

  Clara sat on her bed holding her pillow tight to her chest. She heard a soft knock on the door but did not acknowledge it.

  “Clara, you wanna tell me what’s wrong?” Evan asked poking his head into her bedroom.

  “Nothing,” she replied curtly.

  Evan walked
in and closed the door gently.

  “Well, we’re waiting out in the living room for you. Beatrice didn’t want to put the star on top of the tree without you,” Evan said. He walked over and sat next to Clara on the bed.

  “I don’t care about the stupid star,” Clara replied.

  Evan took Clara’s hand. “Is this about your mother?”

  “What about her?” Clara asked, ripping her hand out of Evan’s.

  He searched for the words. He knew he would do a lousy job. He wasn’t good with these things, but he knew he needed to try. Clara needed to talk about it, and he wanted to help her.

  “Clara, I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now with your mother gone,” Evan began. “Is that why you’re upset?”

  “Actually, no it’s not,” Clara said. It was a partial lie. She was upset about her mother, but it really had to do with Amy.

  Evan tried for patience. “Clara, will you please tell me what’s wrong?”

  “Why are you dating me?” she asked suddenly.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Why are you dating me?” Clara repeated. “I’m ugly, and my clothes are ugly, and my house is ugly.” She turned her face away as she felt the familiar stinging in her eyes. She was so tired of crying.

  Evan took her hand and she didn’t resist.

  “Clara, I don’t know where this is coming from—”

  “I saw your ex-girlfriend yesterday,” Clara interrupted. “At the grocery store. I’ve never really noticed her before. Not really. But yesterday I did. And she’s beautiful—so beautiful—and popular, and I don’t understand why you broke up with her.”

  “Because I don’t love her.” It was a simple statement that Clara should have been able to understand, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

  “Well, I’ll never look like her and have pretty clothes like her,” she snapped.

  “Good,” Evan said. “I don’t want you to look like her, and I don’t want you to wear the things she wears.”

  Clara was relentless. “I’m not good enough for you!” she cried. “Do you see the way people at school look at us? They wonder all the time why you’re with me. They think I’m a loser and that you just feel sorry for me and—”

  He shut her up with a kiss. He pulled her close, holding her hostage in his arms as he kissed her hard. She squirmed to get away, but he wouldn’t let her. The longer she fought him, the longer his lips stayed glued to hers. He was in no mood to hear her talk anymore and wanted her to know it.

  She stopped fighting and relaxed. He softened his kiss then, and drew slowly away from her face.

  “Clara, I’m with you because I want to be. And I don’t give a shit about those other people. And I can’t take away this insecurity you have with the way you look and dress, but I’ll tell you over and over that I think you’re beautiful. Amy? She’s not beautiful. You are. So stop worrying about her. I don’t care about her, and neither should you.”

  He looked at her in a new way. She’d never seen that look before. It dared her to argue, but it wasn’t threatening. She wasn’t afraid of it, but she felt she needed to respect that look, to respect the things he said to her, and to trust them.

  She nodded. And then she flung her arms around his neck and squeezed him.

  Evan chuckled. “So can we go put this star on the tree already?” he said softly into her ear while he stroked her back.

  She nodded into his neck.

  ***

  “I have no idea what I’m doing,” Clara said. She stood at the kitchen sink wrapped in her mother’s apron looking down at the thawed turkey. Beatrice stood beside her and glanced at the bird as well.

  “Yes you do, Clara,” Beatrice replied. “You cooked that turkey with Ms. Debbie for Thanksgiving. You can do this. Just remember the steps.”

  Clara breathed deeply. She wasn’t sure why she placed so much pressure on herself over this meal. She wanted it to be perfect, she guessed, more for Beatrice than herself. She knew she would never be able to do it like her mother, but she was going to try her damndest. Christmas Day would consist of a turkey, presents, and a holiday movie marathon. Those things always existed in the past—traditions that made the girls feel safe. Clara never felt so desperate to make herself and Beatrice feel safe.

  “Okay. I remember Ms. Debbie pulling things out of the ends of the turkey that were wrapped in paper,” Clara said. She reached into the neck of the bird and pulled something out. As she described, it was wrapped in paper.

  “What is it?” Beatrice asked intrigued. She leaned over to get a better look.

  “I don’t know. Maybe an organ or something?” Clara offered. She set it on the counter in front of Beatrice noting her look of disgust.

  Clara checked the other end and pulled more packages out. She lined them on the counter having no idea what to do with them.

  “Okay,” she said taking a deep breath. “I think I should rinse it.”

  “Agreed,” Beatrice replied. “I think I see blood and stuff in the hole down there.” She pointed and grimaced. “Clara, this is revolting.”

  Clara laughed. “You know, anyone else your age would have said ‘gross’.”

  “Because they don’t have my vocabulary,” Beatrice replied arrogantly.

  “So true,” Clara said, turning the turkey over to rinse out the neck. She watched the blood and water mix to a soft pink then snake down the drain. “Remind me to sanitize this sink when we’re through.”

  Beatrice nodded then grabbed the roasting pan and oven bag. Clara remembered Ms. Debbie go on and on at Thanksgiving about the importance of an oven bag.

  “You have to use it, Clara,” Ms. Debbie had said. “Or else your turkey will dry out.”

  “How did people roast turkeys before oven bags?” Clara asked.

  “They had to take them out constantly and juice them,” Ms. Debbie replied. “Too much damn work,” and Clara watched as she cinched the bag with a tie and made a few small slits in the plastic. “So it doesn’t explode,” she explained when Clara asked.

  Clara looked at the turkey she shoved in the bag. All she could picture was a huge explosion in her house, a Christmas up in flames, and she put more slits in the bag than she probably needed to.

  “I’m so excited, Clara!” Beatrice squealed when the entire ordeal was done. The bird was in the oven, sitting on celery sticks tucked in a bag, rubbed down with oil and garlic, stuffed with the homemade stuffing that Clara made the previous night. It took her three hours, following the recipe carefully—her mother’s recipe with the oysters.

  Clara looked around the kitchen. It was a mess. She let out a contented sigh.

  “Wanna open a gift before we clean all this up?” she asked Beatrice.

  “You bet!” Beatrice said scurrying to the living room.

  “Okay, but just one,” Clara said, following behind her sister.

  ***

  “I think I may just keep you around,” Evan said, taking another bite of his turkey. He closed his eyes in ecstasy. “This. Is. Amazing.”

  Clara grinned her appreciation. “Well, Beatrice helped,” she said, though really all Beatrice did was stand around and watch.

  “Did you know you could cook like this?” he asked, swirling his fork around his mashed potatoes, scooping up a sizeable lump.

  “No,” Clara admitted. She watched him eat thinking she liked cooking for him. It wasn’t just him. She liked cooking for Beatrice, too, but she loved hearing him say he liked it, respond to it by closing his eyes, go on and on about it like it was the best food he’d ever tasted. She wondered if that was inherently female, to want to cook something for someone she loved and have him love it as much as she loved him.

  Clara froze, afraid Evan could hear her thoughts. Did she mean it? Did she love him? She loved the way he responded to her food. But did she love him? Did he love her?

  “Clara, I love—”

  Oh my God, not with Beatrice sitting here! Clara screamed inside.
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  “—this stuffing. This is the best stuffing I’ve ever tasted,” Evan said. “Oysters in stuffing.” He turned to Beatrice, who was giggling. “Who’d of thunk it?”

  Beatrice laughed and threw her hands up in the air.

  “I know!” she squealed. “It’s divine. Positively divine!” And she looked over at her older sister. “Clara, are you okay?”

  All of the color in Clara’s face had drained, leaving her whiter than a ghost sitting at the table. She expelled the air she had been holding and managed a smile.

  “Just fine,” she said, feeling the heat crawl up her neck. In a moment, she would be blushing, and she wondered why her face couldn’t be a normal fucking color when Evan was around.

  Evan grinned at her as though he knew why she had gone white. It nettled her, and she looked down at her plate.

  “Oysters in stuffing is a Baltimore thing,” she said, trying to sound knowledgeable about something she didn’t know.

  “No it’s not,” Evan replied. “My mom doesn’t put oysters in our stuffing.”

  “Well, that’s your mom,” Clara said airily. And then she felt the pinch in her heart at the sound of the word “mom.” Maybe oysters in stuffing wasn’t a Baltimore thing. Maybe it was something her mom did. It was her mom.

  “Either way, it’s amazing, and now I’m stuffed,” Evan said. “No pun intended.”

  “And you had to ruin it!” Beatrice said. She giggled.

  “Huh?” Evan asked.

  “You don’t have to point out your pun,” Beatrice explained. “It’s totally lame, and we’re smart enough to get it. You might as well have said, ‘Look look! I made a joke’,” she said in a deep voice trying to sound like a boy.

  Evan burst out laughing. “How old are you?”

  “I’m still ten. How old are you?” Beatrice asked.

  “Still eighteen, and evidently not as smart as you,” Evan replied.

  “Well, we’ve compared notes,” Beatrice said thoughtfully. “And you’re right.”

  Now Clara burst out laughing. She had no idea when Beatrice learned about puns. She had no idea when her baby sister became smarter than her. But she knew in that moment she’d have it no other way. She’d have Christmas dinner no other way. Her laughter erased the pinch in her heart, the thoughts of her mother, and she decided to commandeer the recipe, take it from the woman who was fast becoming only a memory, and make the oysters her own.