by S. Walden
Her legs shook with the first wave of her orgasm. It was a crystal blue ocean wave, pushing up onto shore then receding only to push up onto shore once more. Over and over. Her hands gripped his shoulders as she rode the soft waves, pushing then receding, and she wondered if she would be trapped in the cycle forever, her body a prisoner to the sweet aching ripples. They never stopped, and he never took his hand away.
“Keep coming for me, Clara,” Evan coaxed into her ear, and she did. Over and over, soft whimpers from far away, and she was tired. Her body sagged against the wall. And then it jerked to life as she was forced to ride the wave in. And ride it out again. Sag. Jerk. Violent jerks. Up and down, in and out of her inner thighs and twisting around her heart until she let out a pitiful cry and collapsed on the floor from exhaustion.
He thought he did it. He drew out the bad, the ugliness in her mind that threatened to steal away the Clara he knew. He looked at her sprawled on the hardwoods, breathing deeply, purged of the imposter. His Clara had returned. He lay down beside her feeling the rush of relief, the first tingles of hope. She curled against him lazily, provocatively, her hand snaking down the front of his body to grip him hard. He jumped and looked at her.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice sultry and strange, and she moved her hand to unbuckle his belt.
Evan pushed her away and stood up.
“Who are you?” he asked dazed.
“I’m Ellen Greenwich,” she replied, lying stretched taut on the floor. “Who the hell are you?”
***
“Is she okay?” Beatrice asked. She sat with Evan on the couch eating popcorn, but she noticed that he wasn’t eating. He was distracted.
“She’ll be fine, Bea,” Evan said. “She’s just really tired.”
Beatrice sighed. “She was fine yesterday,” she said quietly.
“And she’ll be fine tomorrow,” Evan assured her. “Everything’s okay.”
But he didn’t believe it. He did not know the woman in the back bedroom he tucked into bed. She reached for him hungrily, begged him to let her do it, and any boy would have obliged her. Any boy but him because his fear returned. The desire for her disappeared the minute she touched him. He didn’t know who she was, and he felt terror for the first time.
He kissed her forehead and turned out the light, and she promptly fell asleep. He went back to the living room where Beatrice was waiting for him, watching the movie but saying she would rewind it and start over. He said no, and went to pop them some popcorn.
“Who’s Ellen?” Evan asked after a time.
Beatrice looked at him, stunned. “My mother. Why?”
“Nothing,” Evan said. “Your sister just mentioned her is all.”
“Has she heard from her?” Beatrice asked hopefully.
“I don’t think so,” Evan replied. “And she would have told you, Bea.”
Beatrice nodded. “Evan?” she said softly.
“Hmmm?”
“This hasn’t been the best Friday night.”
Evan looked at the little blond girl sitting next to him. His heart ached for her, immediately yanking him out of his distracted state, and he grabbed the bowl of popcorn from her hands and tossed it on the coffee table.
“Your sister is sound asleep,” he said. “So let’s go down to the store and get some ice cream and candy and anything else you think will give us terrible stomachaches. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a splendid idea,” Beatrice replied. “Can we play games when we get back? I’ve decided I’m not really in the mood for a movie.”
“We can do whatever you want,” Evan replied.
When they returned from the store, Beatrice pulled out a stack of old board games from the bottom of her closet and told Evan to choose. He decided on Scrabble knowing she would annihilate him, thinking that was exactly what she needed to feel better. They played Scrabble until three in the morning, eating an assortment of chocolate candies, popcorn, and potato chips, and stifling laughter so they wouldn’t wake Clara.
“Any better?” Evan asked as they cleaned up the game pieces before going to sleep.
“What do you mean?” Beatrice replied searching the front closet for a blanket for Evan to sleep with on the couch.
“Your Friday night. Was it any better?”
“Loads better. Thank you, Evan,” Beatrice said smiling, handing him the blanket and disappearing to her bedroom.
***
Clara dreaded entering the classroom. She had not seen Evan since Friday night. She worked the entire weekend, and he was busy as well. Neither called the other. She could remember only bits and pieces of that evening, and those were enough to mortify her. She didn’t know how to apologize or if she even should.
She woke Saturday morning to find Evan already gone. Her head didn’t feel fuzzy anymore. She had a clear picture of her house and her future. She walked over to the kitchen table and opened the envelope—the second, and last, delinquency notice for the property tax nestled inside. She knew they would come and take her house away, and the fact that she stood staring at the notice devoid of any fear confused her. She should be terrified, scared out of her mind. But she wasn’t. Not at that moment. It was desperation without fear, if such a thing could exist. She knew what she had to do. She got a glimpse of it last night and realized that she could be that woman. It was deep within her, the animal, and she could conjure it again. She would have to if she wanted to survive.
She tensed on her way to her seat. Evan was already there waiting for her. He smiled shyly, and she returned her own.
“Clara—”
“Just listen,” she interrupted, and he closed his mouth. “I don’t know what was wrong with me Friday night. I guess I had a bit of a meltdown. And I’m sorry you had to witness that. I shouldn’t have been sexual with you. It was wrong, especially with Beatrice there. I mean, it would have been wrong even if she wasn’t there. I didn’t feel right, and I shouldn’t have done it.”
“I shouldn’t have done what I did, Clara,” Evan said. “I’m so sorry. You were just so sexy and I couldn’t resist. It’s a lousy excuse, but there it is.” He waited for her response.
“I think maybe I have a hard time in the winter months. I just get a little sad.”
She felt guilty for lying so blatantly. Being “a little sad” does not elicit the psychosis she experienced in the bathroom. It does not turn a shy virgin into a vixen. It does not scream about a nonexistent and inconsequential letter opener. She wondered if she could trick Evan into believing that she was simply sad because of the weather. He was smart, but then he might want to believe her. She never considered the idea of losing him because of her depression.
“I understand, Clara,” Evan said. He searched her face. He thought that she was back to normal, or maybe it was just his wish superimposed on her so that he was seeing the Clara he wanted to see.
She had nothing else to say, really. She was exhausted and asked if she could read her book for a few minutes before class. Evan nodded, watching her from the corner of his eye just in case.
***
She left school that afternoon. She drove to Franklin Avenue and parked in a vacant spot on the south side of the street. She turned off the ignition and got out of the car. She walked to the end of the street turning a corner until she spotted them. She knew they would be there in broad daylight, tucked within the deep recesses of the back alley, talking in low whispers to the few men who stood around them. The nighttime would drive them out of the alley, on to the main drag where dozens of vehicles would roam up and down the street until the occupants within spotted something they liked. Maybe they would think she was old enough. Maybe they wouldn’t care.
She watched the women for a time. They cocked their heads to the side coyly, and Clara mimicked them, practicing. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and smiled demurely. It drew a cackle from one of the ladies. She didn’t know they saw her.
She sprinted back to her car. She fe
lt ashamed, awash with guilt. Her heart was filled with dirt, and she wondered how to clean it. She didn’t think there was any way to clean it out, not if she wanted to keep her house. She closed herself in the car and took a deep breath. She would come back, she decided. Another night.
Chapter 18
It was a typical January night, cold and uninviting. Beatrice was spending the night with Angela. Clara sat in the living room staring at the empty fireplace. She would need to get ready soon. She wouldn’t use the warm water he paid for. She just couldn’t, not to prepare herself for what she planned to do tonight. She had to keep Evan separate from it, and then she could convince herself that it really didn’t happen. That it was a bad dream she would wake up from in the morning, feel odd about for a few hours, and then get over.
She walked to the thermostat and turned off the heat. She heard the familiar rumbling stop dead, and the dread sneaked around her heart like a boa constrictor, squeezing until she thought her heart would burst. She turned all of the lights out in the house, lighting candles and a fire instead. She waited for the first signs of boiling and then removed the kettle from the heat. She walked to the bathroom and poured the water into the tub, mixing it with the icy water from the faucet. She would do this several more times before filling the tub enough for a nice, warm bath.
Clara removed her clothing and slowly sank down into the water. She sat there for a time staring at the faucet, aware that she would eventually have to put her hair underneath of it in order to rinse out the shampoo. She shivered at the thought.
She washed her face first then grabbed the wash cloth and rubbed the soap over it several times. She started with her shoulders, working her way under her arms and down over her breasts. She balled the cloth in her fist and reached over her shoulder, one then the other, and squeezed out the soapy water to run down her back. She leaned back into the tub, resting her head on the end of it, and felt the water envelop her—a warm and softly undulating blanket.
She snaked the cloth down her belly, resting it lightly between her legs before moving it slowly up and down. She closed her eyes and imagined the woman she became that night—the woman whose sexuality overtook her senses and turned her into somebody unrecognizable. The woman who seduced her boyfriend to do explicit things to her while her baby sister was in the next room. She tried to conjure that woman again, slowly stroking herself deep within the warm water, feeling dull aches in her inner thighs and throughout her belly. Clara felt her returning, flushing pink at the realization that the woman never left but lay dormant. Waiting.
I really am a bad girl, she thought, and squeezed out the lone tear hovering at the corner of her eye.
She moved the wash cloth down her legs, scrubbing her feet and in between her toes. Then she tilted her head far back until she soaked her hair, sitting up and pouring a generous amount of shampoo in her hands. She scrubbed her hair creating a rich lather.
Once her hair was thoroughly washed, she turned on the faucet and unstopped the drain. She could feel the chill before she even put her hands and head under the faucet, and for a split moment she thought about the absurdity of not using hot water when it was easily available to her. Just turn the knob more to the left, she heard herself saying.
“No!” she replied, and her voice sounded strange in the stillness of the candlelit bathroom.
She turned her body around and stuck her head under the faucet before she lost her nerve. She squealed at the shock of the icy water, sending instant goose bumps rippling down her body. She pushed her hand through her hair roughly trying to rinse the soap faster, cursing softly for something to distract herself. It seemed like an eternity but the water eventually ran clear, and Clara sat up, shaking fiercely as she turned off the faucet.
She breathed deeply, grabbed a towel and wrapped herself up quickly. She stepped out of the tub and sank down on the toilet. She sat staring at the shower faucet, watching the slow, sporadic drip drip of the water. She stared for a long time. She thought back to the cold nights when she and Beatrice had no electricity or gas, taking warm baths then rinsing under the freezing water. It was torture then as it was now, and she laughed disdainfully thinking of the vow she made to herself that she would never wash that way again.
Clara grabbed a comb and walked into the living room. She stoked the fire then sat down beside it still wrapped in her towel and started the laborious process of running the comb through her wet, knotted hair.
She thought about what it would feel like, the first time. She hoped whomever she met would be nice and gentle. She thought that if she could only get it over with the first time, it would be easier the second. And the third. She didn’t want to do it forever. Just until she paid the property tax.
She continued combing her hair in silence, thinking. She sat as close to the fire as she could without feeling it burn her skin. She knew it was impossible to get her hair completely dry, but she wanted to get some of the heavy dampness out. She grew more anxious as the clock ticked slowly, telling her she’d have to leave soon if she hoped to find anyone. A customer, she thought, and grimaced.
She disappeared into her room and emerged with a small make-up bag and hand mirror. She settled herself on the living room floor again and used the firelight to apply a bit of blush, eyeliner, and mascara. She debated between lipstick and lip gloss and decided on the gloss. Gloss looked more innocent. She knew she didn’t have to work hard to look innocent, but she thought the gloss couldn’t hurt. No eye shadow. She could never put that on correctly anyway. Face powder-free because she didn’t need it. Not yet.
She got up from the living room floor and made her way to her bedroom. She closed the door softly and dropped her towel. She searched her scant dresser top for the bottle of lotion. She found it—almost empty—but she thought she could squeeze enough out for tonight. She applied the fragrant cream over her skin, paying special care to places she thought he’d like best.
She had nothing pretty to wear. She searched her closet a dozen times over and could not think of what to wear. She knew what the other women would be wearing, but she had no outfits like theirs. She decided on jeans—the only pair she owned that were trendy—and a tank top. She knew the top accentuated her breasts, and while she planned to wear a coat—the temperature outside would be near 20 degrees—she thought he might be surprised and delighted when she took the coat off for him revealing her bare arms and curves. She pulled on her white knock-off Pumas and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
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.
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.