Clara unwrapped the box and opened the top. She gasped when she saw them: two small silver earrings in the shape of knots. She had wanted them for ages but could never afford them. She picked them up, looking at the earrings and then at Ms. Debbie. How could Ms. Debbie afford them?
“Those are sterling silver, miss, so I expect you to take very good care of them,” Ms. Debbie said. Her words came out as a gentle admonishment and Clara grinned.
“Ms. Debbie,” Clara said. “Thank you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Ms. Debbie said waving her hand carelessly, but she was clearly pleased with Clara’s reaction and pleased with herself for taking Beatrice’s advice in choosing those earrings.
Evan saved his present for last. He hoped she would like it. He couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t, but he was unsure about the note he wrote her to go along with it. He deliberated over the words for days. He thought he was pretty good with words, not in a poetic way, but in a conversational way. And so he wrote and rewrote, striking sentences he thought were sappy. He started with a long letter and whittled it down to three lines. Yes, three lines are much better, he thought. Much more him. He watched as she unwrapped the small package, her face flushed and shining from all of the attention heaped upon her throughout the evening.
Clara sat motionless holding the book. It was small, a first edition she noted immediately. She could tell by the size of it, the smell of it, the worn edges and navy binding before she even flipped to the copyright page. The words were sprinkled across the cover in muted filigree: The Wild Swans at Coole and underneath, W. B. Yeats.
She opened the book and saw a small piece of paper folded once over within. She opened it and read the words to herself, not words of the poet but of the boy who wanted to make her birthday special:
Dear Clara,
I don’t think I could ever write you anything “as cold and passionate as the dawn,” but I got you a book filled with the poems of a man who can. And has.
Happy birthday.
Yours,
Evan
Clara stared at the note, unable to speak, unable to lift her eyes to his because she did not trust herself.
“I didn’t want to write in the book,” Evan said softly. “Even though Kathleen Clearwater already had. I didn’t know if my words would diminish its value.”
“Never.” Clara looked at him then.
“Clara, what does the note say?” Beatrice asked.
“It’s private,” Clara said never taking her eyes off of Evan’s face.
“Oh,” Beatrice said disappointed. The word “private” made her ache to get her little fingers on the letter. “May I see the book, Clara?”
“No Beatrice,” Clara said gently. “Not yet,” and she watched Evan smile at her, her heart full and overflowing, her hands cradling the sacred text.
“Will you read a poem to us, Clara?” Evan asked.
“Oh, please do, Clara!” Beatrice said. “Poetry is soooo romantic!”
Ms. Debbie chuckled and took a sip of her tea.
Clara opened the book and read the first poem, the book’s title. When she finished, she heard Ms. Debbie’s voice from far away.
“My favorite,” Ms. Debbie said quietly. Clara had no idea.
They sat around Ms. Debbie’s living room well into the night, laughing and talking and telling jokes. At no time during those precious hours did Clara think anything other than her life was perfect. Simply perfect.
Chapter 11
“Clara, I’m tired of sandwiches,” Beatrice complained. She looked down at her plate and scowled.
“Me too,” Clara answered. “We’re going to get the electricity back on soon. I promise.”
Beatrice sighed deeply and took a bite of her sandwich. “And I hate bologna,” she muttered with her mouth full.
“Since when?” Clara asked. She took a bite of her own sandwich.
“Since always,” Beatrice said moodily. She slapped her sandwich on the plate.
“You’ve always liked bologna, Bea,” Clara responded. “Why do you hate it now? What’s going on?”
Beatrice looked at her sister and shrugged.
“Bea?” Clara pressed.
“Because Maggie said it’s poor people food!” Beatrice blurted then promptly closed her mouth.
Clara didn’t respond at first. She let her sister go through all of the emotions one feels when she’s been attacked for something she cannot change, something out of her control. But Clara could change it. And she thought she found her solution. It was dirty and wrong and would send her straight to hell, but it was a solution.
“I mentioned bologna sandwiches and Maggie screwed up her face and said it was poor people food,” Beatrice clarified.
“I see,” Clara said finally.
“It’s not your fault that we have to eat them,” Beatrice replied.
The sisters sat quietly staring at their plates. Neither took another bite. Clara considered the sum in her bank account. She really couldn’t afford to withdraw anything. But then she looked at Beatrice, elbows propped on the table and her hollow face cradled in tiny hands. Her arms were too skinny, Clara thought alarmingly. She looked defeated, and suddenly Clara grew spontaneous.
“Let’s go,” she ordered. She sprang from the table and grabbed her purse. She checked her wallet to be sure she had her ATM card.
“Where are we going?” Beatrice asked.
“Out to dinner,” Clara said. She stood at the front door with car keys in hand. “Are you coming?”
Beatrice’s face lit up. “Yes!” she squealed and shoved past her sister through the front door. Clara smiled. She hadn’t smiled since her birthday a few days ago. It felt good to smile, knowing she was making her sister very happy and not caring about the cost.
She followed Beatrice to the car.
“Take your time, Bea,” Clara warned. “Or you’ll make yourself sick.”
“Can I get more fries?” Beatrice asked between bites.