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