Chapter 4 #2
“You gonna help out or just keep sittin’ there?” Claire muttered.
“I’m a mama, gimme a break.” Clem kissed Sully’s chubby cheeks. Her hair was parted in the center, like Claire’s, but it was even longer, reaching her hips, and dyed bright orange.
“And there’s a perfectly good playpen right there,” Claire said. “I can’t believe Daddy asked us to shuck fuckin’ corn at a time like this.”
Clem stood up with Sully. Her waif-like arms looked like they might snap beneath his weight, but they endured as she dropped him into the playpen. To Claire’s surprise, Clementine actually joined her at the makeshift corn-shucking table.
“If Sully’s first word ends up being ‘fuck,’ I will slap you silly.”
Claire laughed. Probably her first real laugh of the day.
It only reminded her that she had no reason to smile today.
“Clem, you don’t think Dillon could ever hurt someone, do you?”
“What? No way. It’s Dillon. He acts tough but he doesn’t actually do anything, just punches the walls when he dies in video games. You know that better than me.”
“I know, it’s just weird. They don’t tell us shit about what they really do. Dillon goes off on drives at weird hours, late at night, at least a few times a month. He told me before it’s with Marty and Daddy.”
Clem went quiet. A cicada buzzed in the distance, and the wind trickled through the cornfield, carrying the smell of summer. “Claire Bear, you never change, do you?”
An unexpected lump formed in her throat. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve always asked too many questions.
I’ve been tellin’ you since we were kids—there are some things we don’t get to know.
Marty doesn’t tell me what he gets up to with Daddy either, and I don’t ask questions.
I get to live here at the farm and raise Sully, and whenever I wanna get my hair dyed or my nails done, there’s cash for it. It’s not a bad life.”
Claire felt like an ass for thinking it, but Clementine’s life was her nightmare. She didn’t want to get pregnant and be tethered to Dillon forever. She didn’t want to move back into this damn house so her dad could watch her every move with her child. She didn’t want to be here forever.
That was all fine and dandy if Clementine was happy with her life, but Claire wanted more.
She wanted to see the city. Any city. She wanted to walk around the streets like a tourist, unfettered by expectation.
She figured it was a good thing she and Dillon never had sex anymore; her chances of getting knocked up were zero if she was celibate.
But the expectation would come at some point. It was only a matter of time before her dad would be unsatisfied with one grandson.
“You’re real torn up about Brad, huh?” Clem asked.
Claire shot her a depressed smile, appreciating Clem’s attempt to read her, even if it was a bit off.
Claire was sad about Brad, but she was also distracted.
“Yeah, guess I am. I doubt there’ll be a funeral.
Brad always said he didn’t want one. His grandma will deal with everything, but… I doubt she’ll reach out to me.”
“Maybe it’s for the best. Not like you were in each other’s lives anymore.”
Claire checked the house again. This time, her dad was standing up. A big smile crinkled his face as he slapped Dillon on the shoulder like they were having a grand old time.
“He treats them like they’re his family, not us,” she said, her words prickly.
“Daddy always did want sons.” Clem glanced at Sully, who wagged a rattle around in his pen. “Don’t take it personally, hon.”
“But it is personal.” Claire threw a corn cob into the designated barrel. “They expect me to lie to the cops and won’t even tell me why.”
“Shh!” Clem hushed, her face serious. “Seriously, Claire, stop. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
The sound of the sliding door opening, followed by her dad’s wheezy laughter, turned Claire to stone. Her dad had a hand on each of Marty and Dillon’s shoulders as he shepherded them into the backyard.
“All right, you boys kick back—the girls are preparin’ dinner. How you girls makin’ out over there?”
“Good, Daddy!” Clem called back. “We’re almost done!”
Claire spotted Marty across the yard. Marty, Clem’s husband, who’d taken the Dyer name, with his long brown hair in a low ponytail, his skin ruddy from years of working manual labor in the Missouri sun.
His buggy brown eyes caught hers, struck with guilt.
He always stared at her that way. An incomplete memory flickered at the corners of her mind; the cold floor in the basement. The cage.
Claire went numb. She gazed at the cornfield, the stalks golden and swaying under the brilliant evening light.
You know what will happen if you try to run.
When Claire and Dillon got back to the trailer, night had fallen and an angry storm cloud shrouded the sky.
The air swelled with humidity, rain threatening to pop like a balloon above them.
Dillon stomped into the kitchen while Claire went into the living room, half-cleaned from the party last night. Still so much shit to pick up.
A wave of exhaustion hit her. Claire crumpled onto the couch, where hours ago, Detective Winslow had sat. It was like he was still in her home, watching her, seeing her.
Dillon sauntered into the room and tilted his beer to his lips. Claire shielded her face with her hair. She could feel his presence looming over her like black smoke.
“You’re lucky I didn’t tell your dad you let that cop inside.”
Claire took in his apathetic face. His eyes were beady and dark. She used to think of them as warm, like hot chocolate, but not anymore. He was smug, like he was expecting her to thank him. “Why didn’t you?”
“If he’s disappointed in you, then he’s disappointed in me. I don’t want your dad thinking I’d let something that stupid happen.”
Claire didn’t reply. She hoped he’d go away, but he nudged her foot with his boot.