Rachel Hawkins - Grim

The bell was broken, so Clara knocked. When the door opened, Mrs. Swanson peered up at Clara. The gray frizz of her hair floated around her face, and she raised a crooked finger to beckon Clara into the house.

“Come into the kitchen, dearie. I have a project for you today.”

Clara turned the corner and stopped. Standing next to the counter was Mrs. Swanson’s grandson. He was older than Clara—Mrs. Swanson had a series of pictures of him taped to the refrigerator door, and Clara had looked through them with the old woman more times than she could count. He was twenty-four. He was out of work. Mrs. Swanson was sure that, underneath it all, he really was “a good boy.” The sigh that she inevitably used to punctuate that statement made Clara wonder how much she believed it.

“Nick, this is Clara. She lives across the street. Clara, Nick’s fixing that leak in my faucet. Instead of tidying up, I thought maybe you could help him? He was just telling me that he needs someone to hold the flashlight for him. I thought, since your knees are so much younger than mine, maybe you could do it.”

Clara barely heard the words. Nick was eyeing her in a way she didn’t like, his thumb running along the side of the wrench he was holding. Stroking it. Clara crossed her arms and glanced down at Mrs. Swanson. The old woman’s eyes were crinkled with happiness. “I can’t tell you how much that leak has had me worried. I’ll be so grateful to have it fixed.”

In spite of the fact that Nick made her uncomfortable, Clara couldn’t turn down such a simple request from a helpless old woman.

It will be fine, she told herself. She thought of the bottle of Jameson and the empty cupboards at home. It has to be fine.

Mrs. Swanson doddered out of the kitchen, muttering something about her knitting bag, and left Nick and Clara standing in front of the dripping sink.

“Flashlight’s just there,” Nick said, nodding at the counter. The rasp of his voice startled Clara out of her frozen state and she reached for the flashlight.

“Right. Got it. Where, ah...”

Nick crouched down in front of the open cupboard doors. His eyes traveled up the length of her legs, slowly. When his gaze finally met hers, Clara’s stomach had started to churn. “Just shine it at that,” he said, pointing at the glint of silver pipe visible beyond the doors.

Clara did as she was told, holding the beam steady while Nick fitted the wrench to the plumbing.

“My grandma says you come over almost every day,” he said, grunting as he forced something to turn. “Says she pays you. Says you need the money.”

Embarrassment flashed through Clara, hot and sticky.

“Yes,” Clara said. “That’s true.”

Nick looked up from what he was doing. “Maybe I should hang out over here more often, then,” he said. He reached out his hand. His fingernails had been bitten ragged and they caught at Clara’s skin as he trailed his fingers up the inside of her leg. She’d frozen in place—unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to believe that this was happening. When the tips of Nick’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of her shorts and grazed the elastic edge of her panties, the flashlight fell from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

“Please, don’t,” she choked out.

At the same moment, Mrs. Swanson came around the corner, exclaiming, “What is going on in here?” Her rheumy eyes went straight to Nick’s hand, which slithered back down Clara’s leg in a way that made her struggle not to vomit. Clara jerked back and hurried toward the door. Mrs. Swanson reached out a hand and stopped her. Tears blurred Clara’s vision, but she couldn’t bring herself to pull out of the old woman’s grip.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Mrs. Swanson pleaded, throwing a glance over Clara’s shoulder at Nick. “Please. For my sake. It will never happen again. I promise. He promises.”

Clara hesitated. Her skin still crawled where Nick had touched her, and the tears were running freely down her cheeks.

“Please,” the old woman begged again.

“Okay,” Clara whispered. “I won’t say anything. But I really need to go now.”

Mrs. Swanson placed a gnarled finger against Clara’s trembling lips. “Bless you, child. You are a good girl, and should be rewarded.”

A sick heat flashed through Clara’s middle and the room began to spin. She had the bizarre thought that Mrs. Swanson’s finger was the only thing holding her up. When Mrs. Swanson spoke again, her voice had taken on a musical quality.

“From this moment on, every time you speak, flowers and jewels will drop from your lips. Enough wealth that you will never want again. Take this gift, with my gratitude. Go home and rest.”

Insane. The old woman was insane.

Mrs. Swanson dropped her finger from Clara’s mouth and, feeling sure she was about to be sick, Clara sprinted for the door. The sunshine outdoors did nothing to lessen the heaviness in her stomach, and Clara hurried across the street. It wasn’t until she threw open the door to her own house that she realized how much trouble she was really going to be in—she’d left without Mrs. Swanson paying her, and there was no way that she was going back over there right now. Too bad the old woman’s nonsense blessing couldn’t have been true.

“Clara?” Her mother sat up, licking her chapped lips and fumbling for her glass.

“It’s me,” Clara said. The sound of something hitting the peeling linoleum caught her attention, and she looked down. At her feet lay a sapphire and a ruby, each as large as the tip of her thumb.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. The words half gagged her as a shower of peonies sprang from her mouth, landing near the gems.

“What in the Sam Hill?” her mother said, peering at the bounty near Clara’s feet.

“Mrs. Swanson made me promise not to say—something bad happened with her grandson.” The patter-swish of gems and flowers hitting the ground accompanied Clara’s words, and she winced as a sharp pain shot through her lip. She reached up to touch her mouth, and her hand came away bloody—the fault, no doubt, of the many-thorned rose that lay on top of the pile at her feet.

“I don’t get it,” her mother said. “This is some sort of jacked-up DT or somethin’. I need to get to the hospital. Or a drink. Yeah. I need a drink. I hate seein’ stuff that ain’t real.”

Clara couldn’t tear her gaze away from the glittering, sweet-scented pile in front of her. Her lip throbbed, and she was half-afraid to speak again. “You’re not seeing things,” she whispered, watching as a fine hail of topaz clattered from her mouth.

“What. The actual. Fuck.” Dina stood in the doorway to the living room, staring at the treasure that surrounded Clara.

Clara looked at her sister. “Mrs. Swanson. She—she did this, somehow.” A pearl rolled back into her mouth, and she nearly choked on it. Spitting the jewel into her hand, she looked at Dina, who, along with her mother, was staring slack-jawed at Clara.

“But why?” Dina asked.

“Her grandson, Nick, something...happened....” Clara trailed off. She’d agreed not to tell, and truth be told, she was a little afraid of what would happen if she did, considering that Mrs. Swanson was clearly no regular elderly neighbor.

Dina stepped forward, her hands on her hips. “What do you mean, something happened? ” Anger edged into her voice. “Did he hurt you somehow?”

Clara didn’t say anything—couldn’t say anything—but the look in her eyes was enough for Dina. Dina’s face turned cold and hard. It was the same look that had preceded almost all of the trouble she had ever gotten in.

“Absolutely not,” Dina said. “He is not getting away with that shit.”