Hush

The driveway is long and winding; knobby, like the spine of a crooked old man. Clara can’t see the house from the road. She double checks the address on the crinkled piece of paper the man at the cafe had slid toward her across the counter. What was his name again? Art. No, it was Arthur. She remembers him correcting the barista with a small huff of annoyance.

The paper is really the back of a receipt. She flips it over. Three large mocha lattes with almond milk. Add—whipped cream. He didn’t seem like the mocha latte, non-dairy, fru-fru drink type. And there hadn’t been anyone with him, nor had he been drinking a coffee when she spoke to him, now that she thinks of it. But that’s his name on the receipt—or his non-name. “Art.”

He had looked at her through the hive-like buzz, the swarm of the morning coffee rush, with those I-understand-what-you’re-going-through-eyes. He had noticed the hint of green in her earrings. He had put his hand on her knee, cleared his throat while she was speaking.

He had convinced her to join his non-book-club club tonight, despite never having met before. “It’ll be good for you to talk with others in the same boat. Trust me,” he had said, adding, “I’d really love to see you again.”

Next, the address. Scribbled on that receipt before she’d even stuck the unwrapped straw into her own iced coffee. “You can’t miss it,” he said. “Just park along the road and walk up to the house. You’ll see the lights.”

Clara doesn’t see any lights. She tugs the gear shift on her old Toyota Camry into park, pulls down the visor to check herself in the mirror one last time. Is she ready for this? A date? And a group one, at that? It’s been two years, but she still sees those spurts of blood when she closes her eyes—its image like a pulverized pomegranate, juices spraying, droplets trailing across a snow white carpet…

Rather than close her eyes and see the image again, she digs through her purse in search of a tube of lipstick—“Bombshell Red.” It’s old; she hasn’t used it in ages. Her mother always used to lecture her about the importance of red lipstick.

“Men can’t resist red, honey,” she said, winking— although it looked more like one of her eyes twitching, the crazed spasm of a non-sober woman— as she smeared a brilliant red-orange around her lips, filling in the pencil lines to make her lips look twice their regular size.

“Clown-chic,” Clara used to call it.

“No pressure,” Arthur had said. “We’re just going to meet up at my place, have dinner, talk. I’d really love to see you, though.” He said the last part like a whisper, a weighted afterthought, leaning in closer, spilling a whiff of his cologne toward her. There was something a little different about his cologne, wasn’t there? Or maybe it had really been that long since she’d been that close to a man.

Outside her car door, Clara readjusts her pantyhose, pulling the stretchy material away from her crotch. It never sits quite right. There’s a run in the back, but her skirt just about covers it. She peels her head back to check again, hoping no one will notice.

There isn’t much light, after all.

In fact, it looks like no one is home. After climbing the winding driveway, her stubby heels scrape along the stone front steps. She rings the bell, listens to its chime— one of those long, sing-songy ones that only rich people have. More than fifteen seconds pass before she hears any movement. The door unlatches with a whip that cracks in the quiet of the night.

The breeze pushes at her skirt and it ruffles around her legs. She holds it down in the back, hoping to cover that tear—when Art—no, Arthur’s—voice meets her ears.

“You came,” he says. His arms widen in tandem with his smile and he pulls her in for an embrace.

“I did,” Clara says, shyness crawling over her skin now. She feels the splotches of heat expanding on her face and looks down.

“Here,” he says, pulling a glass of Merlot out from behind his back like a magician. “For you, m’lady.” He tips an imaginary hat and hands her the glass.

“Oh, I don’t really…” she starts, but he puts his finger to her lips, leans in closer. She smells that scent again.

“It is tradition here, Clara,” he says, his voice softer, yet harsher, like the crunch of rotten leaves near the end of autumn. His hand is near her lips again, this time pushing the wine glass to them.

The liquid seeps through to her tongue, warm and bitter. She coughs it down, spluttering. “Okay,” she says. She wonders if he’s always this abrasive on a first date. Is it a date?

“Everyone else is just in the other room,” he says, his hand now on her elbow. “I want them to meet you.” His eyes are piercing her again, seeing her. “They’ll love you.”

She feels her cheeks warming, building into a shy smile. She brings the glass to her own mouth this time, takes a long swig. “And I can’t wait to meet them,” she says.

He leads her down a dimly lit, carpeted corridor. There’s a small wooden hutch against one wall, with a set of china displayed on top of it. On the other side, there are a few large picture frames with golden moulding, the corners carved into fancy spirals.

Clara double-takes as they glide past, noticing the bareness of those frames— the faded brown backing the only thing on display. Her mouth parts with the beginning of a question, but Arthur guides her to a room off of the corridor, where she hears voices.

Velvet couches and loveseats adorn this room, with a large fire place in the middle, two swords displayed above it, intersecting each other to make the shape of an X. A chandelier droops from the ceiling, its crystals glistening in the soft light. An old record player puffs out soft jazz in the corner. Clara feels like she’s on the periphery of a Gatsby party, waiting for the flappers to arrive.

A man and a woman are standing by the fireplace, another couple sit on the couch. She can see another woman across the hall, adding the last pieces of cutlery to a round table. They are all clutching similar glasses of deep red wine, their voices a low murmur. Clara prepares herself for introductions, clears her throat… but the man who was by the fireplace is now in front of her, his arms wrapping around her waist.

“Clara,” he says, kissing her cheek. “We’re so glad you came.”

“We’ve heard so much about you,” the woman on the couch says.

Clara smiles.

“Let’s eat, shall we?” Arthur says, gesturing to the table, his arms like a current, a soft wave pushing them to shore.

They’re seated now, somehow. Clara picks at the handle of her soup spoon with one hand, clutches the side of the table in another. She watched them all introduce themselves, their lips forming into the words, but the sounds are lost on her now. She’s already forgotten their names. Her head is heavy.

People are standing up, sitting down, moving silverware. Talking. Food appears on platters and in bowls, passed around family-style. The smells are overwhelming. Butter and garlic and fish and… something sweet…

Dizziness makes her eyes hurt, her head sway. She fixes her gaze on the glass of wine in front of her—is it fuller than before? Hadn’t she drank more of it?—and the top shakes like a lake hit by a gust of wind.

The color is so red… her eyes threaten to flutter closed, but she forces them back open. No blood, just wine.

“Are you all right, Clara?”

Arthur’s hand rests on her knee.

“Before we begin,” he says, and a silence falls over the room like a soft blanket. “A toast.” He smiles. “To our new member, Clara.”

“To Clara,” the rest of the group repeats, holding their wine toward the ceiling. They tilt their heads back in unison and drink, the liquid gliding down their throats. Clara feels heat on her cheeks at the sound of her name on their lips.

The man from the fireplace nudges her, reaches for her hand. She looks around the table— everyone’s heads are bowed now, their hands clasped, as if ready to say grace. Arthur takes her other hand, grips it in his. She notices the roughness of his skin, the dampness of his palm.

“We are gathered here today,” he begins, “to pledge our unity…”

Clara watches Arthur’s jaw moving up and down, bobbing like a Nutcracker doll during Christmastime. His voice is garbled, bouncing around the room. No, it’s not him… everyone is speaking now. They are one voice.

She looks from person to person but the room is spinning and a low humming creeps up her neck, her head pounding like a large fist on a metal door. She feels dryness in her throat, and with no water, she reaches desperately for the wine glass.

The crystal slips in her sweaty fingers, wine sloshing from side to side in the glass. Clara sways. The voices rise and fall in unison, a symphony of speech, and she’s on the floor, her eyes fluttering shut.

She sees the blood again, dripping onto the carpet. The flash of the knife. His mouth spewing crimson over his cheeks, onto her face. The red stains on her own hands.

When her eyes open again, she sees Arthur’s in front of her face, his voice soothing, warm. She’s no longer on the floor—her spine rests up against something soft.

“Clara,” he says with a smile, “you took quite the spill there.” He holds her wrist, rubs circles into it with his fingertips. “You worried us.”

Other figures appear around his head, murmuring agreement.

“You scared us, Clara.”

“We need you with us, Clara.”

“You’ll be okay now, Clara.”

“I’m sorry,” Clara breathes, the words sticky on her tongue.

There’s something rough against her wrist now. A snake of a rope twines her hands together. Confusion sets into her brow, and she looks up to Arthur, the beginning wisps of panic rising up in her throat.

He puts his finger to her lips.

“Hush, now, Clara,” he says. “You’re safe with us.”