The Inner Circle

“Destination,” the GPS voice announces. “You have arrived.”

Leaning forward, I double-check the house numbers: 355. This is it.

With a jerk of the wheel, I pull into the nearest open spot, right in front of a freestanding row house with a saggy old sofa on the front porch. I remember having a house like this. Back in college.

As I shift the car into park, my hand knocks into Clementine’s purse, which sits between the bucket seats and opens its mouth at the impact. Inside, I spot the edge of a purple leather wallet, a ring of keys, and a single sheet of paper that makes me smile. Even with just the light from the lamppost, there’s no missing what’s on it-it’s young me and Clementine, in a photocopied black-and-white version of the framed photo she gave me earlier today. She gave me the color one. But she kept a copy. For herself.

“Mary Mother of Christ! What you do to my girl?” a cigarette-stained voice calls from outside.

I jump at the noise, but as I scan the block, I don’t see-

“You! You heard me!”

The sound takes me up the cracked brick steps, to the front door of Clementine’s house. The screen door’s shut, but thanks to the glow of the TV inside, I see the outline of an old woman with a bob of white hair.

“She said she’d call me back-she never called me back!” the woman shouts, shoving the screen door open and storming out into the cold wearing a faded pink sweatsuit. She hobbles down the stairs.

Right at us.

49

'Clemmi, this would be a good time to get up…” I call out, shaking her awake. As I kick the car door open, the woman-in her late sixties, maybe seventies-is already halfway down the stairs. She’s a thin and surprisingly tall woman whose sharp features and natural elegance are offset by the slight hunch that comes with age.

“And I’m freezing!” she yells. “Where the hell you been?”

“Nan, you need to get inside,” Clementine pleads, snapping awake and racing from the car.

Nan. Nana. Grandmother. Clemmi’s grandmother.

“Don’t you tell me where to go!” the grandmother explodes, narrowing her glassy blue eyes, which seem to glow in the night. As she reaches the curb, she shoves a plastic bottle of pills at Clementine’s chest. “With dinner! You know I take my medicine with dinner!” Turning to me, she warns, “Don’t you think I’m talkin’ ’bout drugs either! Rectal cancer. I got cancer in my rectum,” she says, patting the side of her leg. I didn’t notice it at first. The lump that’s hidden inside her sweatpants. A colostomy bag.

“What kinda person leaves ya with no way to open your medicine?”

“Nan, I’m sorry…”

At first, I assume it’s Clementine’s way to soften Nan’s outrage, but the way Clementine won’t look her in the eye… She’s terrified of this woman.

On our far left, at the very end of the block, there’s a loud clink-clink. Like a beer bottle spinning on concrete. Clementine and her grandmother don’t even notice. I tell myself it’s a cat.

“Of course you’re sorry,” Nan growls, snatching the now open prescription vial from Clementine’s hands. Again turning to me, she adds, “Who’re you anyway? You the one who did this to her?”

“Did what?” I ask.

“Nan!” Clemmi pleads.

“Y’know what this chemo costs? Two hundred dollars a bottle-and that’s with insurance!”

“Nan!”

Nan stops right there, locking back on Clemmi. “Did you just raise your voice at me?”

“Don’t talk to him like that.”

Clearly smoldering, Nan slides her jaw off-center, opens her mouth, and pops her jawbone like she’s cocking a gun. It freaks the hell outta me. From the look on Clementine’s face, I’m not the only one.

“I know you want me dead,” Nan says.

“I don’t want you dead,” Clementine pleads, cutting past her on the stairs. “If I wanted you dead, I would’ve never agreed to look after you.”

“Look after me? I’m not a cat! This is my house! You live with me!”

At the end of the block, a car door slams. I squint, cursing how far it is. No way was that a cat.

“Um… Clemmi,” I try to interrupt.

“I’m not fighting with you, Nan. Not tonight.”

“Why? Because your boyfriend’s here in his nice fresh suit? You’re worried about him seeing the real you-the girl that lost her job at the radio station and is lucky to live with an old lady?”

Clementine freezes. Nan stands up straight, well aware of the damage.

“You didn’t even tell him you lost your job, did you?” Nan asks almost as if she’s enjoying herself. “Lemme guess-you’re still trying to impress him.”

“Will you stop?” Turning to me, Clementine adds, “I swear, I was gonna tell you-I just figured one lie at a time-”

“I absolutely understand,” Nan interrupts. “A girl in your condition-”

“Nan!” Clemmi explodes, her voice echoing up the dark block. “Beecher, I’m sorry-I really am. She gets mean when it’s late.”

“Hold on, this is Beecher?” Nan asks. “This is the one you used to have the crush on? He’s a nothing-look at him!”

“You know nothing about him!” Clementine threatens.

“I can see right now…!”

“No. You can’t see anything. And y’know why?” Clementine growls, turning back and leaning in close on the staircase. “Because even on your very best day, you’re not half the person he is. Not even close,” she insists as Nan takes a small step backward, down to the lower step.

“Beecher, I’m sorry-I’ll call you tomorrow,” Clementine calls out as she tugs her grandmother by the arm. “Nan, let’s go.”

Anxious to disappear, Clementine races up the stairs. Her grandmother’s about to follow, but at the last moment the old woman turns back to me, feeling my stare. “What? You being judgmental? Say it already.”

“You’re lucky you have her,” I tell her.

Her jaw shifts off-center, and I again wait for the pop. The only thing that comes is her low whisper, each syllable puffing with a tiny blast of cold air. “Go lick yourself, Dudley Do-Right. If it wasn’t for you knocking her up, she wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

A buzzing in my ears becomes deafening.

“Wh-What?”

“You think I’m blind as well as dumb? Would you really be coming back here if she didn’t have you by the scrotum with this kid thing? I swear to Christ, they keep getting dumber.”

“Nan! Come inside!” Clementine calls out.

With a final angry glare-a protective glare-the old woman makes her way back up the brick staircase, the colostomy bag swaying like a pendulum inside her pant leg.

For a moment, I just stand there.

Pregnant.

If it’s true… it’d certainly explain why Clemmi was nauseous before-and more important, why now, of all moments, she suddenly started looking for her father.

Still, as it all sets in, as I realize where I am-alone… in the dark… with no one around-I need to get out of here.