I am Clara

Caught in the Mud

I was on my fourth break in ten minutes, head flopped lazily atop my arms when the backdoor swung open. Illuminated by the kitchen light, stood my very angry mother. In her white nightgown, long black hair strengthened to frame her oval face, stood Laine Binsfield in all her angry glory, and cheap phone pressed tightly to her ear.

      "Impossible," my mother said. "The children are asleep."

     There was a pause, as the other person on the line spoke.

      "Clara?" She asked.

       I almost replied but realized that she was still talking to Mr. Welf. The old man, our neighbor, also with a phone to his ear, was looking right at me through his bedroom window. So much for no one seeing me.

      "Clara is in her room," my mother contended. Squinting into the darkness, she scanned the yard for intruders. Her eyes passed over me, to the swing set, and then back to me, eyes growing wide with surprise.

      "Clara!" she cried. Hanging up the phone, she hurried my way.

     I greeted her with a small smile, and wave of muddy hand.

      "What on earth are you doing?!"

     "Uh..." I tried to think of a lie. But there was no explaining this. There was nothing I could possibly say that would make this seem normal. Couldn't sleep, so I decided to come roll around in the grass? I'm taking a mud bath? Practicing my army crawl?

     "I really don't know," I answered instead.

     Mom rushed towards me, pulling me to my feet. I tried to hide the tremble in my legs, but I couldn't help but lean on her for support.

     "You're quite warm, are you still sick?" she asked.

     I nodded, and together we walked back inside. I hardly did any walking. Mom basically dragged me inside. Dropping me into one of the kitchen chairs, she knelt in front of me, firm hands holding my face to study me. I looked anywhere but into her eyes. I swear that woman and her fierce green eyes could look into your soul.

     "Mr. Welf claims you were running around the yard. Is that true?" she asked, washing my face with a cloth.

     I finally met her eyes, pondering my options. The full truth was not an option. But, even if I lied, she'd probably force the truth out of me. Either way the truth would come out, so I settled with being partially truthful. That was usually the best way to deal my mother.

     "Yes," I finally answered.

     Her face dropped, clearly, she had been hoping for a no. The only child she didn't usually have to worry about, had become the most concerning. Great ending to her night.

     "Why?" she asked, exasperated.

     Why did I run in the mud, half naked? Or why had she been punished with such time-consuming children?

     "I was chased," I answered, not daring to lie.

    "Chased!" she exclaimed ridiculously. "By whom?"

     "Not whom, what."

     "What?"

      "Yes, a what."

      "No, Clara! What chased you?" She was rapidly losing patience.

     "A very sharp piece of rock."

    "Are you on drugs?" she asked, in a mixture of anger and concern. She searched my face for any proof, any symptoms. She pulled on my eyelids, as if to get a better look at my pupils.