The Door He Cut Open

Clara woke in a moving car with a man's coat over her knees.

For a few seconds she didn't know which journey she was on.

Then Vince said, "Morning," from the driver's seat, and the last two days returned in pieces.

The snow. The hotel. The doctor frowning at the thermometer. Damian holding a glass while she complained that the water tasted wrong.

She closed her eyes.

"Please tell me I was dignified."

Beside her, Damian made a thoughtful sound.

"How strict is your definition?"

She turned her head.

He looked worse than she remembered: dark stubble, tired eyes, an open collar beneath the coat he'd kept for himself. He had shaved at the hotel once, badly, leaving a small cut along his jaw.

She tried not to notice that he smelled clean.

"You don't have to take me back," she said.

"We were heading this way anyway."

Vince looked at him in the mirror.

Damian looked back.

Vince returned his attention to the road.

Clara accepted the water Damian opened for her.

"Thank you."

"Now take these."

He handed her the tablets the doctor had prescribed, still sealed in their small packet.

"You're enjoying this."

"Immensely."

She swallowed them and leaned back.

Outside, bare trees blurred against low white sky. They were leaving Westbridge behind.

"Drop me at the office."

"You're going to work?"

"Yes."

"How much does that place pay you?"

She told him.

He turned toward her fully.

"For a whole month?"

"With benefits."

"I'll give you more to stay in bed."

Vince coughed.

Clara stared at Damian.

He seemed to hear himself a second late.

"To rest," he added.

"That improved it enormously."

His mouth moved.

"You know what I meant."

"I know you think money answers every question."

"It answers quite a few."

She couldn't honestly argue with that.

Instead she pulled his coat more neatly over her lap.

"I need my job."

He watched the small movement of her hands.

"You could work for me."

"At the club?"

"I've got other businesses."

She glanced at Vince's tattooed forearms.

Damian followed her gaze.

"Vince. Have those removed."

The car swerved a fraction.

"What?"

"The tattoos."

"Boss, I've had them twelve years."

"About time for a change."

"Don't be ridiculous," Clara said.

Vince looked grateful.

She turned back to Damian.

"Your friend's arms aren't the problem."

"What's the problem, then?"

"I don't want to owe you my whole life because you helped me through two bad days."

The warmth went out of his face.

"You saved mine."

"And you've repaid it. More than repaid it."

She tried to make her voice gentle.

"We can be even."

He looked out of the window.

The rest of the journey passed quietly.

At her office, he got out to open her door before she could stop him.

"The coat," she said, trying to give it back.

"Keep it until you've got something warm."

"Damian—"

"Go to work. You'll be late."

He closed the door between them.

She went inside feeling unreasonably as though she had kicked an animal that had only come looking for food.

***

By evening she was exhausted.

The last day before the holiday break meant reports, signatures, and a staff photograph in matching red scarves bought by the office manager.

The scarf shed tiny fibers onto her black sweater.

Clara wrapped it around her neck anyway and climbed the stairs at Lorraine's building with her overnight bag against her hip.

Ten floors. The elevator had been broken for months.

At the top, she put one hand against the door and knocked with the other.

Something wet coated her palm.

She looked down.

Red paint.

Across the door, somebody had written PAY WHAT YOU OWE.

She stepped back into the weak hallway light.

More red streaked the wall.

Clara took out a tissue. It dissolved almost immediately. She wiped the rest against the plaster beside the frame, leaving the rough outline of her hand.

Then she knocked again.

"Raymond? It's Clara."

A television played inside.

Nobody answered.

She called Shelby.

Her cousin arrived twenty minutes later with a key that wouldn't turn.

"He's put the chain on," Shelby said.

They could hear him moving now.

"Raymond," Clara called. "Please open the door."

The television grew louder.

Shelby phoned her mother.

Lorraine said something Clara couldn't hear.

"I've knocked," Shelby whispered. "Mom, I've knocked for twenty minutes."

A burst of laughter came through the phone.

The bar again.

"Come home," Shelby said, louder.

Then, suddenly, she was screaming.

"Come home now or I'll jump down the stairs. I mean it."

Clara grabbed her wrist.

"Shelby. Look at me. We'll get dinner. We'll go somewhere else."

Her cousin's breathing came in short, broken pulls.

It had been like this when they were younger: a locked door, a man inside, their aunt somewhere else promising to come after one more game.

Clara tightened her grip.

"Come downstairs with me."

Shelby looked at the phone, then at Clara.

Something hardened in her face.

"No. I've had enough."

She dialed another number.

This time her voice softened.

"Mr. Wolfe? I'm sorry to bother you. We have a problem at home."

Clara stared at her.

Shelby listened, nodding.

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

She put the phone away.

"We'll be all right," she told Clara. "I'll look after you."

Clara remembered hearing those words through a bedroom door when she was twelve.

She couldn't bear the memory tonight.

"You don't have to," she said.

Shelby wasn't listening.

***

Damian arrived wearing a black overcoat and an expression that discouraged questions.

Vince followed. Behind him came two younger men carrying a heavy case.

"Where is he?" Damian asked.

Shelby pointed at the door.

He knocked once.

"Open it."

The television stopped.

Silence.

Damian waited five seconds, then looked at Vince.

The case opened.

Clara saw the saw and stepped forward.

"Wait. What are you doing?"

"Opening the door."

"With that?"

"You got a better idea?"

"What about a locksmith?"

"They changed the lock and braced it from inside."

One of the young men pulled on gloves.

Clara looked from the equipment to the painted door.

"There won't be a door left."

Damian looked at her.

"You planning to keep living here?"

She had no answer.

The motor started with a scream.

Clara flinched. Damian stepped between her and the first spray of sparks.

"Up there," he said, indicating the next step.

She moved.

It put her closer to his height. His shoulder blocked the cold draft from the stairwell, his coat brushing the front of hers.

"You were following me again?" she asked.

"Your cousin called."

"I know."

"Then why ask?"

She looked down.

He caught the end of her scarf.

"What's this?"

"A scarf."

"Another expert opinion."

He slipped it from her neck before she could stop him and looped it around his own.

The red looked absurd against the severe black coat.

"You can't have that."

"Why?"

"We need them for the staff event."

"I'll give it back."

"It's terrible quality. It pills if you breathe on it."

He rubbed it between two fingers.

"I like it."

"I'll buy you a better one."

His eyes settled on her face.

"Will you?"

Clara realized what she had offered.

She looked away too late.

The saw stopped.

A piece of the steel frame came loose with a grinding crash.

Vince pushed the door inward. The chain tore free.

Raymond stood in the sitting room, his bravado shrinking as the men entered.

Damian didn't raise his voice.

"The girls are packing. You can stand there quietly, or we can discuss your manners."

Clara went down the hall with Shelby.

Most of her things were still in bags beneath the bed.

She had never properly unpacked.

When she carried the first one back, Damian was sitting in the middle of the room, her cheap red scarf bright against his throat.

For the first time all evening, the door was open.