Dinner

Pristine wine, the color of pale raspberries, stared up at Claire inside the glass. Her reflection rippled back at her. Light red lipstick, a stoic face.

"Monday,” spoke her father, in response to some question she had disregarded.

“Is it really necessary for you to go and visit that filth, dear?” Mrs. Clemett purred. She sat on Claire’s right-hand side; they were separated by a single seat.

"Yes,” he replied, firmly, from the head of the table, three seats away. He smiled shortly at his wife, then turned to the man seated on his right — a gentlemen friend, and the previous owner of the factory Mr. Clemett had just signed the papers for.

“I’ll instruct the boss to get everything in top shape for your inspection, Mr. Clemett,” said the man. “Feel free to purge the place of anyone who refuses to meet your standards.”

“I hope that won’t be necessary,” chuckled Mr. Clemett. “You’re already short on workers, correct?”

“Not terribly short, and more will come soon.” The gentlemen sipped his wine.

Claire looked up shortly, eyeing the stranger’s manner; he was plump and seemed comfortable here, used to the luxury surrounding him. A millionaire, no doubt, with no regrets about selling his property. She held back the urge to laugh as he suddenly burped and covered his mouth, not hurriedly.

Claire forced her eyes back on her plate. She stirred the raspberry jelly and potatoes with her fork, then stuck a bite in her mouth. Her father was speaking again, but she paid him no heed and focused on the food. It was the same quality of food she had eaten her whole life — the kind prepared for hours in an enormous kitchen by maids who appeared out of nowhere, whenever called upon, reciting, “Yes, Ma’am” and “Thank you, Sir” at will, out of habit. Disgusting. You earned money, yes, but by living through habit and expectation, without free will.

A clock ticked faintly in the background. Fleeting moments passed by like the stones she and Jane used to toss haphazardly into an old pond. Drop, drop. Tick, tock. Gone, disappeared into darkness.

“Mr. Tard, are you familiar with any upper-class gentlemen like yourself who might be on the look-out for a distinguished math? Of course, we’d like to find someone for our daughter.” Her mother spoke suddenly, and the words jumped out like a flash of light in the darkness Claire had enveloped herself in.

She looked up abruptly, her fork and a piece of white chicken meat half-way to her mouth.

Mr. Tard laughed heartily. “Oh, certainly. New York isn’t exactly a marketplace for such men, but I can assure you there are several who would jump at the opportunity to settle with a nice lady like your daughter. I’ll put them in contact with you, if you like.”

“Yes, that would be wonderful.” Mrs. Clemett looked more than a little pleased.

“It’s no problem at all.” Mr. Tard smiled again and wiped his mouth with his napkin before tucking into his chicken once again.

Claire sat there, unmoving, her heart beating faster than normal but rhythmically in her chest. No one met her eye. She felt singled out, under a spotlight, but also ignored, like she didn’t exist at all. Just a name, a number. Just someone to marry off.

Her father struck up conversation again.

She ignored him. “Mother, don’t you dare think I’m going to let you control who I marry, too,” she hissed. The men didn’t seem to hear her, as Mr. Tard was responding in a good-natured voice.

“Young lady, you are seventeen, and you will do as I say,” Mrs. Clemett whispered back in a harsh, firm, but low voice.

Claire hit her fork loudly on the china plate, purposefully missing the vegetables. The noise echoed off the ceilings. Conversation ceased and all eyes turned to her.

She paused, swallowing, trying to wipe some of the anger from her face. If the guest hadn’t been there, she would’ve risked her mother’s annoyance. “Sorry,” she said, flatly, with a hint of sharpness in her voice. “I should’ve put my attention fully on the food.”