Waiting For Daddy

Chapter 4

Chapter 4 

Yes, the picture was ragged and torn, but Claire could still make out her mother. It was the same picture which sat in her father's leather wallet all the time. Claire recalled that he had looked at it and talked to the picture everyday when she was smaller.

Could it possibly be a sign from her father?

She smoothed out a couple of the wrinkles, then stepped out on the very edge of the sidewalk, glancing to her left and right, trying to find her him.

But not a single person was it sight.

"Girl, get yer ass over here!" screamed the same voice.

Claire sighed, then turned on her heel sharply. Perhaps it was some cruel joke.

"Don't make me get out of this chair!" 

"Coming, Mr. Smith!" Claire replied, rolling her eyes. The man was as rude as he was disgusting. She had to find a way out soon, or she'd die from loneliness and abuse.

As she walked up the slime covered steps to the doorway, stuffing the picture in her back pocket, a flash of dark green caught her eye.

Could it be...??

Turning around one last time, Claire scanned the barren streets.

But no one was there.

~*~*~*~*~

"Cami, some guests are inviting me to dinner, and you're coming with me. It's my boss' family. So be respectful. Ya here?" said Mr. Smith who was lounged on the couch, draping one leg across an arm chair and the other on the head rest, spit flying from his mouth with every syllable.

Claire rolled her eyes for the thousandth time. By now it was second nature for her to respond with any name with a "C." At one point, he had called her "Connor," but she honestly didn't care. Every last ounce hope and dignity had been drained of from Claire. She would just continue doing whatever Mr. Smith demanded.     

"You can cook, girlie, right?" 

Claire nodded in return, her body limp. She vaguely recalled cooking with her father when she was younger.

"Good. I want you to start cooking some spaghetti or sumthin'. Finish it by six and change into something presentable."

She nodded once more, in a ghostly trance, to the semi-sanitary kitchen.

Rummaging around the cabinets, Claire managed to take out a small portion of dried pasta with mold already growing on it. Wrinkling her face in distaste, she began reading the instructions, then dumping it in a boiling pot of hot water. 

Then, Claire found a small rusty can of tomato sauce, which, luckily, hadn't expired, in the very back of the dishwasher.

*~*~*~*~*

By six, everything was wrapped and ready to go. Claire herself was wearing a light white summer dress, one of the few remaining outfits left in her duffel bag. 

"Good, you're ready, let's go," said Mr. Smith, gruffly grabbing onto Claire's small wrist and tugging her along with the pasta in the other hand. 

They walked (thankfully!) to Mr. Smith's boss' home in silence. Claire was anxious to meet them. Perhaps she would be able to tell them about Mr. Smith and ask for help. That is...if they weren't like Mr. Smith's football buddies. 

Claire finally reached a relatively large home with whitewash windows and an elegant yard with exotic plants lining the adorable cobblestone path. A gazebo sat in the corner, besides two small porch chairs.