Claras soldier, p.1
Clara's Soldier, page 1
Clara’s Soldier
A Retelling of The Nutcracker
Brittany Fichter
BrittanyFichterFiction.com
Copyright © 2018 by Brittany Fichter.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at: BrittanyFichterFiction.com
ISBN: 978-1-949710-01-4
CLARA’S SOLDER: A RETELLING OF THE NUTCRACKER / Brittany Fichter. – 1st ed.
Cover Art by Sanja Gombar / https://bookcoverforyou.com/
Edited by Kimberly Kessler
Contents
To my sister, Nicole…
Want more from your stories?
1. Lucky
2. One of Us
3. Always James
4. After James
5. Wishes and Prayers
6. Trust Me
7. Friendly Fire
8. Sugar Plum Warnings
9. Not Like You
10. Dark
11. The Last
12. Yes, Sir
13. Epilogue: Mission
“Shell Shock” or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
The Green-Eyed Prince
Also by Brittany Fichter
About the Author
And to my sister, Nicole
I’m so incredibly proud of you. Graduating as an Air Force officer is no small feat. And yet, despite your crazy life, you still do your best to care for your “siblings” all over the country. There’s something amazing that just can’t be put into words when it comes to having best friends from childhood, and I’m so thankful to have you.
“…the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain.”
-Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
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1
Lucky
The blue gem in Clara’s ring glistened in the late afternoon light as she unloaded the crate of cans beside her, its sparkle drawing her attention to the can she held.
Peaches.
Mr. Peters walked in. “What are you smiling at over there?”
“Oh, just these.” Clara held up the can then resumed her unloading. “James hates peaches from a can. He says they’re slimy.” What she neglected to add was that James had once liked canned peaches. Of course, that was before she dared him to eat five jars of them in under ten minutes. He’d won the bet and her nickel, but he never volunteered to eat a canned peach again.
Mr. Peters stepped behind the cash register and took out a paper with a list of figures on it. “Well, I hope he learned to like them.”
“Why is that?”
He looked at her over his glasses. “Because during the war, I think Fort Bragg got more canned peaches than the rest of North Carolina combined.” He put down his list, his bushy brows furrowed. “Speaking of which, have you heard—”
“No.” She forced a too-bright smile. “But when I do, you’ll be the first to know.” Then before he could ask anything else, she stood and wiped her hands on her apron. “Where’s that last crate?”
He pointed, and she went to retrieve it. After dragging the crate to the front of the store, she began again to add to her pile.
As she worked, Clara glanced at her employer. He was still thinking of ways to locate James, judging by his thoughtful frown. The same kind of thoughts, most likely, that had nearly driven Clara insane for the last year. She had to distract him. “When do you think the rations will be over?” She carefully topped off her pyramid of cans.
He tapped his pencil against his mouth. “Don’t know. War’s been done for over three months now. Should be any time.” He glanced around the store and nodded. “But it sure looks much better with its shelves full.”
Clara nodded and stood up to survey her work. The store did look pristine. Not an apple, sardine can, or bag of flour was out of place. The boughs of evergreens she’d brought in the day before and wrapped around the door and counters still smelled fresh, and she’d swept up all their fallen pine needles an hour ago. As she was about to move on to inventory, however, she spotted dust on a shelf and bent to wipe it, bumping her head on a higher shelf in the process.
“Ow!” She gritted her teeth and rubbed her head. But feeling sorry for a bump on the head seemed selfish. Especially considering the kind of pain James must have gone through in basic training and then during the war. A headache from a little bump wouldn’t worry an American GI on the battlefield. Did the army even give aspirin to its men? Not that he would ask for one. Did he have access to aspirin now, wherever he was?
Before her thoughts could wander too far into dangerous territory, the jingle of the bell above the door interrupted her musings.
A short, plump woman bustled into the shop. She closed the door with a shiver. “Clara, what are you still doing here? I thought Mr. Peters would have sent you home hours ago!”
“I tried,” Mr. Peters called from behind the register. “The girl won’t leave.”
“Happy Christmas Eve, Mrs. Black.” Clara grinned. “What can I get for you?” Even as she spoke, however, she began gathering ingredients from the shelves behind her. They’d had this conversation every Christmas Eve since she began working at the grocer three years before.
“Oh, the same as always.” Mrs. Black made a face. “I burned the pie again. Told my oldest to watch it for me while I broke up a fight between the two youngest, and by the time I got back, the entire house smelled like smoke.”
Clara smiled as she placed the ingredients in Mrs. Black’s bag. “Well, at least most of these aren’t in short supply anymore. Do you have your ration book?”
“Don’t bother with the sugar. My daughter got an earful for allowing the whole pie to go to waste, but I have a little tucked away that the children don’t know about yet.” Mrs. Black gave Clara a wink. “Saved it just for Christmas. But again, why are you still here?” She peered over Clara’s shoulder and scowled. “What trouble are you really up to, Mr. Peters, keeping the girl on Christmas Eve? Tell the truth.”
“I told you, Opal.” Mr. Peters scowled back. “She won’t leave. Spends all her days here cleaning and stocking like a madwoman.”
“Have you ever seen someone so busy?” Mrs. Black slipped Clara a small tip with a wink. “I wish my oldest ones would work the way she does.” She made a face at the old grocer. “Now, where are those peanuts I asked for last week, you lazy man?”
Clara smiled and picked up the dusting cloth again while the two old friends worked through their typical squabbles.
Her mother had begged her not to go in to work on Christmas Eve, but as the day neared its end, Clara was glad she had. The full shelves gave her a sense of accomplishment. Well, not completely stocked, especially when it came to sugar, but fuller than they’d been in a long time. With the war over, food and other supplies were beginning to roll back into production, even for their tiny North Carolina coastal town.
The shop was not a large one. Old Mr. Peters and his wife never kept or even wanted a large store. Just the one room. Still, it was plentiful enough with floor to ceiling shelves packed with bags of dry ingredients, such as flour, salt, cans of beans, peaches, pepper, and a few boxes of neatly lined fruit and vegetables out front. And now that the war was done and their soldiers no longer needed all their rationed goods, they were once again able to stock coveted items such as nylons, canned milk, and shortening. Candy and sugar were still in short supply, but somehow, Mr. Peters had managed to find enough peppermint sticks to fill the clear glass jar on the counter. Mrs. Peters joked that he was going to run them into debt by giving them all away, though she was no less guilty when it came to sneaking small children a stick or two when their parents weren’t looking. But the colors were what Clara liked best. During the war, the brown, bare shelves had seemed dull and lifeless. Filled with food and other goods, as they were now, a promise of better times hung in the air.
And she needed all the promise she could get.
The bell above the door rang again, jarring Clara from her thoughts and interrupting Mr. Peters and Mrs. Black.
“I don’t care what they say, Suzanne.” A tall woman spoke to the little woman beside her as they walked in. “The doctor calls it shell shock, but I say it’s just laziness.”
“But he was never lazy before,” Suzanne said with a slight frown, breathing heavily as though she’d struggled to keep up with Mrs. McCarty’s long strides. “Why do you think he is now?”
“He just got too used to the army taking care of him, that’s all.” The tall woman rested her basket on the counter beside Clara and ignored the stares of everyone else in the shop.
“I’m going to load some crates up in the back,” Mr. Peters called, already out the door.
All on her own, thanks to Mr. Peters, Clara gave the tall woman her best wooden smile as she took her list. “Is your husband well, Mrs. McCarty?” If only she’d beat Mr. Peters to the stock room, then he would be stuck with the insipid custo
Mrs. McCarty scoffed and tossed her thick black hair. “All that’s wrong with my husband is that he needs to get his head out of the clouds and remember what it’s like to do some real work. I can hardly get him to mow the lawn, let alone fix the broken window upstairs or trap the mouse that keeps getting into my drawers.” She glanced down at the slip of paper in Clara’s hands. “Are you going to get that or not?”
Clara looked down at the list. She’d nearly put her thumb through the paper, she was clutching it so tightly. So she pulled herself away from the counter and began piling supplies into Mrs. McCarty’s basket. The faster she finished, the faster the awful woman would leave. Hopefully.
“Shell shock is real, you know,” Clara said as she worked. She willed her voice to remain calm as she went to the register and added up the total. “The nurses I volunteer with say the men are different after they come home. They—”
“Only want the diagnosis so they can charge for more visits.” Mrs. McCarty rolled her eyes as she paid and hefted the basket onto her hip. “All I can say, Clara, is that you should consider yourself lucky James never made it home. At least you can move on with your life and start with someone new. It looks like I’ll be stuck with my husband now until one of us dies of old age or madness.”
“Mrs. McCarty!”
Everyone turned to see a white-haired woman enter through the back door. Clara relaxed slightly as Mrs. Peters came to stand beside her.
Mrs. Peters ignored everyone else and frowned at Mrs. McCarty. “That is quite enough.”
“What?” Mrs. McCarty shrugged. “I’m only looking on the bright side of things.”
“Telling a girl it’s lucky her fiancé disappeared in the war is hardly looking at the bright side of things,” Mrs. Black snapped.
“Say what you want.” Mrs. McCarty huffed and turned toward the door. “But the man I married is not the one I’m living with now. I wish it were different, but that’s the truth.”
Clara’s jaw fell open, but Mrs. McCarty either didn’t see or didn’t care as she stalked out, her friend right on her heels.
Silence filled the shop as Clara walked to one of the windows and examined the glass. If only fingerprints would magically appear so she’d have an excuse to stay on the opposite side of the room, away from the others. She didn’t have to look behind her to know that Mrs. Black and Mrs. Peters were watching her.
“I... um. I think the children will be wondering where I am by now,” Mrs. Black said after a long moment. She bid them both goodbye and scurried out the door with her groceries as fast as her short legs would take her.
“I know why you work so much.”
Clara turned to see Mrs. Peters’s sad smile. “I beg your pardon?” She did her best to sound chipper.
“You never stop.” Mrs. Peters picked up a rag and wiped the counter. “You volunteer at the hospital on all your days off. You collected scrap metal for the entire duration of the war.” She glanced up at Clara and smiled knowingly. “I did the same thing when my husband was gone during the first war. Threw myself into the store, our children, and the church. If you can name it, I was there.”
Clara traced a crack in the glass. “It helps me not to think about him,” she whispered. Or, to think about what might have happened to him. Reminiscing was fine, even welcome. But thinking about all the ways he could have been killed or captured or whatever it took to make an American soldier disappear from the face of the planet was a quick path to losing her sanity.
“I know,” Mrs. Peters said gently. She laid a warm hand on Clara’s arm. “But don’t forget that he’s not the only one who needs you. Right now, you have a family to get home to.” She smiled. “It’s Christmas Eve, and you’ve worked hard enough today. Go home and see if you can help your mother.”
Clara hesitated. She should assure Mrs. Peters she was fine and didn’t need to go home. Then she could throw herself back into her work with a vengeance. But the lump in her throat prevented her from speaking. So she nodded, took off her apron, and slung her bag over her shoulder. Mrs. Peters’s gaze followed her as she left the shop and went around the back for her bicycle.
The day was crisp but not uncomfortable as she rode down the street and across the railroad tracks. Traffic was unusually quiet, even for their small town, as most of the shops, bakeries, and even the gas station were closed. The peaceful streets gave her space to think. Or rather, to avoid thinking and having to report her thoughts to every bystander who looked her way. She was saved from having to answer the question that seemed eternally on everyone’s lips, and she was saved from having to restrain herself from retorting that they already knew the answer. If Sergeant James Matthew Parker had come home, everyone would have known it within an hour of his arrival.
They meant well. Everyone, Mrs. McCarty excluded, wanted James to come home. But he wasn’t home, and every reminder of that was like a slap in the face.
She meant to head for her house, but instead, she approached the red brick building just off of the main street. Then she parked her bicycle next to the faded blue sign that read, Cape Fear Presbyterian Hospital, and went inside.
Even the building seemed to know Christmas had arrived. The usual smell of rubbing alcohol was somewhat dulled by the faint whiff of ginger, and someone had brought in a scraggly little tree and placed it in the lobby.
“There you are, Clara.” A woman with short red curls popped up from behind the front counter. “I was wondering if you were going to come in today.” She held up a plate of gingerbread cookies. “Want one? One of the mothers brought them in this morning.”
Clara did her best to smile. “Hi, Sue. No thanks. I’m on my way home. This is just a quick stop.”
“Aw, no reading today? The kids have been asking when you’ll be back.”
Clara played with a stray lock of hair. “I’ll be back next Tuesday. Things have just been....”
“I know, hun. You don’t have to explain.”
Clara cleared her throat. “I just thought I would stop in and ask—”
But Sue was already shaking her head. “You would be the first person to know, believe me.” She glanced down at a stack of papers on the desk. “I promise, I’m watching for any sign of him.” She shrugged and gave Clara a sad smile. “Most of the soldiers are home by now. Or at least accounted for. I haven’t been getting many new patients for the last couple of weeks. At least, not out of the ordinary.”
Clara nodded and began to turn away, but before she could leave, Sue reached out and grabbed her wrist.
“You know what? I’ve got a friend who just started working up north at Walter Reed, that naval hospital in Maryland. I’ll give her a call and tell her to keep her eyes open.”
Clara squeezed her friend’s hand. “Thanks, Sue.”
Sue’s eyes softened. “If you don’t give up on him, neither will we. Now, I want you to go home and have a merry Christmas Eve with your family. None of this despair business. And next Tuesday, I expect to see you back here with a book in hand, ready to read to those children.” She quirked an eye. “Deal?”
Clara laughed. “Deal.”
“And I’ll make that call, I promise.” Sue was already scribbling on a pad of paper. “Now go enjoy your Christmas Eve party before I drag you home myself.”
Clara shrugged off her disappointment as she made her way back to her bicycle. Sue was right. She would have called the moment she’d heard something about James. And yet, Clara had hoped….
“Mr. Peters said I might find you here.”
Clara looked up to see a burly young man park his bicycle next to hers.
“Hi, Edward.” She smiled, and for once, it wasn’t forced.
