A Tale of Beauty

by Patrick Balzamo

  “No, I haven’t, but as you say, I wouldn’t be surprised. Diana’s got a gift for organization.”

  “No doubt.” He turns off the faucets and wipes his hands on his apron. “You don’t do half bad yourself, though.”

  “Pardon me?” He’s smiling crookedly. The expression suits him, and I turn away before he can see I’m blushing.

  “With the organization thing. I mean, you do a really good job around here.”

  “Oh, this.” I shrug. He’s just being polite. I need to calm down. “There are other people who do much more to keep everything running smoothly.”

  “Well, you always made things really easy for me and Diana. Some of the other guys in class have all these horror stories about going somewhere for the project and it being a total wreck ... We appreciate it. Least I do.”

  I smile, and raise my head just long enough for him to see it. “I’m sure that Diana would have told me if she had come across something she didn’t appreciate.”

  He laughs, and the sound is very deep, almost ... rich? Is that the right word? “Yeah, she’s good about that.” He drums his fingers on the edge of the sink for a moment, then says suddenly: “Hey, why don’t we go out for coffee when you’re done here? Kind of like a thank you for everything?”

  The dish that I’m washing slips out of my hand and clatters noisily against the sink; thankfully, it doesn’t break, and checking it for cracks gives me a chance to think about my answer. He’s asking me out, isn’t he? Diana told me that he was attracted to me ... I’ve never been asked on a date before. Do I like him enough for that? I set the plate down safely on the counter. Put this in perspective. He’s asking you to have coffee with him; that’s it. There’s every possibility that he doesn’t have any romantic agenda, that he does just want to express his gratitude.

  Obviously, I’ve taken too long to answer, because David starts talking again. “It doesn’t have to be coffee. There’s a little bakery near here, isn’t there? Me and Diana pass it all the time on the way down. Or we could go for dinner somewhere too ... you haven’t had dinner, right? Of course you haven’t: you’ve been here all afternoon.”

  I raise a hand to cut off his rambling, and lower my head apologetically. “I’m sorry. It’s sweet of you to offer, but my mother will be expecting me home for dinner soon.”

  His face falls, and I suddenly feel very guilty. “Right. No problem.”

  He thinks I’m turning him down. Do I want him to think that? “Maybe we could meet some other time? Say, one Sunday afternoon when I’m not scheduled to be here?”

  Immediately, his face brightens, and he nods vigorously. “Sure, Sunday’s good. Maybe only once the semester’s over, though ... not sure how much time I’ll need to study yet. How about I call you?”

  “That would be fine.” I rest a hand on the edge of the sink to steady myself.

  “Awesome.” He reaches into his pocket for his phone. “What’s your number?”

  Even as I recite it, I worry that I’m making the wrong decision. What if he gets the wrong idea? I’m not sure what I feel for him, or if I feel anything at all, and he’s such a nice man: I’d hate to hurt him. He seems so pleased, though, so excited, that I just can’t make myself tell him that I’ve suddenly decided I need more time to think.

  “All set,” he says, and puts his phone away. “You okay?”

  “Of course,” I reply. ‘Sufficient for this day is this day’s trouble.’ The familiar passage reassures me. God will take care of the rest.

  In spite of that reassurance, however, I can’t stop myself from thinking about David for the rest of the evening. Even my nightly Rosary doesn’t block it out, and I’m forced to put the beads away with my devotions only half complete. Forgive me, I ask with my eyes fixed on the image of Mary cradling the infant Jesus. I’m not myself tonight.

  My mind has just started to grow quieter when I remember the call from Belle. Oh, my goodness. I was supposed to call her back, wasn’t I? But with everything with David ... I take out my phone. Nearly 10. Belle doesn’t usually get to bed before 11. How could I have forgotten her? She sounded so upset ... oh, I hope that she understands.

  The line rings for a full minute before Belle’s voice mail picks up; I hang up without leaving a message. Where could she be? Maybe she’s just talking to someone else. Another of the girls, most likely. I yawn as I set the phone aside. I’ll try her again tomorrow. Too exhausted to do anything more tonight.

  Belle

  I WAKE UP as the sun is coming up, its light veiled by mist and cloud. I’ve never been good at facing dark days. I make my way to the living room. The door to my mother’s bedroom is closed, which means she’s still asleep. My phone is flashing. Four missed calls: three from Denise and one from Chastity. I had forgotten about her, but she did promise to call back, didn’t she? Why did she wait so long? I trace my thumbnail around the keys, then press the Talk button and lift the phone to my ear. Let’s find out.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Chastity.”

  “Oh, Belle, good morning. How are you? Sorry I didn’t call back earlier yesterday.”

  “It sounded as though things weren’t going very well at the mission.”

  “Oh, that. Yes, but it was sorted out quickly. Thank goodness that Diana and David decided to show up.”

  “Wasn’t their last shift there meant to be Sunday?”

  “Yes, that’s right, but they had some free time yesterday.”

  “I imagine you’ll miss them.”

  “Of course.” Chastity’s silent for a moment. “How are you doing, Belle?” she finally asks.

  Do you really care? “Fine.”

  “Are you sure? You seemed upset yesterday, and even now ... something seems a bit off.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Alright.” Another pause. “I really am sorry, Belle.”

  “Forget it. It isn’t important.” In the grander scheme of things, I suppose it isn’t.

  “Thank you,” she says, and she does sound genuinely appreciative, which makes me feel slightly more inclined toward forgiveness. It really doesn’t matter, does it? She did try to call, eventually, and besides, I can’t afford to be fighting with her as well right now.

  “When is your next shift at the mission?”

  “I put in for Saturday morning. There isn’t a meeting then, is there?”

  I frown. The way things are going, there may not be another meeting for several months. Immediately, I close my eyes and focus on neutralizing that thought. How many times did Gertrude tell me that ‘To think of an outcome is to give that future power’? I will not fall into that trap. My Sisterhood is shaken, but not destroyed. Never destroyed. “No, there isn’t.”

  “I didn’t think so, but it never hurts to make sure.”

  “No, I suppose not.” I scratch at a stain on the arm of the couch. “Have you got any other plans?”

  Chastity is silent for a few seconds, and I arch an eyebrow. Surely the question is simple enough. “I’m not sure,” she finally says.

  “What do you mean?”

  Another silence. “Well, it’s possible that I may be meeting David for coffee this weekend.”

  What is she talking about? “I’m sorry. I must have missed something. You’re waiting for David to call and invite you out for coffee?”

  “Yes. Well, he did actually invite me already, but

  we haven’t set a time yet.” She chuckles. “I was so nervous, after what Diana said at the last meeting. But he is nice enough, and we get along well ... I couldn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t give him a chance, at the very least.”

  “I can think of several reasons,” I say immediately.

  “Like what?” Chastity replies. I can tell she’s shocked.

  Where do I begin? “You’ve heard the stories that Diana tells us at the meetings. He’s stupid, insensitive, and shallow.”

  “I’m not sure where that’s coming from, Belle,
but from what I’ve seen, nothing could be further from the truth. David is a perfectly nice man.”

  That’s the trouble, you fool. He’s a man. They make you think that they’re ‘perfectly nice’, and then they’ll ruin your life. Just look at poor Emily. “You understand, of course, that he only wants one thing from you.”

  “I don’t believe that’s the case at all.” She sounds embarrassed now, but also slightly annoyed. I’d prefer not to push her, but I don’t have a choice. I must put a stop to this immediately.

  “Of course you don’t. The victim never understands until it’s too late.”

  “Victim? Belle, we’re going out for a cup of coffee. That’s all.”

  “That’s all it takes. That’s how it starts.” She doesn’t respond. “Chastity, you have to listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. Stay away from him.”

  I fight the urge to say more simply to fill the ensuing silence; I know full well how easy it is to say too much. “I’m sorry, Belle. I don’t agree with you. And besides, I made a promise.”

  You can’t. I can’t let you do that. “If you do,” I say, almost before I realize that I’m speaking, “I cannot continue to think of you as my Sister.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Make your choice,” I say, and flip the phone closed before I can stop myself. I have to be hard on her. It’s my only chance of saving her. I stare down at the phone for several minutes, willing her to call back and apologize, but she doesn’t. Eventually, I set it down on the couch beside me; almost immediately thereafter, I throw it into the chair furthest away from me, where it bounces off the backrest and onto the floor.

  “How did it come to this?” I demand as I go into my room and slam the door. “I called them all Sisters; I thought of them as family.” I go to Gertrude’s altar and snatch her picture up, holding it mere inches from my face. “I have given them everything, and do they repay me in kind? No. Sue cannot understand what I have done for her; nor can Diana, who would have left her there to drown in her misery.” Flecks of spittle appear on the glass of the frame. “Denise will not disturb herself to come to me, though I all but begged her to, and Chastity ... she whom I believed would be the last to fall into such a trap, she ...” I lower the picture and glare at the curtained window beyond it. “She insists on following in Emily’s footsteps, and I cannot stop her. She won’t listen to me.” I slam the frame down on the altar with enough force to crack the glass. “Why? What have I done wrong? What have I done to deserve this?!”

  A knock breaks my train of thought, and my mother opens the door without waiting for my permission to do so. “Belle, what is going on in here?” she asks, her voice still roughened by sleep.

  “Nothing,” I say quietly. I do not turn around.

  “What are you screaming about, then? What’s all that banging? It’s still early, you know; the neighbours —”

  “To hell with the neighbours.” I feel myself start to shiver. “To hell with everyone.”

  “Belle —”

  “Just leave me alone!” I seize Gertrude’s picture, turn around, and throw it at her. The frame smashes into pieces against the wall beside her, and though she recoils, she doesn’t obey.

  “What’s the matter with you? What’s going on?”

  “As though you care. As though any of you ever cared!” I throw the incense holder at her next; this time, my aim is marginally better, and she takes a full step back just before it strikes the doorframe.

  “Are you crazy?” She steps back into her initial position, but I can tell that she’s shaken up. Good. “You could have seriously hurt me, Belle.”

  “I couldn’t care less.” And I couldn’t, really. It would be like seeing a stranger hurt in the street: slightly unsettling, but barely more so than watching a violent film. She isn’t my mother; she’s just the stranger I share an apartment with. My mother is dead.

  “You’re obviously very upset. Why don’t you come out and we can talk about it?” Her voice is different now, the words more drawn out. I recognize that this is the tone she must use when she’s negotiating with difficult people, and the idea of her treating me like one of her penniless criminal clients makes me want to strangle her.

  Talk. Where would I begin? How could I ever make you understand what none of my Sisters could? “I just want to be left alone.” I use the altar to brace myself against a sudden feeling of unsteadiness. “I’ll stop making noise. Just go back to bed.”

  For one terrible moment, I’m certain that she will continue to defy me. However, in the end, she simply nods. “Fine, but we will talk about this later.” She begins closing the door, but stops halfway to add, “I only want to help, Belle, and whatever you believe, I do care about you.” She waits a few seconds more, presumably for a reply. When it becomes clear that I’m not going to say anything, she closes the door.

  I listen to my heart as it slows down very gradually. I can only imagine how excruciating that conversation will be, how long I will have to endure it before I can finally convince her that there’s nothing she can do, nothing that I need from her. Slowly, I move over to the wreckage on the floor and very carefully extract Gertrude’s picture from the remains of its frame. “On top of everything else,” I whisper, “I’m expected to deal with her?” I look at the closed door, then back at Gertrude’s picture. “I can’t. I just can’t.” I whirl around to face the bed. “I can’t stay here another minute.”

  I set Gertrude’s picture down on the bed, then get onto the floor to dig my largest purse out from under it. Into it, I throw my wallet, my keys, a mirror, and whichever book happens to be on top of the stack on my nightstand. Finally, I remove the Tale of Beauty from its shelf underneath Gertrude’s altar, tuck her picture into the front cover beside Emily’s, and slip it into the bag as well. “The Tale is the key,” I murmur, half to myself and half to Gertrude. “I’ve recorded everything in there. Surely, once I’ve managed to calm down, I’ll be able to look back at it, and see where I went wrong, just as we used to do with my math homework all those years ago. Do you remember, Gertrude?” I chuckle. “Of course you do. You remember everything. You know everything.” I look around the room, as though I expect to see her standing here. “Tell me that it will be all right, Gertrude. Please, tell me that everything’s going to be all right.”

  She doesn’t answer, but that’s alright. It’s nothing more than a test of faith. I sling the bag over my shoulder, and cast my mind back to Gertrude’s final entry in the Tale. “Just watch me, Gertrude. I will prevail.”

  Gertrude

  MY DEAREST ISABELLA, you have been both a daughter and a sister to me. I am afraid this will make things harder for you, but I am confident that you will be all right.

  The Goddess has seen fit to reveal the moment of my passing to me, and it approaches quickly. You will mourn, and for that I am sorry. But you must be strong, Isabella. You must not let it defeat you.

  I have taught you everything that I know, and I also leave you this, my Book of Shadows. It contains many things that I could not bring myself to speak of, even to you, and I pray that it will not taint your memories of me, and our time together. I have often worried that you may have come to see me as something more than human, but all I have ever been is a woman, no more and no less.

  Isabella, you know the story of my relationship with Emily, and how she died before it could be repaired. When I told you that story, I painted myself as the victim, displaced from Emily’s life by her husband, and at the time, that is exactly how I felt. In the decades since her death, however, I have come to understand that I was at fault as well: I let him displace me. I did not fight for her, either to be with her or to save her. If I had, perhaps she would not have died, and that question, that knowledge that I did not do everything that I could to save the person who was most precious to me, has haunted me ever since. By the grace of the Goddess, however, it will soon cease to matter.

  Isabella, if you remember nothing else of what
I’ve taught you, remember this: when something is precious to you, you must fight for it with everything you have. You must never let it go, and if the choice seems to be between allowing yourself to be destroyed and surrendering, choose death every time.

  For those who surrender, there is no life to return to.

  Belle

  I CHOOSE A direction at random, and deviate from it only when some obstacle, some inconveniently-placed construction site or dead end, forces me to. There’s a chill in the air, but it’s not quite sharp enough to discourage being outside for any length of time, and I stop noticing it after the first few blocks.

  My pace never falters as, on either side of me, the city passes by in a blur of restaurant fronts, store windows, and parking lots. Eventually, I begin to wonder whether I am moving at all, or if the city is instead slipping by, the buildings trapped in the relentless flow of Time and forced to move forward, and dragging me along in their current.

  I stumble off the next curb as the light turns red, and someone’s horn blares. It seems to be red for an eternity; while I wait, I take a few deep breaths and try to steady myself. What am I doing? I ask myself, but the light turns green before I can find an acceptable answer.

  Around the time that the streetlights come on, my legs suddenly begin to feel shaky. Two blocks later, the temptation of a coffee shop proves too strong, and I go inside, mumble something that the idiot blonde in the apron must interpret as an order, hand her a five-dollar bill, and accept the cup of heinous black liquid that she offers me in exchange. I do not bother trying to make it more palatable with any of the various types of milk and sweetener that they have provided, so conveniently, at an out of the way section of the counter. The coffee is merely an excuse to sit here; I most certainly do not intend to drink it.

  I choose a table near the back. Sitting down is such a relief that I shudder, and for a long moment, I simply sit there with my eyes closed, the coffee cup warming my hands and my body adapting to, if not quite enjoying, the respite from my pilgrimage.