by Scott Hale
Beatrice swallowed hard and rubbed her temples. She looked past the turnstiles at the food court’s edge, to the check-out desk, where young and tanned volunteers saw to the long line of bookworms holding their meals tightly.
She stormed through the turnstiles and crossed the first floor, through History and Science, Sexuality and Theatre, going nowhere in particular as her mind turned in on itself. What had she expected? Some mecca the unwashed student body only spoke of in whispers? Some dark and dingy warehouse plucked out of one of the shitty ’80s movies she always watched and then turned against when her friends started railing on them? She just wanted something temporary, something that paid under the table. Something that wouldn’t require three weeks of an agonizing wait and a background check she couldn’t even begin to afford. Yeah, she was being stubborn. Yeah, she was acting irrational. But those were character flaws. Heaven forbid she change them.
For a brief and desperate moment, Beatrice considered selling drugs. But given her luck, the first customer would be some pot-bellied police officer all too eager to look the other way if she only gave him two minutes and ten seconds of her time. She shook the notion out of her head. She never had much hand-eye coordination to begin with.
“What the hell was I thinking?” she said to herself when no one was around.
I wasn’t thinking, she answered. I’m just a hypocritical bitch who assumed everyone around here was just as dumb as I was when I came through.
At the back of the library, Beatrice found a small reading table and took a seat in the chair beside it. The tabletop was warm, calming; the heat of the sun infused into its wood. There was a small, battered book of folklore near the edge, but she couldn’t be moved to touch it. She let her body relax, which was a rare luxury, and began to consider the consequences of what came next.
“Fuck it,” she said, exhaustion tugging at her eyelids. Last night had been a long night, though at this point, she’d forgotten why. “I’ll just ask. I’ll just… I’ll just ask. Not like I can change their minds about me, anyway. Damage is done.”
A door opened nearby. Sleep fled like a thief and left her there with nothing but dizzied surprise. Dormant symptoms of Post-Traumatic College Disorder flared. Beatrice sat up and crossed her legs to look as alert as possible—a reflex perfected from the many years spent napping in class. Her hands found the book on folklore and she opened it to its middle, where an excerpt from someone’s diary rambled on about flies. She had no reason to appear busy to this individual should they come her way—she was an adult now, or at least, that’s what she’d heard—but appearance was important to Beatrice; not physical appearance necessarily, but mental appearance: those things one can see and not see at the same time. Being pretty hadn’t done a good job of preparing her for being anything else.
She continued to turn the pages of the book, consulting the front matter momentarily for the author’s name. Who names their daughter Dagmar? She flipped to the back of the book and read the preface to the final story, which was about ghouls. I cuss too much, she thought randomly. I’m all those things I told myself I’d never be. Ugh, this day needs to end.
“Hello there.”
A man’s voice. Beatrice’s eyes climbed the page slowly as though it were Everest itself, until she reached the leathery summit and saw who had addressed her from the other side. He was a bearded man in his mid-forties, dressed too well to be anything but a professor. He had a metal lunchbox in one hand and a half-eaten apple in the other. She knew this man. He had taught an advanced Biology class she’d attended approximately one year ago. His name was Frederick Ødegaard, and she had—still had, actually—a crush on him, though perhaps “crush” was too soft a word. Demolish, maybe. She had a demolish on him.
“Hello,” Beatrice said, smiling, doing her best to pretend as though she didn’t know him.
He nodded as the door closed behind him and the extra light left the room. Beatrice followed him with her eyes as he passed, stopped, and then turned around, pointing the apple in her direction.
“Brit… no. You had that… Beatrice, right?” he asked, his eyes glowing from the firing of his brain’s synapses. “I had you in class, didn’t I?”
Now that she had permission to stop acting ignorant, Beatrice set the book down. “That’s right. Sorry. Once I graduated, it all kind of left me.” She went to stand up, and he gestured for her to remain sitting. “How are you?” She was smiling so hard some drool came out. Probably thinks I have rabies, she thought, wiping her mouth real fast. Maybe he’s into rabies. She cocked her head, ashamed of herself. Fuck you, Beatrice.
“I’m well, thank you.” He searched the surrounding area with his eyes—“Ah ha!”—and pulled a lone chair from its solitude in Zoology over to Beatrice’s table. “Do you mind?”
Hell no, she thought, but instead said, “Of course not.” She pulled her legs back, up, and under her. Her face was sore from smiling. It wasn’t something she did often.
“I just like to catch up with students after they’ve graduated. I, uh…” he scrutinized the apple in his hand, “… sorry,” he said meekly, unclasping the lunchbox and placing it inside. “It’s a project of mine. I don’t feel like this university does a very good job of preparing its students for the world. It’s something I gather data on. Do you work here now? Grad school?”
“Funny you should say that,” Beatrice said as Frederick set his lunchbox on the floor. “Well, no, never mind. You don’t want to hear it.”
“Please,” he said, resting his hands on his chin and stroking his beard like an intellectual, “I’ve been here for a while and have connections. You were a good student, if I remember correctly. I hate to see a mind go to waste.”
Good student? I got a B. I was practically dishonored. Beatrice laughed uncomfortably. “It’s not really a problem.”
Frederick Ødegaard lifted an eyebrow that told her he wasn’t buying it.
Beatrice sighed and sold him her sob story. “I have student loans and my boss fired me. I know I can get back on my feet, but I was hoping to find something, well, a little more instantly gratifying until then.” She took a deep breath, because asking for help took everything out of her.
Frederick leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know how ethical it would be to ask you this if you were still a student, but since you’re alumni now, I can’t imagine anyone taking issue.”
Spit it out before my imagination runs wild.
“The wife and I have been meaning to spend some time together lately, but we have a child, a little boy, so it’s hard. We’d ask the neighbors, but Mrs. Ødegaard doesn’t much care for them, and the closest relative is three states over. I feel like my wife would take to you.”
“I would be honored to babysit for you,” Beatrice said stoically to the question that had yet to be posed.
“Would you?” Frederick rested his head on his hand once more and grinned. “Oh, that would be great. To be honest, I’m the one who has been putting it off—going out. I just keep forgetting. But if I can help you, then that gives me a good excuse to get my act together, yes?”
“Yes, a relationship is like a fire: You have to tend it or it’ll go out.” Beatrice cringed at her words, and then died a little on the inside.
Frederick cleared his throat. “Now, there is something you should know about our boy. He is delayed. He’s no different than any other kid at six; just needs a little more time and patience. I understand if you’d feel uncomfortable watching him.”
“Not at all,” Beatrice said kindly. How much? Do I charge extra for this sort of thing? Is that a fucked up thought to have?
“Good, that’s good. He’s a sweet boy. A little shy with strangers, but I expect he’ll warm up to you. And if he doesn’t, that’s okay, too. The house is big, and we just want someone to make sure he’s safe while we’re away.”
“I can do that. I used to babysit all the time back home. It’s fun. You get to act like a kid again,” Beatrice said in
dreamy reminiscence.
“Excellent, I’m glad to hear that. I’m glad I ran into you today. I’m thinking…” he rummaged through his pockets and produced a pencil and a small notepad, “… if tonight goes well and you think you’d like to try it again, we could make a regular thing of this? Twenty-five an hour sound reasonable? Come over at seven, leave at midnight? After Friday, if you’re still interested, it could become a once or twice a week thing? Of course, if you’re too busy…”
Beatrice interrupted. “I don’t have much of a social life. I think that sounds great. I really, really appreciate you helping me, Mr. Ødegaard. Hey, listen, I don’t mean to shoot myself in the foot, but your wife… why would she trust me? I’m kind of a stranger.”
“She won’t, but I’ll tell you what: If she makes a big fuss about it, I’ll pay you all the same.” Frederick rose to his feet, lifted the chair up, and placed it back where it belonged. “I really appreciate your help, Beatrice,” he said, bending over and picking up his lunchbox. He put the pencil to the pad of paper and wrote something onto its sickly yellow surface. “Our address and my phone number,” he said, handing Beatrice the note. “We live just outside of town. Maidenwood. If you have trouble finding your way, just call.”
“This is bullshit.”
Beatrice’s car climbed the hill outside of Brooksville the same way an old man climbs out of bed: groaning and shaking and quite convinced they will never be able to do it ever again. She held the steering wheel tightly as it shook, tried to avoid breathing the noxious fumes that kept coming through the vents. She pulled her feet from the floor, afraid that it would give way and she would be pulled through and smeared across the road.
Two months ago, the car salesman with the uneven moustache had assured Beatrice and her father the vehicle was new, driven only by those who had shown an interest but lacked the funds to call it their own. The logical conclusion would’ve been the twerp with the pubestache had gotten one over on them, but this was Beatrice, which meant the car was alive, and it was trying to tell her something.
“Lauren,” she said, taking out her phone and running her thumb against the touch screen. “Lauren,” she repeated over the dial tone, “Lauren, pick up, you lazy, little…”
“-y, what’s up?” Lauren said, having started talking before she answered.
“My car,” Beatrice started. But just as she reached the top of the hill, it went silent. “Never mind.” She took a deep breath. The odor was gone as well. Why did a rumbling car give her more pause than the odd job it was carting her off to? “Hey,” she said, nerves loosening, “guess what?”
“Hang on.” A toilet flushed loudly on the other side. “What? Don’t make me guess.”
“I got a job.”
“That was fast. I bet you feel better. Did Jerry take you back?”
“No, hell no,” Beatrice said.
Ahead, the forest of Maidenwood stretched beneath the dusk-lit horizon, its ragged, fall-ravaged canopy glowing orange and red. Where the road cut through, the forest was dark, the trees beside it too densely packed to let much light in. Beatrice turned on her headlights as she crossed into the wooded expanse, which ran for miles across the tri-county area, and hoped for the best.
“Did you ever have Ødegaard?”
The car rumbled and stuttered. She punched the dash and it got the hint.
“I’m a vegetarian. You know I don’t eat that meat shit.”
Suddenly, the steering wheel became Lauren’s pasty neck, and with teeth clenched, Beatrice squeezed the life out of it. “He is a professor. He teaches a lot of things. Like Biology.”
“Oh, oh, oh.” Silence, and then: “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”
Beatrice let out a sigh. “Campus was a bust, but that’s where I ran into him. We got to talking. I told him what was going on. He said he really needed a babysitter for his kid. He was really nice and, I mean, why not?”
“I can think of a few reasons why not. Isn’t that the one you had a crush on?”
“No, I think you’re thinking of somebody else.”
“It does get hard to keep track of all of them.”
“Frederick Ødegaard, that’s his name. He lives outside of town, up here in Maidenwood. I bet he’s rich. I’ll scope the place out, raise my rate when they get back.”
Lauren hummed. “Address?”
Beatrice rattled it off and said, “I’ll be done at midnight. I just wanted to tell someone where I was going.”
“You planning on needing an alibi?”
“I’m planning on not being a victim of stupidity.”
“Then what the hell you doing up in Maidenwood? You got weak arms, B. Little twig things. I’ll come up, keep you company. No charge. Friend discount.”
“You’re easily one of the most unpleasant people that I know. Is this what passes for a woman nowadays?”
Lauren snorted. “In case he turns out to be a tenured creep with a thing for down-and-out graduates… You bring your knife?”
Beatrice smiled a crooked smile. She leaned over and saw the hint of the blade’s handle between the eyeliner and emaciated wallet. “I’ll call you later, when I’m rich.”
Beatrice knew that she would get lost trying to find Ødegaard’s house, because she always got lost going someplace new. She was one of those rare creatures who never seemed to get to where she needed to go, and when she did, it was after miles of bad road and months of even worse decisions.
“This is how it starts,” she said to herself as she put the car in reverse, having finally seen the turn off, which was an old dirt trail that snaked through the trees.
She backed up, nearly clipping the crooked mailbox at the driveway’s end. “Young girl goes into woods. Young girl doesn’t come out.” She laughed, and then, as a precaution, texted the job and Ødegaard’s address to her mother and father.
Half a mile and two texts later to her mother (“Sorry I haven’t called,” and “Yes, of course I miss you guys.”), the trees thinned away to a clearing where a large, well-kept farmhouse sat. In actuality, “farmhouse” may have been a stretch of the word, because the plot of land was far too small and the crops growing on it were far too gone to be of use for anything other than compost. Beatrice slowed the car to a crawl, trying to find the neighbors Ødegaard had mentioned on campus. But if they were there, then they were somewhere deep in the woods, beyond the wall of trees that encircled the professor’s estate.
“I guess you don’t move to someplace like this because you want people to find you,” she said, stopping the car at the side of the house. “Alright, here we go.”
Beatrice opened the door and stepped out of the car. She pulled up her jeans—she’d lost weight, thanks to stress and poverty—and made her way to the porch. She tucked her hair behind her ears, took a deep breath, and then took one more, because she couldn’t believe how clean the air was out here. Relax, she told herself, he’s a nice man. Just don’t kill the kid and all will be well. She smiled the same uncomfortably wide smile she used to put on for the yearbook hags and started a practice conversation in her head (“Wow, this house is so cozy, Mr. Ødegaard! Sure, I’ll have a glass of water!”).
Skin stretched across her face as though she were the victim of some vindictive plastic surgeon, Beatrice jogged up the porch’s stairs and opened the screen to knock on the door behind it.
“Beatrice!” Frederick called out.
Beatrice kept her hand cupped around the doorknob, which was unexpectedly slick, and turned her head. She looked to the window on the left, where a spider’s egg sac clung to the fingerprint-smeared glass. She stepped back slowly; the wood boards creaked and moaned beneath her weight, sounding as though they were ready to buckle at any moment. Beatrice curled her nose, covered her face with her hands. Something smelled sour, rotted, and when she bent over, she found it seemed to becoming from underneath the porch.
“Beatrice,” Frederick repeated, clearing his throat. “Up here,” he said, laughing.
Beatrice stepped back, leaned back. Looking up, she found her former professor’s face peering out of a casement window on the second floor. “Oh,” she said, stepping even further back, feeling dizzy. “I’m sorry! I didn’t see you up there!”
“Did you find the place okay?” he asked, tapping his fingers on the windowsill. A fly buzzed about his head. “It’s real easy to get lost in these woods. Still happens to me from time to time!”
Beatrice let out a fake laugh that sounded like a horse mid-orgasm.
“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling away. “I’ll be right down.”
Beatrice covered her nose, breathed in the lotion she’d put on earlier. She scratched her ankle with the tip of her shoe, hissed when she broke the scab from shaving there. Listening closely, she could follow Frederick’s movements in the house. She could hear his feet stomping down an old wooden staircase and across sticky linoleum flooring. Straining her ears, she heard the pull and turn of a door handle, and then the twist of a key inside a lock. For a moment, she lost track of his whereabouts—had he snuck off to the kitchen to finish dinner, she wondered, or to the laundry room for some pants?—and as she moved to let herself in, Frederick pulled open the door.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” he said, smiling, pants and all.
“Thank you for this opportunity. I really don’t know what I would have done otherwise.” Beatrice slid her hands into her pockets and rocked back and forth, heel to toe, toe to heel. “Oh, what’s your little boy’s name? I totally forgot to ask.”
Frederick waved her off. “Come on inside. I’ll introduce you two. Would you like a glass of water?”
Beatrice bit her lip. “Sure, I’ll have a glass of water!” she recited. “This is a really nice house you have.”