The Revelation of Beatrice Darby

by Jean Copeland

Beatrice clenched her jaw in indignation. “I’m not a girl. I’m turning eighteen in October.”

  “She’s turning eighteen, Abby. Knock her socks off,” Donna said with a mischievous grin.

  “She’s jail bait,” muttered Peggy.

  Miss Gill took Beatrice’s hand in hers. “Listen, doll, I’m thirty-one years old, and I’m sure not looking for any trouble.”

  Donna glanced down the deserted hall and egged her on. “Come on, Abby, who’s gonna tell?”

  Beatrice glanced between the women, settling her gaze on Miss Gill, willing her not to let go of her hand.

  Donna shoved Miss Gill into Beatrice, and they kissed again. Beatrice’s knees buckled from the sensation of her secret crush’s hands sliding around her waist and sprawling across her fuzzy back.

  Peggy admonished her, tugging at her arm. “Abby.”

  Miss Gill finally pushed Beatrice away. “Bea, we can’t do this. You shouldn’t even be in here. You’re a minor.” She avoided Beatrice’s eyes as she scratched at her forehead.

  Beatrice’s heart plunged into her shoes. The last few days were the brightest she’d ever experienced in all of her high-school years. No, even long before that.

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “You’re too young,” Miss Gill said, seeming frustrated.

  Beatrice glared at her and then shoved her way toward the exit. She hiked up the stairs into the thick night air, her eyes blurry with tears. She searched frantically for Quentin’s bike, but apparently someone had helped themselves to it earlier in the evening.

  Miss Gill huffed up the stairs after her. “Bea, I’m sorry.”

  “Leave me alone,” she sobbed through hiccups.

  “I didn’t mean to mislead you.” She touched a hand to Beatrice’s cheek. “I’m very attracted to you, but I shouldn’t be,” she added through mournful eyes. “It just isn’t right.”

  Beatrice flung Miss Gill’s hand away and dashed off down the street.

  “At least let me give you a ride,” Miss Gill called out. “It’s so late.”

  Beatrice ignored her and continued down the sidewalk, grumbling and kicking a crushed beer can out of her path.

  A squad car rolled up, and the officer followed Beatrice for a moment.

  “You’re Charlie Darby’s girl, aren’t you?” he asked, sounding certain of the answer.

  She nodded through her tears and kept walking.

  “Why don’t you get in the car, darlin’? You’re too young to be out gallivanting alone in this city at this ungodly hour.”

  Beatrice exhaled, exhausted from the evening’s denouement. She got in the car, tucked her chin to her chest, and swore that if one more person told her she was too young for anything, she’d clobber them.

  “Now what kind of business does a teenage girl got at D’Addorio’s?” the officer asked in his kindliest father-figure voice.

  “It’s a restaurant,” she said softly, at the moment too heart-broken to realize the potential crisis.

  “On Mondays it’s a closed restaurant.”

  “I must’ve got my restaurants mixed up,” she said, still sniffling.

  The officer looked ahead as he drove, his fat, freckly hands gripping the wheel.

  “Just so you know, they got nothing but riff-raff that hangs out there. You ought to steer clear of them places, an impressionable youngster like yourself. Next thing you know, they’ll have you…” He tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel as he drove. “Don’t know how they ever got a liquor license, to tell ya the truth, but I know darn well the community ain’t too pleased having that kind of establishment around here. Them doors should be padlocked and all them loons sent straight to the asylum.”

  His sentiments seeped into her skin like poison. She wanted so badly to speak up and tell him he was wrong, but what could she say? Scream at the top of her lungs that the women in Pixie’s weren’t the deviants everyone thought they were? Who’d listen to her anyway? Besides, it was clear the die had been cast in this man’s mind long ago.

  “My point is you’re a good girl, Bea. You don’t want to be associatin’ with the people in that kind of place.”

  As the officer rattled on for the rest of the ride home, Beatrice humored him with a few “yes sirs” until he stopped his cruiser at the curb in front of her apartment building.

  “Are you going to tell my mother?”

  “I’ll make a deal with you in memory of my old friend Charlie,” he said. “I don’t catch you coming out of that joint anymore and your ma never has to be the wiser.”

  She smiled politely over the urge to tell the ignorant bastard to go to hell.

  *

  Shortly after one a.m., Beatrice climbed the fire escape with the stealth of a cat burglar and straddled the sill of her bedroom window. She thought she’d made it, too, except for the blinding flashlight shining in her face. She shrieked like she’d witnessed the dead rising.

  “Where ya been, Bea?” Quentin asked. The light of the full moon cast an ominous glow across his face. He stood in his baggy pajamas, waiting for an answer, his blond hair poking up on one side like a rooster’s comb.

  “What are you doing in here?” she asked as she stuffed herself through the window and tumbled to the floor.

  “I asked you first.”

  She got to her feet and smoothed down the front of her clothes. “None of your beeswax.”

  “It is my beeswax when my little sister is out carousing with the lunatic fringe.”

  Though alarmed by the accusation, she played it cool. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. The basement under D’Addorio’s?”

  She gulped air and tried not to look guilty as she kicked off her shoes. “What about it?”

  “Okay, if that’s how you want to play it. I noticed you borrowed my bike, too. You put it back?”

  After a moment of his glare bearing down on her, she caved. “Someone stole it.”

  He shook his head. “You take my bike to some seedy dive you shouldn’t be anywhere near and then get it stolen. That’s rich, Bea.”

  He shone the flashlight directly into her eyes.

  She walked past him toward her bookshelf. “You don’t care about that stupid old bike, and you know it.”

  “Maybe so, but I do care about you disgracing our family name.”

  She ignored him as she began clawing at the books for her diary.

  “Not even going to deny it?”

  “Where is it, Quentin? Where the fuck is my diary?” Her heart pounded against her chest as she scanned the entire shelf.

  “What language. Did you learn that from your librarian friend, too?”

  “Quent, I’m not messing around with you. It’s my property.”

  “You’ll get it back. But I must say it was quite an interesting read. It’s no wonder you wouldn’t want it to slip into the wrong hands.”

  She stiffened as the gravity of the situation fully dawned on her. He’d read her diary. How was she going to explain its contents?

  “You dirty louse,” she said as indignation took over. “You have nothing better to do than rummage through my stuff?”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault. All I did was borrow the dictionary, and the thing practically fell into my hands. You should’ve done a better job hiding it, especially since it’s nothing but smut.”

  “How dare you? That’s an invasion of my privacy.”

  “The way I see it, it’s my duty to protect this family and you, since you obviously don’t know how to use the common sense God gave you.”

  “You’re not my father, and I don’t have to listen to you. Now get out of my room.”

  “I wouldn’t be so smart with me if I were you. How do you think Mother would react to what you’ve been up to this summer at the library with Miss Gill?”

  Beatrice licked her dry lips. “Quentin, you better not say anything to Mom. You don’t even know what you read. It’s just a si
lly little collection of miscellaneous ideas. You’ll upset her over nothing. You know what a neurotic she is.”

  “What do you mean? That stuff you wrote isn’t true?”

  She said no out of desperation, but inside she ached at having to deny her feelings. Would it be so bad if she told her family the truth, let them know who she really was?

  “It better not be,” Quentin said as if on cue. “Because that’s some sick shit you wrote, and if you think Mom’s neurotic now, just let her take a gander at that.”

  “Okay, okay. Now give me my diary.”

  “What about that librarian? Is she really that way? I’m sure her boss would like to know about her friendships with teenagers.”

  “No, no, no, she’s not like that.” Beatrice stammered, trying to control her growing agitation. “Look, it was just some junk I was doodling for a story idea. That’s all.”

  He eyed her with skepticism. “I always knew you were an oddball, but that story’s awfully odd, even for you. I hope you’re going to use a pen name if that’s the kind of crap you plan to write.”

  “You just don’t understand the avant-garde.”

  “The avant what?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Then what were you doing sneaking out to that gin mill tonight?”

  “Research.” She grasped for a believable lie. “For my story.”

  “Listen to me, Bea.” His tone was dead serious. “I’m telling you this for your own good. If anything’s going on with you and that depraved cradle robber, you better end it.”

  “I told you there’s nothing. Now quit badgering me.”

  “Don’t you set foot in that joint again either. I mean, God, you know Mother hasn’t been able to handle things since Daddy died. Do you really want to send her completely over the edge?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “All right then. Now don’t let me find out you did anything like this again, or I’ll tell Mom.”

  “I said all right, Quent. You want me to swear it in blood?”

  He pulled her diary from the waistband of his pajamas and held it out to her.

  “Eww, disgusting.” She grabbed it from his hand and slowly closed her bedroom door until she squeezed him out.

  Clutching her diary across her chest, she collapsed onto her bed and stared at the ceiling, letting the tears streak down her temples.

  *

  After another sleepless night of thinking and imagining, shuddering in the ecstasy of her desire for Miss Gill, and then writhing from the shame, Beatrice greeted the next morning with renewed hope. She was leaving for college in less than two weeks, leaving behind the reproving eyes of her nosy brother, mother, and old Officer Fatso to start life on her own as a grownup. Surely the real reason Miss Gill said she couldn’t be with her was because she was afraid of losing her job. But Beatrice had a plan.

  As the late-August sun rose into a golden hue, she strolled to the library, kicking pebbles and stepping over chewed stogies abandoned in the street by old Italians at the bocce court. She quickened her pace at the thought of Miss Gill and their future.

  She approached the library’s entrance just in time to meet Miss Gill walking out, carrying a small box of personal items.

  “Miss Gill, what are you doing?”

  “What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m leaving. By the way, in light of recent circumstances, you can call me Abby.”

  Her demeanor rattled Beatrice. Abby was usually so unflappable, so carefree. Now her chiseled features were distorted with angst.

  “Why?” Beatrice asked.

  “Why don’t you go ask that old biddy? I got the sack, Bea. Some hooey about insubordination.”

  “How could she do that? It’s not even true.”

  “Oh, that was only an excuse,” Abby said. She folded her arms. “But of course that isn’t the real reason. She’s always had her suspicions about me, but I’m betting some son of a bitch fink saw or heard something and went blabbing to Draper. I got her number. She’s always had it in for me, but since you started, she’s had a bug up her can.”

  “Me?” Beatrice blinked away Quentin’s threat.

  “It bugged her that we were always together, whispering or laughing, the jealous goat. Back in June, she accused me of being flirtatious with you. I had a good mind to tell her to blow it out her tailpipe, but did I? No, like an obedient little pissant, I just said, ‘Why Mrs. Draper, I didn’t mean anything improper. Guess I’m just too friendly. But I’ll be sure to mind my Ps and Qs from now on.’ Then I made up some bullshit about a date I had the night before with a handsome druggist. That shut her pie hole.”

  Beatrice grinned, remembering why she loved Abby. “Come with me to Newport,” she said, her mood lightened with possibility.

  “What?” Abby asked through a chuckle, her crinkled forehead relaxing.

  “Come to Newport with me when I leave next week,” Beatrice pleaded. “They have lots of places that would hire you. You could work in their library, or even give tours of the mansions. We could get an apartment together after I finish freshman year. Please, Abby.” Beatrice gently touched Abby’s hand as it supported the cardboard box. “Please.”

  Abby’s eyes watered. “Oh, Bea, aren’t you just the sweetest thing. But you know we can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, come on, let’s be reasonable. I’m thirty-one, and you’re not even eighteen yet.”

  “But I will be soon. I love you, Abby, and you wouldn’t have kissed me if you didn’t have feelings for me.”

  “Sure, I feel something for you, honey, but this is the wrong time and the wrong place, and it’s time for me to get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “What do you mean? Where are you going?”

  “Peggy and I have had it, that’s what. We’ve been talking about moving down to the Village with Donna, and that’s what we’re going to do. It’s the only place we can be free. You just worry about doing well in school, okay?”

  “But it isn’t fair,” Beatrice said, her voice cracking.

  “I know it isn’t, but I’ll find a job in the City. I’m not sweating it. Good luck, honey. It’s been a kick knowing you.”

  Abby went in for a quick hug and started off, the heels of her flats clicking as she walked down the rest of the concrete steps.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Beatrice said, wiping away tears.

  Abby whirled around and approached her with a warm smile. “I’m sorry, Bea. You’re going to fall in love some day with someone your own age. Just give it some time.”

  As Beatrice watched Abby’s shape get smaller down the street, her breaths grew shorter until she collapsed on the step and sobbed into her knees.

  *

  Beatrice had wandered through her workday in a fog, unable to eat or focus on anything except disappearing into one musty corner of the library or another whenever her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. When five o’clock finally arrived, she punched out and jogged all the way home, huffing and puffing in the humid city air. How foolish she’d been for laying her soul bare to Miss Gill and thinking they could ever be more than friends. Even worse than that, were dingy basement bars, leering eyes, secrets, and lies all that lay ahead for her? Could being in love with a girl be anything more than heart wrenching? She thought about her father and how much she missed him, how he had been the only person on earth who always made her feel she was perfect just the way she was. Maybe if she could meet a boy who would treat her as nicely as he had, the idea of marriage wouldn’t seem so unappealing after all.

  She stopped running when she reached her bedroom, which now seemed as oppressive as the air outside. Panting and beaded with sweat, she drew open her closet door, sat at the foot of the bed, and stared in earnest at the clutter of hanging dresses and frilly blouses her mother had bought her. She pulled her diary from under her mattress and began tearing it up, page by page, until her thoughts and dreams were a pile of confetti.

  Chapter Four<
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  A breeze off the Atlantic snuck onto Salve Regina’s campus, tempering the Indian-summer sun that stung Beatrice’s forearms as she read Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” essay. After only six weeks of college life, she’d settled into a comfortable routine. She was making her own decisions, keeping up with her studies, and delighted to trade two irritating family members for one gum-smacking roommate. Sailing along on the ebb and flow of this new life, she found even the anguish associated with Abby Gill’s memory had begun to wane. With no hope of running into Abby or temptation to contact her, Beatrice could focus on excelling as an undergrad.

  On this particular afternoon, she focused on stemming the flow of chocolate ice cream dripping from her cone down her fingers as she studied on a bench. Every now and then she eyed the familiar blonde coed contending with math problems, a human outgrowth of the Quad’s lush lawn. Lying on her belly, the girl nibbled her pencil’s eraser as her feet dangled in the air.

  “Hiya, Gwen,” said a handsome letterman as he passed her. He was about the fourth one of his kind, and by then, Beatrice had grown tired of counting them.

  As her attention drifted to Gwen’s rear end curving up like a firm nectarine, Beatrice licked the remaining blob of ice cream so hard it toppled from the cone into the crevice of her literature book.

  “Damn it,” she muttered. With no napkin, she used her thumb to clean the mess, but the more she wiped the ice cream, the longer and wider the smear grew. She casually glanced up and noticed the blonde approaching.

  “Hanky?” Gwen offered, poised like a Roman goddess from Beatrice’s Art History textbook.

  “Oh, thank you,” Beatrice said as her grimace melted into a smile. She took the hanky from Gwen’s fingers, lingering on her eyes, as round and brown as Milk Duds. “I’m such a clod.”

  “Don’t be silly. You should’ve seen me eating my tuna sandwich earlier. I think you’re in my Art History class. I’m Gwen Ridgeway.” She extended her hand.

  Beatrice recognized Gwen as the girl from across the lecture hall she’d been sneaking peeks at since the first week of classes. She gushed as she shook Gwen’s hand with her sticky one. “Nice to meet you. And I’m sure you look lovely eating a Sloppy Joe.”