The Revelation of Beatrice Darby

by Jean Copeland

  As she processed his words, she glanced up at the small wooden crucifix nailed to the wall above her kitchen archway. Her mother had given it to her when she moved in, warning that if she didn’t display it somewhere in her apartment, a world of untold misfortune would befall her.

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “It’s your dime,” Ricky said impatiently.

  “I had an encounter last night,” she whispered.

  “I knew it.”

  “How on earth could you have possibly known it? You disappeared.”

  “You’re fresh meat, Bea, gorgeous meat at that. It was bound to happen. Your place or hers?”

  “Oh, Ricky, that’s what makes it even more awful. It wasn’t at anyone’s place. It was in the ladies’ room.” She made a distressed gurgling sound. “In a stall.”

  Ricky chuckled. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Yes,” she replied, still distressed.

  “Welcome to the club, Beatrice Darby.”

  “What, the pervert club? Ricky, what does this mean? I’m a lesbian, aren’t I,” she declared more than asked, whispering as though Hoover had a tap on her telephone.

  “Seems that way to me. Think about it. You once described sex with your own boyfriend as feeling like having a primate on top of you, yet you enjoyed anonymous sex in a bathroom with a woman you just met.”

  “It wasn’t anonymous,” she protested. “I knew her name.”

  “Her last name?”

  “Oh, my God, Ricky.” She wound the telephone cord around her finger until it pulsed purple. “I am a pervert, just like they say. Decent girls don’t do things like that. I mean, I didn’t even resist when she made her move.”

  “Because it’s something you’ve wanted for a long time and probably never thought you’d get. Look, you can cry about it all you want, but this is life.”

  “This is really what it’s like to live a homosexual lifestyle?”

  “Not always. Not if you can meet someone,” he said, pausing as though searching for his own reassurance. “But sometimes it’s the best we can do. They don’t make it easy for us. I mean you either do what society expects you to or be who you are. You don’t get to do both. Personally, I choose to be Ricky Rodriquez, flaming homosexual.”

  “I don’t want to be a deviant or any of those other terrible things they call homosexuals. I just want to be me.”

  “If this is you, Beatrice Darby, I think you’re nothing short of fabulous.”

  Beatrice sank into a chair at her kitchen table. “Ricky,” she whispered. Tears flowed from the release in sharing with someone who truly understood.

  *

  Beatrice and Paul’s evening of soul food and poetry readings at a supper club in Harlem had ended too early for her to sneak away without a well-planned excuse. She usually hovered in a state of agitation whenever she went out with Paul, but this night her anxiety was higher than normal after her recent conversation with Ricky. Plus, it was their six-month anniversary. Excuse-making on anniversaries was at best in poor taste. One of her mother’s famous quotes, never refuse your husband, haunted her all evening to the point that she couldn’t remember any of the memorable poems they’d heard. Although they weren’t even engaged, the same pressure still applied.

  As she followed him into his apartment, the pungent scent of stale marijuana resin assaulted her nostrils.

  “Have a seat, baby doll.” He winked and extended his arm in a flourish toward the musty royal-blue velour sofa.

  So anxious from anticipation, she resorted to her usual plan of faking yawns. “Oh, I could drop my head on my pillow right now and sleep till noon.”

  “That sounds like a fantastic idea,” he said, approaching with two glasses of brandy. “That is after I make love to my beautiful girl on our anniversary.” He leaned against the sofa pillows after handing her the brandy, which she guzzled like a shot. “Take it easy.” He laughed as he gently kissed her neck. “You’ll be out cold before I even get you out of your panties.”

  “Paul, don’t talk like that. It’s lewd.”

  “I’m sorry, baby. Just a little joke. I can’t help it that you drive me to distraction.”

  Her shoulder muscles stiffened as the brandy burned her stomach. It was a futile situation really: either she submitted to his wishes against her own or refused and risked upsetting him.

  “Paul, I’m really tired. Do you think we can just watch a little TV, and then you can take me home?”

  “Take you home? Bea, it’s our anniversary. Wouldn’t you like to spend some time together and then wake up in my arms in the morning? I want to show you how much I love you.”

  She took his hand and held it when it started making its way across her breast. “Oh, Paul, you show me you love me all the time—like tonight. You bought me a lovely dinner and cocktails at the club.”

  “Yes, but darling, this is the best part.” He tried kissing her lips, but she gave him her cheek.

  “Paul, I told you I’m worried about getting pregnant.”

  “And I told you, I use protection. Don’t worry about anything. All you have to do is lie back, relax, and enjoy it.”

  Beatrice’s stomach tightened in dread. They’d made love several times since that dreadful first time in her apartment. She hadn’t found it pleasurable then or on any occasion thereafter. For a while, she’d wondered what was wrong with her. Why didn’t she enjoy it the way Paul did? At least she assumed he did. He sounded more like someone pushing a piano uphill by himself, but afterward he always seemed happy. She once overheard two girls talking enthusiastically about sex at the campus coffee shop but couldn’t imagine what all the fuss was about—until Judy and the bar bathroom. She cringed at their animalistic behavior in the dingy stall, yet she couldn’t stop replaying the encounter all week.

  “Atta girl,” he said, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra.

  “No, Paul. I can’t.” She pushed at his chest to make him stop.

  “Aw, do we have to go through this shy-girl routine every time I want to be with you? It’s better when you relax and let it happen. How about some reefer?”

  “No, I want to go home.” Her eyes began filling with tears.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”

  She was tempted to grab his convenient excuse and run with it, blaming the collard greens at Ma Rainey’s, but she realized that she simply couldn’t go through with this act anymore.

  “That’s not it, Paul.”

  “Paul,” he repeated. “Why don’t you ever call me dear or sweetheart or anything? You sound so formal every time you say my name.”

  She hesitated, stared at the floor as his fingers laced between hers.

  “Bea, what is it?” he asked gently.

  “I’m sorry, Paul, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t think I want to see you anymore.”

  He unlaced his fingers and moved away from her on the couch as though she’d informed him she had a communicable disease.

  “What are you talking about? Where did this come from?”

  Despite the confidence in her feelings, this obscure, lingering sense of obligation to him, or to social conformity, held the words at bay until she finally forced them out.

  “I don’t want to marry you.”

  His eyes smiled with relief. “Is that all? All right, you don’t want to talk about marriage. Then we won’t discuss it until you’re ready.”

  She summoned the courage to look him in the eye. “That’s the thing, Paul. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

  “Isn’t that a little extreme? Okay, so you’re not ready now—understandable. You haven’t even finished your degree yet. We’ll put it on the shelf for a while and just focus on dating.”

  “You don’t understand. That’s not the life I want for myself.”

  He sloped forward, elbows on his knees, fingering the scruff on his chin. “Does this have anything to do with that woman, Donna, wh
o came to the bistro?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, obviously, she plays for the other team. Has she tried to influence you?”

  A rush of indignation flooded in. “Oh, I get it. If she’s a lesbian, she must be some sick predator trying to sink her claws into my young, innocent flesh, is that it? And I’m too stupid to figure it out.”

  “Christ, Bea, that’s not what I meant at all.” Hurt flickered in his boyish eyes. “All I meant was if you were questioning something in yourself, now would be the right time to explore it.”

  His sympathy stripped her anger down to self-consciousness. “Why do you think I’m questioning myself? What makes you say that?”

  “Nothing, other than your vigorous opposition to the mere idea of marriage. And let’s face it; you’re not exactly warm toward me.”

  A quiet rage boiled below the surface. How she despised when people attempted to expose her, intentionally or otherwise. She was about to lash into him until she remembered the implication in Queen Gertrude’s line from Hamlet about how the lady doth protest too much. She relaxed her rigid posture and softened her tone.

  “I just don’t think I’m good with relationships.”

  He scratched at his stubbly chin for a moment. “Perhaps an experience with a woman might clear up the confusion, show you which side your bread is really buttered on. Maybe we can arrange something together, so you’ll feel more comfortable.”

  Beatrice was aghast at the suggestion—if he was, in fact, suggesting what she thought he was.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked. “This is city life, Bea. The enlightened and the urbane aren’t hung up on ideology and tradition that preclude us from exploring the beauty of what the natural world has to offer.”

  Beatrice sat quietly for a moment, absorbing his strange idea. She wanted to be urbane and enlightened, but if that was the way one became those things, she’d stick to being awkward and artless.

  “If you’re up for giving it a try,” he said, “I’d prefer to find someone more feminine than Donna.”

  She studied him as though he were an alien life form. “I think I’m gonna stick with my original plan of breaking up with you.”

  Suddenly, she felt like the alien. As he regarded her in icy silence, she glanced around at the untidy bachelor pad, praying he’d hurry up and snap out of it so he could take her home.

  After a moment, he let go a gust of breath and gazed straight ahead. “I can’t believe you’re serious about this.”

  “I’m sorry, Paul.” The words fell out automatically, but in a way she was sorry. He was a decent man and probably would have made a good husband.

  “Could you just…could you not say my name.”

  “I should go.”

  Beatrice got up and shuffled to the door, hoping his famous chivalry would kick in after all this, and he’d offer to escort her to the subway entrance at this late hour. No such luck.

  Beatrice navigated the desolate streets to the number-four subway entrance alone. While breaking up with Paul felt like breaking free from invisible tethers, she couldn’t help but wonder if Frost ever considered the isolation and fear of the unknown one encountered while wandering down that road less traveled.

  *

  The trip home to New Haven for moral support and to regain some sense of normalcy turned out to be a huge miscalculation on Beatrice’s part. She sat at the table with her chin resting on her knuckles as her mother ladled more split-pea soup into her bowl.

  “I can’t understand why Paul would break up with you.” Her mother sat down next to her and watched her eat. “What did you do?”

  Beatrice ignored the insinuation that was typically her mother. “I’m sure I didn’t do anything other than be myself. Maybe I wasn’t pretty enough or smart enough for him. He’s a professor, you know.”

  “Oh, that’s nonsense, Bea. There isn’t a man in the world you’re not pretty enough for.”

  Although Beatrice loathed the dishonesty, subterfuge was necessary to avoid the five-alarm lecture that would have ensued had she informed her mother she’d ended things with Paul.

  She shrugged. “I think maybe he just wants to play the field.”

  Her mother nodded knowingly. “Well, if he wouldn’t wait for sexual relations with you until you two were married, then good riddance. There’s nothing I dislike more than low moral character.”

  Beatrice shook away a dark, steamy flashback of Judy and the bathroom stall. “You’re so right, Mom.”

  “Are you going to see Gwen and Quentin today?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m only here for the day, and I’m sure they’re busy.”

  “Why are you assuming? I’m sure Gwen would love to see you. She’s just the loveliest pregnant woman I have ever seen.”

  Beatrice rolled her eyes.

  “Did you even call and ask if she’s free?” Her mother reached for the phone.

  “No, don’t,” Beatrice blurted. “I, uh, I figured it would be nice if you and I could spend the day together, you know, shopping or something.”

  What the hell—what was one more lie?

  Her mother clutched her hand to her chest. “Oh, Beatrice, you’ve never said you wanted to spend time with just me.”

  Beatrice was amazed at the depths to which a desperate person could sink. “Well, then it’s long overdue.” She forced a charming smile.

  Her mother beamed. “Finish your soup, darling. Then we’ll go downtown and look for a nice new dress for you.” She began poking at her upswept hair in the hallway mirror. “Oh, I know. We’ll call Mrs. Swanson and ask her to join us. Her son, Eric, recently passed the bar, and he’s still single—but not for long you can bet.”

  “Mom, we just got through saying we’d spend the day together, just the two of us. Why would you call Mrs. Swanson?”

  “Eric Swanson, a handsome, single lawyer, that’s why.”

  Beatrice rose and took her bowl to the sink. “Then you and Mrs. Swanson can go shopping together. I’ll head back to the city now.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Bea, there’s no need to get testy.”

  “I’ve good reason to be testy, Mother. I’m not here for matchmaking. Don’t you think I’d like some time to get over my broken heart from Paul?”

  Borrowing from her mother’s playbook, Beatrice saw no reason not to run this Paul thing into the ground.

  “I’m sorry, dear. I suppose that was rather insensitive.”

  Beatrice hoisted herself onto the counter, letting her feet dangle against the cabinets. “Are you proud of me?” The question took them both by surprise.

  Mrs. Darby moved away from the mirror and poked her head around the corner. “What kind of question is that?”

  “A simple one—at least I thought it was.”

  “Would you get down from there?”

  “Can you just answer me?” Beatrice said before sliding off.

  “Of course I am. You’ve stayed out of trouble, you’re studious, and best of all, someday, you’re going to make me a proud grandmother.”

  “I stay out of trouble.” Beatrice pondered the statement. “That’s my greatest achievement in your eyes?”

  “It’s nothing to sneeze at, Bea. A girl getting pregnant out of wedlock is a terrible thing. Oh, the shame it brings on the family. Things like that always get out, and no matter what the circumstances, it always reflects on the mother. How could I show my face in church or anywhere else in town after that?”

  “How does having a daughter at New York University reflect on you?”

  “Oh, it’s a wonderful accomplishment, Bea, but like I’ve said before, once you marry and start a family, it won’t matter.” She smiled broadly. “I can hardly wait till you make me a grandmother.”

  “Gwen’s going to make you a grandmother this summer.”

  “I know that, but it’s different when your own daughter has a child. Gwen has a mother who’ll probably be there during those first few
weeks. I’d just be in the way.”

  “I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for me.”

  “Now don’t be discouraged because things didn’t pan out with Paul. Mr. Right is out there—you’ll see.”

  Beatrice could almost feel her fingers wrapping around her mother’s neck. “Mom, can we please drop this subject and go shopping?”

  “If you insist, but one of these days you’ll see I’m right. Anyhow, today I’d like to look at some new curtains for your room.”

  “Oh? Are you finally turning it into that sewing room you’ve always wanted?”

  Her mother regarded her strangely. “No, darling, for when you finish this degree and come home. You know, I was thinking, you can get a job as a secretary at one of the law firms downtown. This way, you’ll be close by, and what a marvelous way to meet a lawyer.”

  Beatrice recoiled from the maniacal gleam in her mother’s eye. “Wait a minute. Rewind for a second. Who said I was moving back in here when I finish school?”

  Her mother shot her that what-a-stupid-question look Beatrice had been raised on. “Well, of course, I just assumed—I mean where else would you live, now that you won’t be bringing home a husband?” She straightened out the dish towel stuffed through the refrigerator handle and muttered, “Yet again.”

  “I’m staying in the city.”

  The announcement had Beatrice and her mother squaring off at opposite ends of the kitchen.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  Beatrice arched an eyebrow in defiance. “No, but I do think I’m well on my way.”

  Her mother grabbed the dish towel and started waving it about.

  “I have been worried sick about you living in that Godforsaken city, biting my tongue, trying to be supportive of these little endeavors of yours, and now, of all things, you say you’re not coming home. What are you going to do, wait tables for the rest of your life?”

  “I’m going to teach.”

  Her mother was too fired up on righteous indignation to be rational. “You’ll be twenty-four years old this year. When are you going to grow up?”

  Beatrice fought the tears as she always had, refusing to give her mother the satisfaction of knowing she still knew the right buttons to push.