The Revelation of Beatrice Darby

by Jean Copeland

  “Beatrice.” Gwen finally breathed. “You look wonderful.”

  “Hi, Gwen.” Beatrice smiled warmly. She glanced toward her beautiful niece now clinging to her father’s side, clutching his finger as they exchanged gazes.

  In strode Mrs. Darby brandishing the percolator and a Donna Reed grin. “Surprise,” she exclaimed. The only thing that could have surprised everyone more would have been one of Castro’s missiles sailing in through the parlor window and landing in the apple cobbler. “Finally, the whole family together.” She glanced over at Abby as though she were an intruder. “Bea, why don’t you introduce your friend?”

  “Gwen, Quentin, this is my fr…uh, my roommate, well, my friend and roommate, Abby.” She withered in defeat.

  “How do you do, Abby,” Gwen said, shaking her hand.

  Beatrice disliked Quentin’s expression. “You look familiar,” he said as he approached to shake her hand. “Abby what?”

  “Gill, Abby Gill.”

  “You used to work at the New Haven Public Library,” he said.

  “That’s right.” Abby maintained eye contact. “Bea and I worked there together for almost a year.”

  “This is Joanne,” Beatrice interjected, looking back and forth between Abby and her brother.

  As Beatrice crouched to touch Joanne’s small hand, Quentin pulled the girl away and shuffled her over to an exhausted-looking Gwen. “She needs to go to the potty.”

  Gwen took Joanne’s hand in hers. “She’s just learned to use the potty,” she said, offering Beatrice a plaintive glance before taking her daughter to the bathroom.

  Beatrice and Abby read Quentin’s body language fluently.

  “Mother, can we get to dessert now? We need to get back to the city.” She then paused to glare at her brother. “Traffic into the city’s going to be predictably obnoxious soon.”

  The coffee and apple cobbler neutralized tensions somewhat, enabling all parties attending the dessert summit to communicate in stilted pleasantries. As Quentin regaled everyone about his lightning-fast rise to northeast sales manager and his twelve percent pay increase, Joanne wandered over to Beatrice and fingered the chunky bracelet shining on her wrist.

  “You like my bracelet?” she asked, smiling down at the girl. Joanne looked up with Gwen’s breathtaking marble-brown eyes. Beatrice hadn’t known it was possible to feel so much love for someone she barely knew.

  “Jo Jo, don’t pester Auntie Bea now,” Gwen said kindly.

  Beatrice smiled warmly at Gwen as her niece attempted to climb into her lap.

  “Joanne,” Quentin said sternly. “Get down. We have to go bye-bye now.”

  The girl started to whine as Quentin snatched her off Beatrice’s lap.

  “Quent, darling, we don’t need to rush off right this minute, do we?” Gwen glanced helplessly at Beatrice.

  “Yes, we do. You need your rest. Mother, thank you for dessert. We’ll see you for dinner Wednesday night, all right?”

  Mrs. Darby appeared confused as Quentin and Gwen hastened to gather their things. “Yes, dear. I’ll bake a nice strawberry-rhubarb pie.”

  As Beatrice swirled the coffee grounds around the bottom of her cup, she felt the gentle touch of Abby’s foot on hers.

  “So long everyone. Don’t be a stranger, Bea,” Quentin said for his mother’s benefit before ushering his family out the door.

  “Bea, you didn’t even say good-bye to your brother,” her mother said. “I raised you with better manners than that.”

  Beatrice slumped in her chair, feeling every bit as dirty as her brother’s manner had insinuated. She couldn’t bear to look at Abby at that moment or respond to her mother. What a disaster. After spending days mustering up the courage to have the conversation with her mother, all it took was the challenge of her brother’s judgmental eyes and all that bravado had deserted her. Clearly, Abby was right. Her family would never accept the truth. Quentin already had his suspicions about them, and all the play with semantics in the world wouldn’t convince him otherwise.

  In the car, Beatrice clung to Abby’s hand as she lay reclined in the passenger seat relishing the warmth of the setting sun on her face.

  “I’m glad we went today. Now I won’t have to feel guilty about avoiding them until next year.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” Abby said, clutching the steering wheel. “Comparatively speaking, of course.”

  “It was hideous and dreadful, thanks to my asshole brother, and if I ever get stupid enough to entertain another visit, I’m going to make my mother sign an affidavit swearing they won’t be there.”

  “Hmm, and I thought I was the dramatic one in this pair. It was pretty awkward, but it could’ve been worse.”

  “I can’t believe that bastard. What does he think I’m going to do to my own niece? Does he think it’s contagious? Does he think my depravity is going to rub off on her?”

  “Don’t say that, Bea.”

  “What? That we’re depraved? That’s what they think about us.”

  “Now do you understand why I’ve been trying to discourage this mission of masochism you’ve been on?” Abby said softly.

  Beatrice was too riled for reason. “Can you believe that Gwen? She didn’t say one word about his behavior.”

  “She looked like she wanted to.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  “She’s his wife, Bea. What did you expect?”

  “Gwen was never a follower. She would always tell you exactly what was on her mind. That’s what I loved about her. So this is what married life’s done to her? Besides, she was my best friend before she was his wife. That should count for something.”

  “Sorry, but husband trumps girlfriend—it’s the law of the land. It’s one of the things we have to accept.”

  Beatrice’s voice rose with indignation. “You always say that, Abby. ‘It’s one of those things we have to accept.’ Well, you know what? I’m sick of accepting things that aren’t right. I’ve only seen my niece three times in three years, and I wasn’t even allowed to hold her in my lap. I’m supposed to accept that?”

  “If you don’t, it’ll eat you alive.”

  “Abby, it baffles me how you can accept things that are so fundamentally wrong. In my book, doing nothing about injustice is what eats you alive.”

  “Oh boy. I thought you were joking when you mentioned being martyrs before. What do you propose we do, Bea? Tell your brother and your mother to fuck off sideways? Then you’ll never see your niece or the new baby. On the upside, we won’t ever have to schlep up here on a Sunday again.”

  Beatrice let go of her frustration in a quiet stream of tears. She lifted her and Abby’s interlocked hands. “Why is this wrong?”

  Abby squeezed her hand tighter and shook her head.

  “She’s a beautiful little girl,” she said after a few moments. “She has your smile.”

  Beatrice wiped her cheeks as a smile flitted across her lips. “Yeah, I thought so, too.”

  “Someday she’ll be old enough to make her own judgments—hopefully she’ll make the right ones. Then you can tell Quentin to fuck off.”

  “Maybe I just won’t answer any phone calls from Connecticut anymore.”

  “There’s that, too.”

  *

  The birth of Quentin and Gwen’s second daughter, Janie, two months later, came and went with little fanfare extended to Beatrice. A simple notice arrived in the mail, a photo of the scrunched-faced infant, her vital statistics, and tiny images of pink rattles, bottles, and bows scattered across the background. When Janie’s christening invitation arrived in the mail without the words “and guest,” Beatrice went ahead with her “will not attend” act of protest in spite of Abby’s objections.

  “You’re cutting off your nose to spite your face.”

  Beatrice waved the invitation in Abby’s face. “This isn’t right. I’ve a good mind to call my mother and tell her.”

  “What do you think she’ll say? She’s going to si
de with them. They all think you’re single, so why would they put ‘and guest’?”

  “They think I’m single thanks to me chickening out. Besides, if they knew for sure, they probably wouldn’t have even invited me. Just what every parent wants, a homosexual couple at their child’s christening.”

  Abby brushed a hand across Beatrice’s back. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You planned to tell your mother the last time we were there. It’s not your fault you were ambushed by a living Norman Rockwell painting.”

  “I should’ve made the announcement when we were all there together, killed everyone’s hopes and dreams with one stone.”

  Abby grimaced. “I think you handled it the right way. If I were you, I’d go to the christening and leave everything else alone.”

  “I’m not going. I’ll send my gift, but I’m not going.”

  Abby grabbed Beatrice’s wrists and swung them affectionately. “Bea, honey, you’re making an awfully big deal out of this.”

  Beatrice choked down her emotions. “It is a big deal, Abby, to me. They didn’t even ask me to be a godmother.”

  “You knew Gwen’s sister was going to be Joanne’s.”

  “What about Janie’s? It’s probably going to be one of Gwen’s snooty cousins.”

  “What did you expect? You’ve hardly spoken to them in the last five years.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  “Mostly yours for being so stubborn, always standing on principle.”

  “My principles matter to me.”

  “More than knowing your nieces?”

  “I don’t want them knowing me as someone I’m not,” Beatrice said. “Do you remember the look in Joanne’s eyes when Quentin pulled her away from me?”

  “She was just confused.”

  “I’d rather have them not know me at all than be humiliated like that again.”

  *

  Although she’d been disappointed to see the invitation to Janie’s first birthday party also left off “and guest,” Beatrice accepted and took Abby anyway. The curious ache to see Joanne, now four, and meet Janie had won out over righteousness. Besides, another year away from her family had altered Beatrice’s perspective enough that she slowly began to view people’s ignorance and prejudice toward her as their problem, not hers.

  Late September at the Connecticut shore was as close to heaven as Beatrice would ever get. The leaves on the maple trees boasted golden highlights, while the faint aroma of a salty breeze made its way into Quentin and Gwen’s yard. Abby and Beatrice sat in the afternoon sun sipping lemonade, amused at the antics of Joanne and Janie scampering around the yard with two of their cousins on Gwen’s side and several neighborhood children.

  “Is there any way I can persuade you to get me a refill,” Abby whispered, shaking her glass of ice cubes.

  Beatrice smiled when she noticed her mother hovering around the refreshment table. “I’m going to cash in on your fear of my mother tonight,” she whispered lasciviously. “And not even feel guilty about it.”

  “You’re so fresh,” Abby said with a wink. “I hope that’s a promise.”

  Beatrice approached the refreshment table draped in a tablecloth of country red-and-white checks. Her mother stood rearranging bowls of macaroni salad, baked beans, and a gelatin mold Gwen had set out earlier.

  “You should be relaxing, Mom, enjoying your grandkids,” Beatrice said as she refilled Abby’s glass with lemonade.

  “Oh, I’m fine helping Gwen tidy up. I’m happy you could make it to Janie’s party, what with being busy grading all those papers.”

  Beatrice offered a cool smile. “I’m also a contributor to several academic and literary journals, and working on my own collection of short stories.”

  Mrs. Darby replied with a clueless nod. “Did you have enough to eat? You’re getting too thin. Maybe Gwen will give you a plate to take home.”

  “No, thank you. I’ve eaten plenty and will probably need a Brioschi before bed.” She stifled a belch.

  Mrs. Darby glanced over at Abby lighting a cigarette. “I’m wondering, dear. Does your friend have to go everywhere you go?”

  “No, she doesn’t have to go everywhere with me. I want her to come with me. If you’re offended by her presence, we don’t have to stay.”

  “Don’t be so touchy, Bea. She’s anything but offensive.”

  “Then there should be no problem with her coming to our family gatherings.”

  “She’s not family.”

  The suggestion scorched her insides like the briquettes in Quentin’s new, custom-made stone barbecue pit. But Beatrice remained cool, challenging her mother with a pointed stare. “She’s my family.”

  Her mother blinked rapidly as she tried to regard Beatrice patiently. “She’s not. You should be here with your husband,” she whispered, “not some woman in her forties. And your children should be playing with your brother’s.”

  Beatrice glanced around the yard at the oblivious party guests. “Jesus Christ, Mom, is me finding a husband really all you ever think about? With all that’s going on in the world, is that the most pressing issue of the time?”

  “Now what are you raving about?”

  “Boys are dying over in that jungle in a war we don’t even belong in, and the country is still so divided over civil rights. That hasn’t shifted your focus out of the kitchen for even a minute?”

  “Oh, Bea, you and your causes. The war is a necessary evil to keep those commies from coming over here. As for that Reverend King, he should know better than to be so brash and outspoken down South. Everyone knows how they feel about coloreds.”

  “That’s sort of the whole point of all his speeches—that we should all see each other as people, regardless of color, religion, or who they love.”

  Mrs. Darby rubbed her eyes as though bored with the discussion. “I’ve told you before, Beatrice, you’re never going to change the way people think. Instead of wasting your energy trying to fix the world, use it to spruce yourself up so you can attract a nice man.”

  Beatrice gently pushed her mother’s hand away as it attempted to tuck Beatrice’s hair behind her ears and away from her face. “Honest to God, you’re a broken record.”

  “Pardon me for wanting what every mother wants for her daughter.”

  “What about what I want? In all your plans and schemes, hasn’t it ever occurred to you to ask me?”

  Her mother folded her arms and sighed impatiently. “Okay, Beatrice. What do you want?”

  “I want my life the way it is. I may not be the girl next door with a picket fence, Simplicity patterns, and my own Brownie troop, but I’m happy—just the way I am.”

  “Oh, Beatrice. You can’t possibly be happy living alone. A woman needs a family and children to care for.”

  “I don’t live alone. I live with Abby and you know that.”

  After a disapproving scowl, her mother glanced around and lowered her voice. “Don’t you worry about what your neighbors will think? I mean living with another girl was fine while you were in college, but at your age? It just isn’t normal.”

  No matter how often she heard them, reminders of how abnormal she and Abby were never lost their bite. “Truth is I don’t give a rat’s ass what my neighbors think, or anyone else for that matter. And I don’t need a goddamn husband to make me feel normal.”

  The ambrosia Mrs. Darby was piling into a bowl plopped onto the tablecloth. “Please don’t use such vulgar language around me, and stop using the Lord’s name in vain. If you keep up with these disrespectful outbursts, you won’t be welcome here.”

  “I haven’t felt welcome here in years.”

  “Now you’re being absurd. Of course you’ve been welcome. You’re the one who’s chosen to stay away.”

  “Because I can’t stand coming here and listening to you gripe about the numerous ways in which I’ve let you down. What about what I have accomplished? I’m a college professor, a published essayist, and a volunteer with several cha
ritable organizations. Why is it so hard for you to be proud of who I am?”

  “Because I don’t know who you are—aside from being the spitting image of your father. Boy, the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree in your case. Always had to be contrary, your father, always insisted on marching to a different drummer. I can clearly see you’re exactly like him.”

  Beatrice smiled, dipped her finger in her mother’s bowl of ambrosia and licked it. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  She trudged over to the picnic table where Abby was observing a heated debate between two of Gwen’s girlfriends over fabric softener. She grabbed Abby’s arm, barely slowing to allow her to crush out her cigarette butt.

  “Is something wrong?” Abby asked, looking confused.

  “Yeah, you might say that.” Beatrice finally released her when they arrived at their car parked on the elm-lined street.

  “Beatrice,” Gwen called out from the veranda that stretched across the front of the house. “Are you leaving?”

  “Yes,” she barked. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “Wait. Can I talk to you?”

  “Go ahead,” Abby said. “I’ll be in the car.”

  Gwen descended the steps and met her halfway down the stone sidewalk lined with fluffy purple petunias. “Were you going to leave without saying good-bye?”

  “I’m sorry, but my mother got to me—again.”

  Gwen grinned through the tension. “Mothers are good for that. God, I hope I won’t be that way with Joanne and Janie.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Beatrice said dryly, trying to be lighthearted.

  “Bea.” Gwen fumbled for words. “It’s been a long time since we’ve spent any time together. You know, what happened in my kitchen, that’s water under the bridge. You were upset about our friendship changing. It was an emotional time for both of us. That shouldn’t keep us estranged anymore.”

  All these years later, and Gwen was still clinging to an innocent rationale for the kiss. Beatrice couldn’t blame her, really. A solution that everyone could live with was impossible. All Beatrice would have to do was go along with it and everything could be normal again. She could have her friend back and even have relationships with her nieces—so long as she consented to her part in the sham, pretended she never had feelings for Gwen and that Abby was just her roommate. She remembered that night at Pixie’s in the fifties and Peggy’s explanation of Passing, how Clare Kendry denied her ethnicity to be accepted by the white community. Was this situation any different? On the other hand, if people preferred their delusions, who was Beatrice to force the truth on them?