The Revelation of Beatrice Darby

by Jean Copeland

  “I know. I heard most of it,” she replied with an impish smile and then turned grave. “The next time you come for dinner, I expect you to bring Abby—right, Quentin?”

  A barely audible “mmm” served as his begrudging agreement.

  “Sure I will.”

  “Say, what are you going to do about your mother?”

  Beatrice offered a half smile. “I’ll tell her eventually, once I stop trying to avoid her for simply being her.”

  “Now I really know you’re crazy,” Quentin said.

  “Quentin.” Gwen stared at him.

  “I honestly don’t think anything will change my relationship with my mother one way or another. The next time she guilts me into visiting her, she’ll learn the truth.”

  “Forget one Manhattan,” Quentin said. “You better prime her for that with a pitcher of them.”

  “Can you take me to the train station now?” Beatrice asked Gwen.

  “Sure. While I make him one last drink, Joanne wants you to kiss her good night.” She shut down Quentin’s anxious expression with a stern glare. “Down the hall to the left.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Inspired by the hope from her peace mission to Gwen and Quentin’s house, Beatrice had decided that the next morning she’d approach the subject of buying a house with Abby again. Despite Abby’s interpretation, it wasn’t all about political grandstanding. It was about the promise of the American dream: a space to call one’s own, and the stability and security found only where seeds could be planted and roots take hold. It had always been important to Beatrice to stand up for what she believed in. Shouldn’t she do it in her relationship as well?

  She sat at the table brooding over her coffee and toast, waiting for Abby to emerge from the shower. She was determined to resolve the issue once and for all that morning. She had bargained with herself into believing Abby would be reasonable and see that she was right, but what if she wasn’t? They’d be caught in a standoff. Then what? An ultimatum? If so, was she prepared to follow through? The alternative was relinquishing something deeply meaningful to her. And that wouldn’t do either.

  Abby padded into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. “If we don’t have anything planned today, I’d like to go a pottery class.”

  “That’s fine. I have some papers to grade,” Beatrice said listlessly.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Beatrice braced herself with a sip of coffee. “I’m going house hunting tomorrow,” she said, fixing her eyes on her cup as she anticipated the fallout.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m tired of living in an apartment. I want a house, and I’m going to make it happen.”

  “Just like that?”

  Beatrice finally looked into Abby’s eyes. “Yeah, just like that.”

  “What about me?”

  “I hope it’s with you.”

  “What if I say that’s not what I want?”

  Beatrice shrugged. “Then I guess we won’t be living together anymore.” The words sounded like someone else had said them.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Abby, this means a lot to me, obviously more than you know. I can’t make this sacrifice anymore, not for the reason you gave me.”

  “How dare you give me an ultimatum? This has to be the most immature stunt you’ve ever pulled.”

  “You know something? I’m sick of you calling me immature whenever I challenge your word because I’m younger than you. There’s nothing immature about feeling passionate about something that’s extremely important to me. I didn’t want to give you an ultimatum, but there didn’t seem to be any negotiating with you on this.”

  Abby glared at her. “All right, you’re not being immature—just extremely selfish.”

  “You’re being selfish and cowardly. I want this for us, not just me. All you can think about is what other people will think and how your life will be inconvenienced.”

  “Bea, a hell of a lot more than convenience is at stake.”

  “Yes, I know. The sheriff and his posse are fixin’ to ride us out on a rail as we speak. Hey, maybe our new neighbors will be so eager to get rid of us, they’ll offer to buy us out at a profit like in A Raisin in the Sun.”

  “Keep making stupid jokes. That’ll solve everything.”

  Abby walked out of the kitchen with Beatrice trailing her down the hall.

  “Where are you going?”

  Abby stopped and spun around. “Please, don’t let me stand in the way of you freeing yourself from this den of oppression any longer. Happy house hunting.”

  With that, she grabbed her purse and slammed the door on her way out.

  Beatrice slumped in a chair, a pit in her stomach growing as she feared she’d pushed Abby too far. Is this what she truly wanted, to own a home alone?

  *

  By seven p.m. Abby still hadn’t returned home or called. Beatrice had grown increasingly frantic as the hours ticked away. She’d placed a couple of calls to Donna, who denied knowing her whereabouts, but, of course, she was lying. Unable to stay home and watch the clock any longer, she sought refuge in Ricky’s company at Dandy’s.

  “You should cut her some slack,” Ricky said, sipping a daiquiri.

  “You’re a traitor, Ricky. Since when do you advocate hiding?”

  “Yes, I’m out, but look at me. I couldn’t pass if I tried.”

  Beatrice watched his hand flamboyantly poke at his hair.

  “Oh, please don’t tell me you would pass if you could. I can’t take being disillusioned by another person I respect.”

  “All I’m saying is I understand why people do. I’m sure it makes life a lot easier.”

  Beatrice grimaced.

  “Do you know what it was like growing up gay with two older brothers?” He paused dramatically. “They smacked me around regularly, thinking the solution to my femininity was to beat the faggot out of me. The only fruits Latinos can deal with are the ones on top of Carmen Miranda’s head. I had to move more than a thousand miles from south Florida to feel comfortable with myself. So no, I don’t blame Abby if she isn’t beating down everyone’s door singing, ‘Take a Look at Me.’”

  This was all too familiar to Beatrice, a broken record skipping over a nasty refrain. “Okay, okay. I can see I picked the wrong audience to seek sympathy from.”

  “I don’t mean to sound like I’m taking sides, Bea. I just know what it’s like to be afraid. I work in a kitchen. If I get canned, my job is a dime a dozen. Yours aren’t. Once people find out you two are shacking up in a house you bought together, that’s it, the jig is up. Your brother and Gwen accepting you is definitely an exception to the rule.”

  “My brother doesn’t accept me. He tolerates me for Gwen’s sake.”

  “Then consider yourself among the fortunate few.”

  “Abby doesn’t even see her family. She talks to her sisters on the phone occasionally, but her father disowned her years ago when he found out.”

  “That doesn’t help you see her point of view?”

  Beatrice slumped in her seat. “You’re making me feel like a first-class heel.”

  “I don’t mean to, but we’re not all as courageous as you are, Bea. Some of us have more to lose. When you walk down the street, nobody shouts ‘queer’ or ‘faggot’ and throws rocks or empty beer bottles at you.”

  “That happened to you?”

  Ricky nodded and stirred his cocktail.

  “That’s awful.” She shook her head with indignation and sympathy. “But I’m not trying to pass. This is just how I look.”

  “I know, and it insulates you from some of the shit the rest of us have had to take.”

  “I get scared, too, you know. Do you know how nervous I was telling Gwen face to face? When I was with Paul and realized I could never have a normal life with a man, I was absolutely terrified. But I knew I couldn’t be happy if I kept trying to fool myself so I could fit in.”

  “Like I said, som
e people don’t have your courage.”

  “So you’re saying I should just surrender my dream and stay in that apartment for the rest of my life?”

  “I’m saying give her more time.”

  “I’ve already given her four years. How much more time does she need?”

  “How much do you love her?”

  Beatrice sighed. She couldn’t possibly quantify the depth of her love for Abby.

  She left Dandy’s prepared to apologize to Abby for the ultimatum but determined to let her know it was something she wanted in the future. As she walked up the steps to their building, she checked her watch. It was nearly eleven p.m., but their apartment was still dark. Unlocking the door, she assumed Abby had gone to bed already. She flicked on the light and walked toward the bedroom, rehearsing her words so they wouldn’t sound like a complete surrender.

  “Abby,” she said in a raspy whisper. “Are you asleep?”

  No answer.

  When she entered their room, the undisturbed quilt and pillows startled her. Where had Abby been all night? She had to come home eventually, hadn’t she? When she did, how would she react? Would she accept Beatrice’s apology, or had the ultimatum done irreparable damage?

  Beatrice was disoriented when the jingle of the key in the door woke her from a fitful sleep. She looked at the clock. Six forty a.m. She’d fallen asleep on top of the bed in her clothes waiting for Abby, and at last, she was finally home. She smoothed her wild hair as she padded into the living room.

  “Hi,” Abby said tentatively.

  “Hi,” Beatrice said, inching closer. “Where were you?”

  “Donna’s.”

  “Remind me to thank her for lying to me.”

  “It’s not her fault. I asked her to.”

  “I was worried about you. I never even changed out of my clothes in case the police called.”

  “I’m sorry. I needed some time to think.” Abby kept her distance at the credenza where she tossed her keys in a decorative bowl.

  “Abby, I just want—”

  “Bea, I don’t want to lose you.”

  Beatrice charged at her and bound her in an embrace. “I don’t want to lose you either. I’m sorry about the ultimatum.”

  After a moment, Abby pulled back to look at her. “You have a right to want what you want. But I’m a private person, Bea, not an activist. I’m extremely uncomfortable opening myself up to that kind of scrutiny if it’s not necessary.”

  “I never asked you to be an activist, just to share my dreams.”

  Beatrice walked into the kitchen, bristling at the bitter taste of defeat. As she made a pot of coffee, she cried quietly, confronted with the choice of either letting Abby or her convictions go. As much as she wanted to win this debate for all the right reasons, she could never savor any victory if it meant losing Abby. She quickly dried her eyes in the crooks of her arms as Abby came up behind her.

  “You know, um,” Abby began, clearing her throat, “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in taking in an open house or two in West Chester some Sunday.”

  Beatrice grabbed Abby’s hands and pulled her close, scooping her up in a hug. “Do you mean it?”

  Abby smiled. “It wouldn’t hurt to look.”

  *

  Gazing out at downtown New Haven’s skyline of office towers, Beatrice simmered in frustration from the chair beside her mother’s hospital bed. She drove all the way up to New Haven for the third health scare in as many months, and there her mother sat, propped up with pillows, reading National Enquirer as though she were under a dryer at the salon. She murmured her disapproval at Liz Taylor’s romantic escapades and her relief at the distant locations of the latest UFO sightings. Beatrice cleared her throat in an effort to win her mother’s attention.

  “Beatrice, you don’t have to sit here all afternoon,” her mother finally said without an upward glance from the paper. “I’m going to be fine. They’re releasing me tomorrow.”

  “Mom, you have to start taking better care of your blood pressure. You’re in here again, and this time for a heart attack, not indigestion.”

  Mrs. Darby flattened the paper in her lap and rolled her eyes. “It was a mild heart attack, and I do take care of myself.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. Since developing high blood pressure, her mother had neglected to take her medication regularly and follow a proper diet.

  “I think you should give serious thought to Gwen and Quentin’s offer to live with them. You shouldn’t be by yourself all the time.”

  “Beatrice, I’m only fifty-nine. That’s hardly ancient.”

  “But you’re not a healthy fifty-nine. Something could happen to you, and you could die before anyone got to you.”

  “Well, maybe if you called me more often.” She picked up the paper again and peeked over the top for Beatrice’s reaction.

  “I could call you every day, but that’s not going to make you any safer. I really think you ought to move in with Quent.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Bea. They have two wild little girls over there. Their house is a free-for-all.”

  Beatrice groaned as her conscience needled her to pose the dreaded question. “Do you want to stay with me?”

  Her mother chuckled. “How would moving to that filthy city be better for my health?”

  “Abby and I are closing on a house in a few weeks. It’s a nice place in a quiet suburb of Queens.”

  She dropped the paper in her lap. “Closing? What does that mean?”

  “Abby and I are buying a house.”

  “Together? Is it a two-family?”

  “No, Mom, it’s a one-family, a three-bedroom ranch.”

  Mrs. Darby shifted in bed and poked the tabloid with contempt. “Can you believe what this Hollywood has come to? None of them have any morals anymore, everyone sleeping with everyone else.”

  Beatrice grew anxious for her mother to finish processing the news.

  “It’s distasteful is what it is.”

  “Don’t I even get a congratulations?” Beatrice said with a wan smile.

  Her mother closed the paper in her lap and folded her hands over it. “You want me to congratulate you for buying a house with another woman? I don’t even know what to say about that.”

  “This can’t come as a surprise to you. I’ve been with Abby for five years now.”

  “What do you mean you’ve ‘been’ with her?”

  “God, Mom, you really don’t know?” Beatrice scratched her head, beyond flustered. “Abby and I are a, I mean, I’m a, I’m gay, Mom. I’m a lesbian.”

  Had Mrs. Darby’s doctor seen the look on her face then, he would’ve undoubtedly reconsidered her discharge.

  “Beatrice Ann Darby, tell me you’re joking.”

  “This isn’t something to joke about.”

  “I should say not. Homosexuality is a sin, a sickness.”

  “Sin, yes, in an abstract way, but it’s not a sickness. In fact, I know a few straight people with more screws loose than my gay friends.”

  “Gay friends? Good Lord, Beatrice, don’t you know you’re judged by the company you keep? People are going to start assuming you are.”

  “I am,” Beatrice shouted. “I am, and I’m tired of caring what other people think.”

  She clutched the window ledge to steady herself. After an eleven-year journey to feel comfortable in her own skin, one singular glare from her mother threatened to derail the entire process. Out of nowhere tears began streaming down her cheeks.

  She thought she’d stopped needing her mother’s approval long ago and now this? After encountering glowers and whispers during her five years with Abby, including the recent remark by a real-estate broker about being unable to land men as they house hunted, Beatrice believed the experiences had cultivated a skin so thick a knife literally couldn’t cut her. But now she stood in front of her ailing mother, a frightened child wishing for a bed to hide under until the storm of judgment blew out to sea.

  Mrs. Dar
by exhaled a choked-off breath and stared at her as though Beatrice were a cold-war spy.

  Beatrice finally released her own breath, still unable to look her mother in the eye. She reached for a tissue on the nightstand and patted her wet eyelashes. “You have nothing else to say?”

  Her mother casually flipped through the gossip rag. “So, this is it, huh? This is the life you’ve chosen for yourself? All my carrying on about a husband and family year in and year out was a waste of my breath.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a choice,” Beatrice replied.

  “No? Then what would you call it?

  “It’s who I am, Mom. I’m happy with Abby, so the only choice I’ve made is to be with the person who makes me happy.”

  “This is ridiculous. This isn’t who you are. It isn’t how God made you, and it’s certainly not how I raised you.”

  “How do you know this isn’t the way God made me?”

  “Because it’s a sin. It says so right in the Bible. It’s unnatural. God made Adam and Eve so they could procreate. End of story.”

  “It’s not the end of the story. It’s where the narrow-minded think it ends.”

  “I am not narrow-minded.”

  “You never had sex without intending to procreate? You never once had sex and waited on pins and needles for days afterward hoping the rabbit didn’t die?”

  Her mother tossed the magazine at the foot of her bed. “I don’t need to explain to you the personal details of my marriage to your father.”

  “Then why do I have to explain the personal details of my relationship with Abby?”

  “You can’t compare your fling with this woman to a marriage.”

  “Sure I can. Abby and I have a committed relationship.”

  “It’s abnormal, an abomination in God’s eyes.”

  Beatrice gripped the bed’s metal foot rail. “Would you just shut up about it being abnormal and sinful. Just shut up about it. Loving someone is not a sin.”

  “I’d love to know what Bible you’re reading.”

  “I’m not reading any Bible, and if the one you’re reading is telling you that loving and caring about someone is an abomination, you should stick to National Enquirer.”