Mrs. Darby shook her head. “You don’t have children, so you can’t possibly understand how it feels knowing your own flesh and blood is going to burn in hell. You ought to have counsel with Father Perrelli before you go home. I’ve always felt guilty about not being stricter with you kids about church. And now look—I’m being punished for it.”
Beatrice smirked. “You’re being punished.”
“You don’t go around telling everyone about this, do you?”
“I don’t have to. The billboard I took out on Fifth Avenue reaches a wide audience.”
“I can do without your sarcasm, Beatrice. Obviously, you have no use for social traditions, but I am still your mother and deserve respect.”
“I think everyone deserves to be treated with respect.”
Mrs. Darby closed her eyes and folded her hands across her chest. “I’m very tired, Beatrice. Thank you for coming by.”
Her mouth open, armed for a war of words, Beatrice stared dumbly at her mother’s eyeballs twitching under her eyelids. No matter how convincing her logic was, clearly, she would never change her mother’s opinion.
“Sure,” she said after a long silence. She shuffled across the green-and-white tile floor and stopped at the door. “I hope my news didn’t upset you.”
“Not at all. It’s what every mother longs to hear.”
Beatrice stewed in the elevator all the way down to the lobby, disappointed with herself for not only letting her mother have the last word again but for allowing her to see that she’d got to her, again. The train ride home had softened her enough to smile when she saw Abby waiting in the car outside the station.
“Hi.” Abby pulled away from public view before leaning to the side to receive Beatrice’s peck on her cheek. “How is she?”
“I almost gave her a second heart attack telling her about us.”
“Oh, Bea, you didn’t,” Abby said, shaking her head. “I guess that means she’s not moving in with us.”
“After hearing the news, she’d prefer dying alone in her apartment to our cozy digs in the suburbs.”
“You sure picked a fine time to spring it on her.”
“No time like the present.”
Abby smiled and grabbed Beatrice’s hand. “If she’s still speaking to you, it turned out better than I’d expected.”
Beatrice closed her eyes and reclined her seat, exhausted from the exchange. “I’m twenty-eight years old. I really thought I’d gotten over my need for her acceptance.”
“She’s your mother. We all want our parents’ approval, no matter how old we are.”
“You’ve done all right without it.”
Abby shrugged. “So have you. And you never know. She may just need a little time to digest the news.”
Beatrice laced her fingers through Abby’s. “Oh, you really think so?”
“No,” Abby said, and squeezed Beatrice’s hand playfully. “Hey, how about I run you a nice, hot bath when we get home? With a glass of chardonnay, too?”
“Only if you’ll join me.”
“In the wine or the bath?”
“Both.”
Beatrice glanced at Abby’s profile, warmed by the laugh lines around her mouth and the familiar curves of her face. She smiled to herself, grateful that for every leap of faith she took in life, Abby’s love and loyalty were constants.
*
Although Beatrice had hoped her mother would eventually come to terms with her identity, she never did. After six months of dodging the issue in conversation altogether, Mrs. Darby died of a heart attack.
Chapter Seventeen
Gwen had delivered the news by phone two days earlier, but seeing her mother’s name arranged on the sign in white peg letters stopped Beatrice cold in the funeral home’s foyer.
“Are you ready?” Abby asked after a moment.
Beatrice stared at the letters until they blurred.
Abby’s comforting caress on her back finally encouraged Beatrice to step toward the viewing room. As the instrumental to “Nearer My Heart to Thee” filled the room, she and Abby walked toward Quentin, Gwen, and their daughters hovering by the flower-lined casket twenty minutes before calling hours began. Her eyes pooled when she recognized the heart-shaped rose bouquet draped with a Mother sash that she and Abby had selected from a florist’s catalog. She let her eyes slowly drift to the body lying in the casket. Her mother looked so peaceful, as though she were simply asleep, her gray hair arranged in the neat bun she’d always worn, her head cradled in a pillow.
Beatrice knelt before the casket, signed the Trinity, and mouthed a perfunctory prayer, her insides tangled in a knot of regret. Had she made an awful mistake all these years? Was it her fault they’d never developed the warm mother-daughter relationship she’d always longed for, especially after her father died? If she was honest with herself, she’d never been very good at agreeing to disagree. She’d never given up hope, though, that her mother would somehow find a way to accept and be proud of the woman she’d become. Now, that hope was hours away from being sealed forever inside silk and mahogany. As she rested her hand on her mother’s, cold and draped in rosary beads, her tears flowed without restraint.
Toward the end of the wake, in the fluorescent light of the ladies’ room, Beatrice leaned over the sink and blotted the mascara streaks from under her vacant eyes. The mixed aroma of roses and tiger lilies lingering in her nostrils reminded her of her father’s funeral two decades earlier. She pictured her mother shaking her head at the drunken Darby uncles and her father’s cronies from the bar carrying on at O’Shaughnessy’s Pub after the burial. It had been the worst day of her life, and they were all laughing as though his death was the social event of the season. As punishment, she’d licked her fingers and run them across the platter of corned beef at their table while they were lost in slurred storytelling.
It wasn’t until much later that she realized they seemed happy because they were celebrating their beloved friend, a man who loved life and brought such joy to theirs. She reveled in the memory of her father convincing her she was skilled enough to play outfield for the Yankees, teaching her how to deal with stage fright at the spelling bee, and taking her out in the yard to show her how to box like Sonny Liston so when her brother or anyone else bullied her, she could defend herself. She’d never thrown a punch in her life, though, honoring her father’s belief that if she couldn’t win an argument with words, it couldn’t be won.
Then she thought of her mother’s legacy. She was such a bitter woman, always blaming others for her unhappiness, expending so much energy wishing for things that would never be. Who would be celebrating her life after she was laid to rest? Softly, the tears fell again.
“You okay?” Abby said as she crept in.
Beatrice nodded with a wry smile. “I’m a real head case, huh? Who da thunk it?”
“She’s your mom, no matter how difficult she was.” Abby squeezed her shoulder. “She loved you, you know that. She only wanted the best for you.”
“Why didn’t I try harder to understand that?” Beatrice whimpered, taking Abby into her arms.
Abby tucked her head under Beatrice’s chin and held on tightly. “Because you were trying so hard to understand yourself.”
*
After the funeral service, Beatrice crossed the restaurant’s red-and-black swirled wall-to-wall carpet toward the bar to get much-needed cocktails for Abby and her. Cigarette smoke clouded the rectangular stream of early afternoon sunlight pouring into the dusky room. She planted her elbows on the bar and smiled to herself, relieved to be on cordial terms with Gwen and Quentin and uplifted at the thought of slowly building relationships with them and her nieces.
“Hope you’re not still tryin’ to dodge me, Darby.”
She smirked at the voice. Turning to its owner, she gave him a playful punch on his chest. “Rob, so glad you could join us here.”
Her old friend, Robert, clasped her hands in his. “How ya’ doing?”
&nbs
p; “I’m all right. God, it’s been so long. What’s going on with you?”
“Oh, you know, can’t complain. Got a great wife, a couple of kids, a house in East Haven, the whole deal.” He handed her a picture from his wallet.
“Your wife’s beautiful,” she said, “and your boy looks just like you.”
“She wanted to come meet you, but she had to take Debbie to the doctor’s. She got strep or something.”
“That’s awfully nice of her. And nice of you to come, too, Rob. It means a lot.”
“It’s nothing, Bea. I’ve always thought of you as a good friend, you know? A pal.” Robert looked down, his shyness still as charming as when he was a teenager. “Jill and me, we’d like to have you and your friend over for dinner some time, you know, to catch up under happier circumstances.”
“Abby and I would like that.” She smiled awkwardly, adding, “You know, she’s more than just my friend.”
He nodded bashfully. “Yeah, I kinda figured. You did all right there, Darby.”
“How come you’re not falling over in shock or disappointment or horror?” she asked playfully.
“Eh, what for? It all makes perfect sense. What other reason would you have to turn down a mug like this?” He guided his chin to a profile with his index finger and laughed.
Beatrice grinned, pleased that neither time nor age had diminished his goofy appeal.
“So, how about tomorrow night? Or do you have to hurry home to the Big Apple and your big-shot writing and professor jobs?”
“How do you know that about me?”
“I ran into your mom downtown not too long ago, and she told me.” His gestures became animated as he relayed the encounter. “All I says to her is ‘hello, Mrs. Darby,’ and the next thing you know, she takes me by the arm, telling me all about how you’re a college professor and had stuff published in magazines. So I says to her, ‘Sure, rub it in my face that I let her get away.’”
“She said that?” Her eyes began to pool from a strange twist of vindication and sorrow. How little she had truly known about her mother.
“Jeez, you okay, Bea?” Robert’s face grew somber as he patted her arm. “Sure, it’s a tough thing. Boy, was she proud of you.”
Beatrice stood up straight and wiped under her eyes. “I’m really glad you came,” she said, clinging to him.
As Beatrice approached the table with their drinks, she was awed by the natural beauty of Gwen and Abby sitting together, immersed in conversation as her nieces wriggled around in their laps. She handed Abby her 7 and 7 as she sat and entertained Janie by making her Raggedy Ann doll dance on the tablecloth.
After finishing her discussion with Abby, Gwen glanced around Joanne’s head toward Beatrice. “How are you doing?”
As Beatrice admired their four faces, a collage of unconditional love, she experienced a sense of peace she’d always longed for.
“I’m doing okay,” she said with a smile.
About the Author
Jean Copeland is a writer and English/language arts teacher at an alternative high school in Connecticut. Taking a chance on a second career in her thirties, Jean graduated summa cum laude from Southern Connecticut State University with a BS in English education and an MS in English/creative writing. She has published numerous short fiction and essays online and in print anthologies.
In addition to the thrill of watching her students discover their talents in creative writing and poetry, she enjoys the escape of writing, summer decompression by the shore, and good wine and conversation with friends. Organ donation and shelter animal adoption are causes dear to her heart. The Revelation of Beatrice Darby is Jean’s debut novel.
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