The Revelation of Beatrice Darby Page 16

  “Since when do you bite your tongue about anything? And since when have you ever supported anything I wanted to do without a barrage of negative remarks to make me feel guilty?”

  Her mother propped her hands on her hips. “How quickly you forget that I let you go to New York and pursue this master’s degree.”

  “I was twenty-one years old,” Beatrice shouted. “I didn’t need your permission.”

  “Why, you little ingrate. I see you’ve forgotten how I let you run off to Salve Regina when you were only seventeen. Do you know how many other mothers make their daughters go to work right after high school? God knows we could’ve used the money in this household. But do you ever think of that when you’re condemning me? Just like your father, God rest his soul—always putting himself first.”

  “Don’t talk about my father like that,” Beatrice said quietly. “The man is dead.”

  “Naturally, you stick up for him. What did I ever do to make you turn on me like this?”

  “I never turned on you. I’ve just had it with you trying to control me. No matter what I accomplish, it’s never good enough because it isn’t what you want me to do. Quentin does whatever he wants, and whatever he does makes him a prince in your eyes. Do you think all I aspire to be is someone’s wife and mother, so I could end up fifty years old, stuck in a four-room apartment with nothing better to do than make my kids miserable? That’s not where I’m headed, Mom, so you might as well get used to it.”

  For a moment, Beatrice almost wished she could unsay her words as her mother stood stunned like a deer full of buckshot in the seconds before it fell.

  “Well, I guess you told me,” her mother said meekly. “You’re all grown up now.”

  “Mom, I—”

  “I don’t think I feel like shopping today, Beatrice. I need to lie down for a little while.”

  Beatrice trailed her mother into the small living room, watching as she lowered herself on the couch like a store mannequin falling over in slow motion. Pangs of guilt were already gnawing at her insides. Should she apologize for what she’d said? It’s not like what she said wasn’t true—it was. That’s what made her all the more sorry. Really, what else did her mother have in her life than to nitpick through Beatrice’s?

  “Do you want me to heat you up some of that soup?” Beatrice asked after a long while of standing like a sentinel by the couch.

  “Not now. I’m too upset to eat.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Well, you did.”

  “You upset me, too.”

  “Apparently, that’s what us mothers do, nag and upset our children, wanting everything for them that we never had ourselves. It’s a constant struggle, but of course, you’ll never know what it’s like ’cause you won’t be making that sacrifice.”

  Beatrice shook her head, swishing the words “I’m sorry” around in her mouth. She opted for principle instead. “Can I get you anything, a drink of water?”

  “No, thank you. I wouldn’t want to be perceived as controlling for asking you for a glass of water.”

  Without a word, just some cabinet slamming, Beatrice poured her mother a glass of water from the faucet and took it to her.

  “I’m going to head home. If I leave now, I can pick up an extra shift at the bistro.”

  “Could I impose upon you to get my pills before you leave?”

  Beatrice went into the kitchen and brought out one Valium for her mother. “Here you go.”

  “Why didn’t you bring me the bottle?”

  “Your prescription says to take one pill as needed.”

  “Now who’s the controlling one?” her mother said, swallowing the pill dry. “Would you please get me the bottle, so I won’t have to get up later?”

  Or until tomorrow. She reluctantly handed her mother the prescription bottle.

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I’ll manage. I always do.” Her mother closed her eyes.

  Beatrice descended the stairs to the street slowly, her body weight making each old wooden step creak. How come every time her mother insulted her, she was the one who ended up walking away remorseful? At least now she could walk away.

  Chapter Eleven

  During her shift at the bistro, Beatrice scurried about like a pigeon trying not to get kicked, straining to stay centered on her duties. Thanks to the recent tumult in her life, she mixed up an order, jumbled her recitation of the specials twice, and miscalculated a customer’s check. As she headed into the kitchen, she flashed back to that psychology-class documentary, wondering if the old thousand-volt nightcap wasn’t in her immediate future. When Antonio slapped the order-up bell, it was the final strike to her nerves, sending two dishes of raspberry cheesecake cascading to the floor.

  “What the hell is the matter with you, Beatrice?” Antonio snapped.

  “You could take it a little easier on that bell, Tony,” Ricky said before addressing Beatrice. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded in appreciation. “My head’s a little out of whack.”

  “Honey, if it’s only a little out of whack, you’re ahead of the game. How about coming out for a drink tonight? You sure as hell look like you could use one.”

  “I don’t think so, Ricky.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of the big, bad dyke?”

  Beatrice shushed him as she glanced around the kitchen. “What if Judy’s there? Or someone else like her? I don’t want to do that again.”

  “Then don’t,” he said. “Trix, nobody can seduce you without your permission. If you see a girl you like, get her telephone number and call her for a date.”

  Beatrice felt like she was turning the color of the raspberries she was wiping up from the floor. “Oh, my God, Ricky. I could never. And stop calling me Trixie. You make me sound like a tart.”

  “You should be so lucky. At the rate you’re going, you’ll be settling into dull, depressing spinsterhood in no time.” He gave her his best Norma Desmond glare from Sunset Boulevard before retreating to his stack of dirty dishes.

  “Why is everyone so convinced I’m destined for spinsterhood?” She huffed before departing for the dining room. But as she carried out the replacement desserts, the sting of Ricky’s observation lingered. If she didn’t want men and was afraid to set foot in that kind of bar again, how could she expect anything else? As fraught with complication as relationships seemed, she didn’t want to be alone forever.

  “Darby, table seven is waiting to order,” snapped the maître d’.

  As if her thoughts weren’t scattered enough, she glanced over at table seven to see Donna sitting with a woman whose back was toward Beatrice—a brunette with shoulder-length hair, not the short, choppy hair that still won her attention on women she passed on the street.

  Donna noticed and waved her over.

  Slowly, she headed toward the table, her heart thrumming in her throat. Could it be? After all this time? Oh, please let it be.

  “Beatrice.” Abby jumped up to give her a hug.

  “Hi,” Beatrice said softly, distracted by the warmth of Abby’s arms around her. Despite the moment’s awkwardness, she melted into its familiar tenderness.

  “How nice to see you again.” Abby cupped Beatrice’s shoulders and eyed her from head to toe. “You’re all grown up.”

  Beatrice beamed at the highest of compliments from Abby. “Your hair is longer,” she said, reaching to touch the ends, then retracting her hand. “I like it.”

  “Thank you.” Abby casually fluffed up the sides. “You’re as lovely as ever.”

  “I feel like I’m intruding,” Donna said. “You two ought to find someplace a little quainter.”

  “Donna, she’s working.” She looked up at Beatrice with those eyes, two marigolds sparkling in the fluorescent sun. “I’m sorry, Bea. Don’t let us keep you.”

  “You’re not,” she said with enthusiasm reminiscent of her library days. “Let me check the kitchen, and th
en I’ll be right back to take your order.”

  Beatrice flew into the kitchen and braced herself against the large stainless-steel refrigerator, gasping for breath. Her hands were actually shaking as her mind reeled with possibilities. The restaurant was closing in an hour. Would Abby wait for her so they could talk? Should she take Ricky’s advice and ask for her phone number? After all this time, could Abby have an interest in her?

  It was all too much to consider at the moment. She needed to keep her mind on her job and save this conjecture for an appropriate time. But for the rest of her shift, Beatrice stole glances at Abby every chance she got and flattered herself to think Abby had been doing the same.

  *

  To Beatrice’s delight, Abby and Donna finished their last cups of coffee as the restaurant was closing.

  Donna signaled her over to the table. “No change needed,” she said, folding her wallet and stuffing it into her chinos.

  Beatrice thanked Donna effusively but never lifted her gaze from Abby for more than a second or two. “Well, it was nice seeing you both.”

  “You, too, Bea,” Abby said, her eyes flaming with second chances.

  Donna hesitated, then glanced conspiratorially at Abby. “Say, Bea, we’ll be down the street at Dandy’s for a bit. Why don’t you stop in when you get done here?”

  “That is if you’re free,” Abby added.

  “Oh, I’m as free as a spinster,” Beatrice replied with an awkward grin. “I don’t know why I said that.”

  Abby giggled. “I don’t know either, but I’m glad you are.”

  *

  Beatrice wrung her trembling hands, scanning each face as she and Ricky walked into Dandy’s smoky atmosphere simmering with energy. As they approached the bar, Donna and Abby waved at her from a corner table.

  Over the din of chatter and Sam Cooke’s “Twistin’ the Night Away,” Ricky smirked and shouted, “Boy, you’re like flypaper in these joints.”

  “Shush,” Beatrice said in his ear. “That’s Abby.”

  “The famous library Abby?” Ricky bounced on his tiptoes around Beatrice’s shoulders for a better view.

  “Shut up, will you? Stop that! They’re going to see you.” She shook her hands out by her sides and groaned with nervousness.

  “She’s beautiful.” He paused and wrinkled his forehead. “You are talking about the one that doesn’t look like Brando, right?”

  “Stop it. Oh, my goodness—they’re coming over here.” She grabbed his arm and pivoted his skinny frame toward the bar.

  “Still drinking Coca-Colas?” Abby asked from behind.

  Beatrice glanced over her shoulder. “Sure, but with rum in them.”

  “Atta girl.” She clapped her hand on Beatrice’s shoulder.

  After the introductions, Beatrice and Abby found themselves alone in conversation at the bar. Beatrice studied every contour of Abby’s familiar face awash in the neon from a Rheingold beer sign over the bar.

  “What a delicious coincidence that you ended up in New York,” Abby said, twirling a drink stirrer between her teeth.

  Beatrice nodded and sipped her drink. “I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other sooner. I’ve been here almost two years working on my master’s at NYU.” Her cool, fluid speech camouflaged her knees bobbing on the bar stool.

  “Master’s degree. Good for you. I’m not at all surprised.” Abby sat on a stool next to Beatrice and signaled for the bartender. “What’s it been, about six years now?”

  Beatrice took another hearty sip for courage. “I’m not jail bait anymore.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve really blossomed into a beautiful young woman.”

  Beatrice had an urge to poke Abby in the arm to make sure this was real. Her first love, so fierce and unattainable, was sitting in front of her looking at her the way she’d dreamed she would a thousand times—with nothing standing in their way.

  “When are you done? Are you going home to Connecticut when you finish?”

  Beatrice shook her head. “I’ll be done in May, but I’m planning to look for a teaching position here. There’s nothing for me in Connecticut.”

  “Congratulations. And hey, since you’re staying, we can be friends,” Abby said excitedly. “I mean, if you want to, that is.”

  Beatrice felt her mouth twitch at the second part of her statement. “Of course I’d want to.”

  Abby smiled and draped her hand over Beatrice’s. “I never forgot you, Bea—and not for lack of trying.”

  Beatrice gazed at her, savoring Abby’s skin on hers.

  “Did you forget about me?” With her narrowed eyelids and shimmering lavender lips dragging on her cigarette, Abby was something right off a movie screen.

  Beatrice was struck with the same love-sickness that had moistened her palms and wrought mayhem on her digestion back in ’57. “Out of sight, out of mind maybe, but you never left my heart.”

  Abby grinned as she tapped her pack of cigarettes on the bar. “You must explain how anyone hasn’t snatched you up yet.”

  “I was seeing one of my professors for about a year, but it didn’t work out.”

  “Unlucky her.”

  “It was a him.”

  Abby arched an eyebrow and grinned. “A him, huh?”

  Beatrice sprang into defense. “It was so hard, Abby. First you left, and then my brother married my college roommate whom I was hopelessly in love with, and I had to face all the relentless questions about why such a pretty girl doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Take it easy, Bea. We’ve all veered off down that road at least once—all except Donna. She’s been chasing skirts since she was in diapers.”

  The joke lightened the mood only for a moment.

  “I couldn’t do it anymore,” Beatrice said. “It didn’t feel right, and I knew it had nothing to do with Paul.”

  Abby listened intently, drawing on her cigarette.

  “I mean I kept waiting to fall in love with him,” Beatrice said, “but it never happened. I even thought letting him make love to me would change things, but it only made things worse. I really tried to get along, to be like a normal girl, but it didn’t work.”

  “You are normal, Bea, just not in the eyes of all those square conformists.” Abby reassured her with a pat on the hand. “Your life is just beginning. Don’t waste your best years chasing illusions.”

  “I don’t think I can tell the difference between reality and illusion anymore.” She downed the last of her drink. “I mean isn’t a woman’s reality motherhood and being a wife? Is that really all we’re born to be?”

  “Not all of us.”

  “Yeah, the misfits.”

  Abby scoffed. “Misfits, oddballs. We are who we are. True, most people are offended by it, but I refuse to live my life apologizing to everyone.”

  “I wish I had your self-assurance.”

  “If you’ve decided you’re going to be true to yourself, then it sounds like you do.”

  “So why don’t I feel better about it?”

  Abby sucked at the filter of her nearly finished cigarette and tilted her head to spew out the smoke. “Probably the futility of it all. Either you disappoint others or you disappoint yourself. No matter what you choose, someone’s gonna be unhappy. Personally, as long as I have a say in who I disappoint, it won’t be me.”

  “Do you tell people?”

  Abby narrowed her eyes. “I’m self-assured, not self-destructive. My friends know, but we’re all alike anyway. Nobody else needs to know.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing as living a lie if you can’t be honest with everyone?”

  Abby was suddenly grave. “Marrying a man you’re not in love with and faking orgasms the rest of your life to make your mother happy is living a lie. What I’m talking about is self-preservation. Do you want to have a job, Bea? A safe place to live?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then you better learn the difference.” Abby clutched Beatrice’s hand and smiled. “H
ey, this subject is so heavy. After all this time, don’t we have something more interesting to talk about?”

  Beatrice smiled and reached for her new rum and Coke. “You’re right—like what?”

  “Let’s grab a table in the corner and talk about that kiss at the library.”

  Beatrice blushed as she followed Abby’s still-firm and shapely figure as it danced under a snug wool skirt. She pushed Abby’s chair in for her and added, “What do you say we talk about that one you planted on me in Pixie’s?”

  Now Abby was the one blushing. “I can’t believe I did that. I was clearly intoxicated.”

  “Hey,” Beatrice said through pouty lips. “You mean you didn’t want to?”

  “Are you kidding? I wanted to all right, but I should’ve had the self-control not to—and would have if I weren’t so sloshed. That’s why kids don’t belong in joints like that.”

  “It’s still the most exciting thing I’ve ever experienced,” Beatrice said.

  Abby grinned. “Can I take that to mean you’ve never made love with a woman?”

  Beatrice blushed again, this time at visions of Judy’s magnificent maneuvers in the toilet stall. “Well, uh, made love? No. I haven’t even been on a date with a girl.”

  She felt comfortable with her omission since what she and Judy did had nothing to do with love.

  “I’m sorry,” Abby said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “You didn’t. My track record with girls speaks for itself.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you only think so.”

  “Really? Hmm, let’s see—there was that time when I was a teenager and lunged at you outside a public library. And then, of course, two years ago when I made a pass at my sister-in-law.”

  “The college roommate?”

  Beatrice nodded with a trace of a smile.

  “Oh, Bea.” Abby couldn’t help laughing. “You shared a room with her at school but waited until after she was married to make a pass at her? Whatever possessed you?”

  “Clearly, my unrequited love for her got away from me.”