The Revelation of Beatrice Darby

by Jean Copeland

  “Oh, don’t you? You mean to tell this panel, this entire room that you have absolutely nothing to hide? No secret you’re guarding from the rest of us?”

  Beatrice tucked her trembling hands under her rear end. She suddenly felt trapped, panicked that she was about to be exposed. She glanced at Gwen, who offered her a supportive nod, but what did she know about the desperation of hidden truths?

  “I know your secret, Beatrice,” Claire said, leaning in close to her ear. “And in a moment so will everyone else.”

  Beatrice sprang from the chair, about to rush out of the room.

  “Bea, don’t,” Gwen said. “She’s bluffing.”

  Claire swung around to Gwen. “You may be a legacy, Miss Ridgeway, but you’re still nothing more than a lowly freshman pledge.”

  Beatrice sat down and white-knuckled the armrests.

  “Now we’ll see who’s bluffing. Why don’t you tell everyone how you’re a student here, Miss Darby?”

  “How?” Beatrice repeated, momentarily relieved by the question. “I applied and got accepted.”

  “No, how is your tuition paid?”

  “Scholarship,” Beatrice replied, confidently.

  “Full scholarship?”

  Beatrice nodded.

  “Well done. And without that scholarship, could your parents afford to keep you here?”

  Beatrice swallowed hard and looked around the room. After a moment, she shook her head. A low, collective groan filled the air.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” Claire said, cupping her hand around her ear.

  “No,” Beatrice whispered.

  “We can’t hear you, Miss Darby.” Claire’s voice rocked the room. “Are you too poor to attend this college without your scholarship?”

  Beatrice fixed her eyes on Gwen, whose helpless, sympathetic expression humiliated her even more. Gwen Ridgeway came from old Boston money. How could Beatrice face her now that the truth was out and everyone knew?

  “Does your family own the house you live in?”

  She paused and sucked in a deep breath. “No. It’s not a house either. It’s an apartment.”

  Another gasp from the crowd.

  “You’re not serious,” Claire said.

  Beatrice nodded as she wiped her damp palms on her pants. “I am serious.”

  Claire chuckled. “Delta Lambda is the most prestigious sorority at this school, with a long lineage of women of breeding and refinement. You have your nerve coming in here and taking up our valuable time—”

  “Claire, I asked her to pledge. She’s my friend,” Gwen said, standing in protest.

  “You’re not ashamed to admit that?” Claire asked.

  “I’m proud to. Beatrice is a great girl, and this organization would greatly benefit—”

  “We’ve heard enough from you tonight, Miss Ridgeway,” Claire said.

  “But you’re being very narrow-minded,” Gwen said.

  As Gwen continued to argue her case, Beatrice skulked out the door, thoroughly humiliated. She trotted to the stone wall surrounding the property, choking back her tears, refusing to allow herself to cry over those vicious girls. Why did she need to be part of that business anyway? She’d gotten along fine on her own all her life. Why should now be any different? She thought of Shirley Dandridge and wondered if she was okay.

  Lifting herself up on the stone wall, she gazed up at the starry sky. She should have known from the moment she set eyes on Gwen Ridgeway that she could never have had a real friendship with her, a girl of wealth straight from the social register, so pretty and self-assured. What would she ever have to gain from a friendship with a girl like Beatrice?

  “Well, that was interesting, wasn’t it?”

  Gwen’s voice floated over her shoulder. She climbed up on the wall and sat next to Beatrice.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Joining the rest of the castoffs.”

  “What do you mean? They accepted you.”

  “I thought that was a good thing until I saw what they did to that poor Shirley, and then you. I’m glad you got out of there before they could take it further.”

  “I’m sorry I let you down.”

  “You didn’t let me down. Oh, Bea, I’m the one who should be sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For dragging you into that hornets’ nest. Who needs them?”

  “What did you do, tell them you changed your mind?”

  “No, actually, I never got the chance. When I called Claire a Nazi sympathizer with a fat ass, she revoked my acceptance.”

  Beatrice laughed. “I hope I didn’t ruin everything for you.”

  “Aw, you didn’t ruin anything. Truth is I know these kinds of girls. They’re insufferable—pretentious and catty. Just because they’re from privileged families and in private schools, they think the world owes them something. They call themselves a sisterhood, yet they wouldn’t hesitate to climb over one another to get somewhere, especially with guys. I can’t stand it.”

  Beatrice nodded. “My mother expects me to jump right into the fray. She doesn’t get the part about breeding. She thinks it’ll be so easy for some rich boy to fall in love with me and want to marry me.”

  “I meant what I said in there. You’re a great girl. If some boy lets you go simply because you don’t come from a family with a name, it’ll be his loss.” Gwen gazed up at the stars. “You’re the genuine article, Bea. I’m glad we met.”

  Beatrice smiled shyly, bumping the heels of her shoes against the stone wall. “Me too.”

  “My mother’s going to go ape when she finds out about this,” Gwen said, shaking her head.

  “It looks like we’re both going to need a huge supply of bananas,” Beatrice said, sober as a priest.

  Gwen erupted into giggles as they started walking away. “Let’s hit the soda fountain. Sundaes are on me.”

  “Make it banana splits,” Beatrice said with a grin.

  *

  By the end of freshman year, Beatrice found herself increasingly burdened by her attachment to Gwen, an emotional bond amplified by the fact that Gwen stirred in her all the same shameful physical feelings she thought she’d left behind with Abby Gill. As friends, they were inseparable—evenings studying at the coffee shop, a malted at the drugstore on East Bowery, tandem beauty regimens. Whatever the activity, Gwen and Beatrice gravitated toward it together.

  The most unpleasant part for Beatrice was bearing witness when Gwen would go all to mush over a boy she met at some social event arranged by the college and then having to pretend that she felt the same way about the occasional fix-up by Gwen. It was becoming exhausting.

  “Oh, Bea, he’s so wonderful,” Gwen would gush, and Beatrice would force a smile and attempt to detour the conversation to something less provocative. Luckily, though, Tom or Reggie or Desmond would fade away with autumn’s crimson, winter’s icy white, and spring’s soggy green. Since, according to Beatrice’s mother, women only went to college to meet husbands, Beatrice often stopped by the chapel to send up a quick prayer that Gwen wouldn’t fall into the clutches of some fresh-faced fraternity boy who’d sweep her off her feet and far away from her.

  Recently, however, Beatrice had stopped by the chapel for a different reason.

  “What is your sin, my child?” the priest said through the confessional grate.

  Beatrice hated the smell of the confessional, the tight air reeking of old wood and the strong breath of the Father assigned to return each wayward sheep to the flock. This one’s musty Halls Mentho-Lyptus breath prompted her to bury her nose in her shirt collar.

  “I, uh, I think I’m having impure thoughts.”

  “You think? Well, what is the nature of these thoughts?”

  She tried to identify the Father through the grate but could only make out obscured facial features. “I can’t say. They’re too impure.”

  “I’m sure what you have to say is no more shocking than that of anyone else who’s
dropped by.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said and squirmed on the hard bench.

  “Do you feel that you’re inclined to act on them?”

  “Oh, I certainly hope not.”

  “Are these thoughts of a sexual nature—about a young man you’re dating?”

  Beatrice remained tight-lipped.

  “Are they about a man you’re not dating? A married man perhaps?”

  “No,” Beatrice said softly. “I’d never date a married man. They’re not about a man at all.”

  “I’m sorry. Would you repeat that last part?”

  Beatrice leaned to the side in an attempt to shield her identity from him. “This is very hard for me to say, Father.”

  “I imagine it is, but you can tell me. That’s why I’m here—so you can unburden yourself.”

  Unburden herself. She liked the sound of that. She loosened her balled fists. “Okay, here it goes. I’m, um, I’m having impure thoughts about a girl.” She felt sour hearing the words in her own voice. What must he be thinking?

  “My, well, this is rather serious,” the priest said, and then seemed to remember himself. “But it isn’t the end of the world. You’re not the first young person who’s come to me with this dilemma.”

  Her revelation sparked panic in her as she looked closely into the partition. “Do you see my face? Can I get thrown out of school for this?”

  “Relax, child. No one can read your mind. But I must impress upon you the direness if your thoughts turn into action. That would result in immediate expulsion—not to mention what it would do to your soul.”

  “I don’t know what to do, Father. I’ve tried to stop myself from thinking these thoughts, but I just can’t.”

  “Prayer, child. When we don’t have the strength to fight the demons on our own, we must call upon God. Pray for His strength to help you fight those unnatural feelings every time they occur.”

  “But I have been praying, since last fall. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Clearly, you haven’t been praying hard enough. You’ve got to dedicate yourself morning, noon, and night to eradicating those evil thoughts. If you don’t, a lifetime of self-loathing and dissatisfaction awaits you. Not to mention the fate that awaits your soul in the afterlife.”

  Beatrice sighed, familiar with the fire-and-brimstone bit, having heard it enough from her mother whenever she was spending a lot of time with Robert. Then she could dismiss it because she wasn’t doing anything wrong with him. This was different. All these awful words: demons, unnatural, evil.

  “What should I do?”

  “You’re going to start by saying ten Hail Marys as soon as you leave here. Then go right home and read Leviticus Eighteen, so you can see with your own eyes how God feels about that sort of thing. And then, most importantly, we must begin your education in resisting temptation. Start with Hebrews Chapter Two and Four and Matthew Chapter Four. Come back next week, and we’ll go on from there.”

  “Is that going to do it?”

  “It’s a step in the right direction.”

  “Okay, Father, thank you.”

  “Go with God, my child.”

  Beatrice was about to leave but stopped. “Father?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why would something so unnatural feel so natural to me in the first place? Why would God do that to me?”

  “Oh, this isn’t the work of God, my dear,” he said gravely.

  “If it’s not God then—oh, you don’t mean…” Beatrice’s mouth hung open in disbelief.

  “I’m afraid so,” he added. “If you allow yourself to believe those kinds of feelings are natural, then your struggle to conquer them and the evil that is trying to overtake you is going to be much greater than you ever anticipated.”

  “How did I get on his list? I’m not a bad person.”

  “Lucifer doesn’t discriminate. We’re all at risk, child. It’s what we do with his influence that matters. You can give in to his temptation because it feels good, or you can fight it and win God’s glory in the afterlife. The choice is yours.”

  Beatrice frowned. “Okay, Father, I’ll do my best to resist.”

  “Very good. And remember this, child, ‘Resist the devil, and he will flee from you,’ James Four, Verse Seven.”

  “Right, ‘James Four, Verse Seven.’”

  Just what she needed—having to fight off the devil while trying to maintain a grade point average. She left the confessional feeling worse than when she went in. Although she understood society’s view that it was wrong and as convincing as the old priest was, she simply couldn’t accept that her feelings for Abby Gill and Gwen were the work of Satan. Still, she would do her reading like a good Catholic, and hopefully, when she completed it, she would have those feelings under control and everything would be all right.

  Chapter Five

  Midway through sophomore year, Beatrice had lost her enthusiasm for prayer. It simply hadn’t worked. She met with the Father in the confessional several times after her initial soul-purge, but his words and scriptures did little to stop what dwelled in her heart and body. God, it seemed, had forsaken her, so the best she could do was to keep her feelings locked away and hope she’d outgrow them in time.

  “Hey, Darby.” Gwen knocked on Beatrice’s dorm door and barged in at the same time.

  Lying on her bed, her long legs crossed at the ankles, Beatrice glanced up from The Sun Also Rises at Gwen standing in front of her with an enormous, expectant grin.

  “Guess what we’re doing tonight.”

  “Studying and then going for a burger and shake,” Beatrice said.

  “Bor-ring,” Gwen replied. “It’s high time we mix up our dull routine, my friend.”

  Dull? Beatrice loved Saturday nights studying and eating burgers and fries with Gwen. She daydreamed about it all week. “What do you have in mind?” she asked, eyeing Gwen with suspicion.

  “We’re going on a double date.” Gwen bounced around as she replied, landing on the bed next to Beatrice.

  “Oh, Christ, a double date? With who?”

  “Aaron Douglas and his friend, Phil.”

  “Should I know these people?”

  “Aaron Douglas, the boy I met at the Christmas mixer with Brown. If you’d gone with me like I asked, you would’ve remembered.”

  “You know I wasn’t feeling well,” Beatrice said, trying to ignore the prickly heat on her neck.

  “You always seem to come down with something whenever I try to set you up. You must be allergic to boys.” Gwen giggled.

  “No, I’m not. What a thing to say,” Beatrice said.

  “I’m joking. Gosh, lighten up.”

  Beatrice wanted to kick herself for getting so defensive.

  “What kind of a best friend are you anyway?” Gwen continued. “I’ve only been talking about Aaron for weeks.”

  Beatrice knew very well who Aaron Douglas was—a thorn in her side since the moment Gwen grabbed her by the shoulders in December, proclaiming she had the last dance with the dreamiest man the heavens ever created. She was sick of hearing his name, sick of seeing Gwen’s eyes bloom luminous whenever she talked about how brilliant he was and how he’d captivate everyone in his pre-law classes with his brilliant observations.

  “Why do I have to go? Can’t you go out with him alone?”

  “Sure, I can, and I will after tonight, but Phil sounds like a nice fella, so who knows? Maybe we’ll both finally have the men of our dreams.” She snatched one of Beatrice’s hands and examined the chipped fingernail polish.

  Beatrice’s eyelids grew heavy, savoring the touch of Gwen’s delicate fingers.

  “Look at these nails,” Gwen said. “Are you a part-time bricklayer or something?”

  Beatrice swatted Gwen’s thigh with the pliant novel. “I bite my nails when I get nervous. I can’t help it. Maybe you can fix them for me.”

  Gwen rose from the bed and stretched. “I’m going to have to. I wouldn’t be caught dead with y
ou waving those cheese graters around tonight.”

  Beatrice shuddered. The feel of the emery board scraping across her nails, the pressure of not chipping Gwen’s pristine polish work. But if Gwen wanted to dress her in a blouse made of porcupine needles, Beatrice would gladly consent.

  “What time should I be ready for this fiasco?” Beatrice asked through a yawn.

  “Be at my room at six thirty, sharp. The boys will be here at seven sharp. Oh, I’m so excited, Bea.”

  Beatrice whirled her finger around with a hyperbolic lack of interest until Gwen landed on the side of her bed, grabbed her around the shoulders, and hugged her tightly. She loved the sweet torture of Gwen’s silky cheek and soft breasts crushing against her. That alone was worth the discomfort she would most likely have to endure on their double date.

  *

  Hearing about Gwen’s dates was one thing, but seeing her with Aaron was another beast entirely. Beatrice remained calm when he placed a territorial hand on Gwen’s back as he followed her into the restaurant overlooking Newport harbor. She managed very well through dinner, even though he ordered for Gwen, tied her bib for her, and cracked her lobster for her. Up until this moment, Beatrice had Gwen on a pedestal—the epitome of beauty and grace, never a false move, never a sentence anything less than sheer eloquence, but now, her phony laughter at Aaron’s corny jokes grated on her nerves.

  For his part, Phil was the perfect date—completely uninterested in her. He nodded politely when Beatrice spoke and even swiped a fork off another table when she dropped hers. So when he knocked his water glass into her lap after a pretty waitress bent over to pick up a napkin in front of him, Beatrice was nothing less than a sport about it.

  “Oh gee, I’m sorry, Bea,” Phil said, blotting her lap awkwardly with his napkin. “I don’t know how that happened.”

  Beatrice smiled sincerely. “Yes, I wonder. Don’t worry about my slacks, Phil. It’s only water. I’ll pop on over to the ladies’ room.”

  “You’re an all-right girl, Bea. Most girls would’ve clocked me for that.”

  Beatrice smiled again and patted his shoulder for reassurance before leaving the table. Gwen followed her into the ladies’ room, sailing on a breeze.