The Revelation of Beatrice Darby

by Jean Copeland

  “If I may be so bold, Beatrice, you have the most enchanting eyes. They’re blue as a crisp, clear January sky. I find myself getting lost in them every time we speak.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly, grateful for the waitress’s timing in bringing their dinners to the table.

  “A beautiful, charming intellectual—my, but you are a rare breed.” He casually folded his napkin across his lap and raised his martini to her. “I’m honored to share your company.”

  Beatrice couldn’t help but smile.

  Later that night, after the date, Beatrice plopped down on her couch, reflecting on how her time with Paul had been the most enjoyable she’d ever spent with a man. Not only did he know everything there was to know about Dickinson, but he actually wanted to hear her ideas about the poet and treated her like a contemporary in their discussions, not merely a student. The pièce de résistance: he bowed and kissed her hand, thanking her for her company after walking her to the door of her apartment building without trying to paw his way in. Was there anything more romantic than that?

  After leaving New Haven so unceremoniously the year before, she was optimistic about the idea of moving forward with a mature, sophisticated academic. What would help clear the wreckage she’d left behind better than returning home on the arm of a man like Professor Wainwright? What a relief it would be not to have her mother constantly in her hair about landing a man. She still hadn’t warmed to the idea of marriage, but the reprieve this would buy her was priceless—not to mention how far it would take her in restoring her friendship with Gwen since the unfortunate kitchen incident.

  *

  Five months into the relationship, Paul was already talking engagement, a conversation Beatrice was quite adept at averting each time it arose. However, it was the conversation that opened the door to a phone call to Gwen.

  “Oh, that’s so exciting,” Gwen said from the other end of the line. Her tone was pleasant enough, but something seemed missing in her delivery. “Have you set a date?”

  “No, not yet. I’m still so busy with school,” Beatrice said grandly, relishing her first foray into normal girl chitchat. “Of course, you know that’s not something one should rush into.”

  “Well, I’m really happy for you, Bea.”

  Although their conversation was amiable, bits of uncomfortable silence were the third party. It was Beatrice’s turn to speak, but she’d lost herself in Gwen’s velvety voice.

  “When are you bringing him home so we can meet him?” Gwen asked. “You both have to come to dinner, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “I think over spring break.”

  “Good, good. So how have you been?”

  “Very well. I love my classes, and I’m working as a waitress in the cutest little bistro in Greenwich Village. I’m on my feet like crazy, but I do meet lots of interesting characters. How are you?”

  “I’ll be fine once the morning sickness passes.”

  The news was a one-two punch and a sucker one at that.

  “Morning sickness?”

  Gwen hesitated. “Yes, I’m going to have a baby.”

  “When were you going to tell me?”

  “Oh, I was planning to,” she said, “and I wanted to, but to be honest, I felt sort of funny about calling you.”

  “Gwen, I apologized for what happened in your kitchen. I would’ve hoped that by now, we could let bygones be bygones.”

  “That’s not why I felt funny, Bea. You left here two summers ago acting like you wanted to disown the entire family. I phoned you several times before you went to New York, but you never called me back.”

  “Twice. You phoned twice.”

  “What difference does it make if it was twice or a hundred times? You didn’t return any of them.”

  “Given the circumstances, can you blame me?”

  Gwen exhaled into the receiver. “I suppose not. Well, anyway, that’s all ancient history now. You’ve got a fiancé so Quentin doesn’t have to—” She cut herself short.

  “Quentin doesn’t what?”

  “Never mind, Bea, I’m just babbling. You know how I do that sometimes.”

  “Mmm. I also know how terrible you are at contrivances. Why don’t you spit it out, Gwen?”

  She attempted to laugh off Beatrice’s suspicion. “This is silly, Bea. It doesn’t matter. Let’s move forward, not rehash the past.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do, Gwen, but as we both learned a while ago, keeping secrets in a friendship doesn’t work. They only end up coming out in the end—usually badly.”

  “I don’t see any point in going into it, but since you won’t let it alone, I think Quentin will be very pleased that you’re engaged. He was a little uneasy about us having such a close friendship when he thought—”

  “Did you tell him about the kiss?”

  “Oh, God, no,” Gwen said. “I suppose I should have been honest with him, but oh, it would’ve only created a problem where there isn’t one.”

  Beatrice let the phone rest on her shoulder for a moment. “I see. So you ignored me and four years of friendship simply because of your idiot husband’s prejudices. That’s great, Gwen.”

  “You ignored me first, Bea. I simply took the hint. And please don’t call my husband an idiot.”

  “Oh, my apologies, Mrs. Darby. Tell me, did you bother to stick up for me like that when my idiot brother was filling your head with garbage about me?”

  “You’re a fine one to be throwing stones.”

  Beatrice curled the phone cord around her fingers, trying to keep her composure. “This is exactly what I was afraid of—I knew you weren’t over what happened.”

  Gwen breathed quietly into the receiver. “What do you want from me, Bea? I have to consider my husband’s feelings about things and respect his wishes. We wouldn’t even be in this predicament if you hadn’t kissed me.”

  Shame crawled up from Beatrice’s core as she recalled that pivotal moment during that sticky, airless afternoon in Gwen’s kitchen.

  “Congratulations on the baby, Gwen. Please let me know when it’s born.”

  Beatrice hung up the phone, disheartened. That was the phone call that was supposed to patch things up between them, but the truths they confronted only deepened the chasm.

  When Paul arrived at her apartment later that evening, her despair still lingered. She’d contemplated cancelling with him, but he sounded particularly excited about their date on the phone, so she trudged on like a trooper.

  “I have a surprise for you, my love,” he said, and whipped out a bouquet of roses from behind his back.

  “They’re beautiful, Paul,” she said, mustering a store of enthusiasm. “Thank you.”

  She wandered over to the sink in her tiny kitchenette and began arranging them in a large pitcher.

  “Don’t fuss with those now. We have to get to the theater.”

  “The theater?”

  “Sure, doll, that’s the surprise—orchestra seats for How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying.”

  That brought a smile to her face, her first real Broadway show. “Oh, Paul.”

  “Well, don’t I even get a kiss?” He held his arms open for her, and she walked into them. “Are you excited?”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded against his shoulder. Locked in his embrace, she let thoughts of Gwen flutter through her mind but quickly ushered them away with a squeeze of her boyfriend’s arms.

  *

  After the play, Paul walked Beatrice to her apartment door, whistling the tune from “Happy to Keep His Dinner Warm.”

  She jerked his arm off her shoulder. “That’s an awful song.”

  He grinned. “What’s so awful about it?”

  “If I spent all afternoon cooking dinner for someone, I wouldn’t be happy if he showed up late for it. I’d be furious.”

  He laughed. “I’ll make damn sure that when you do cook for me, I won’t be late.” He eyed her curiously. “By the way, do you even kn
ow how to cook?”

  “Sure I do. I just don’t particularly enjoy doing it.”

  “Then we’ll have to give you a break a few times a week and have the maid cook.”

  He smiled and settled against the door, making it difficult for her to make her usual Houdini-like escape into the apartment.

  Paul had recently begun making regular allusions to their future married life together, and each one wound her up tighter than a chorus boy’s trousers. She’d never said yes to him and began to resent his cavalier attitude and presumption that their marriage was inevitable.

  “I had a swell time, Paul. Thank you so much.” She tossed her house key up and down in her hand for him to notice.

  “I did, too,” he said, snatching the key in mid-air. “I wish this night didn’t have to end. I mean, it’s still early.”

  “It’s eleven thirty.” She eyed the key ring, now a hostage in his hand.

  “But it’s Saturday night. Don’t tell me you’re tired again.”

  “Work and school keep me very busy.”

  “You need to start taking vitamins.” A hint of frustration seasoned his voice.

  “Well, maybe you can come in for a cup of tea.”

  A crooked smile brightened his face. “I’d love one,” he said as he quickly unlocked her door.

  “I have to get up and get started on a paper early tomorrow morning,” she said as she headed toward the kitchen. “I have to work at the bistro in the afternoon.”

  “Oh, well, if it’s a paper for my class, I think I can give you an extension,” he said playfully.

  She rolled her eyes as she listened to the hiss of the gas burner warming the teakettle. “It’s not,” she said flatly. “And Millhouse isn’t the kind of professor who seems too keen on doing favors.”

  “Very true, but you know, I have solid relationships with all my colleagues. I’d be glad to put in a good word for you with old Millhouse if necessary.”

  The suggestion bugged her. “I’m sure it won’t be necessary, Paul,” she shouted over the whistling teakettle. “I’m capable of meeting all my obligations in a timely manner.”

  “Oh, of course. I didn’t mean to imply…”

  She carried both cups of steeping tea over to her sofa where Paul had already made himself at home. He took them from her and placed them on the coffee table, barely giving her rear end time to make a safe landing on the cushions before he began kissing her, passionately, as if knowing his big chance was now or never. He began caressing her arm and side, slowly making his way up to her breast, where she arrested his fingers after they gave her a squeeze.

  “Come on, Bea. Don’t you think it’s time you let me touch you?” he whispered.

  “It’s too soon,” she said. “I know what you’ll think of me if I let you.”

  “I’ll think you feel the same way for me I feel for you. I love you, Bea.”

  “I love you, too, Paul, but I’m not ready.”

  “How much longer do you think you can use that excuse? You’re not a child,” he said, kissing her neck. “You’re a woman, a beautiful, sensual woman, and you drive me absolutely wild.”

  “If I give in, you’ll lose respect for me.”

  “Nonsense. That’s nothing more than an antiquated convention.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The notion that a woman who desires sex is unworthy of respect. I’d like to think that the woman I’m making love to is enjoying the physical sensation as much as I am.”

  “But girls with self-respect wait till they’re married.”

  “Look, Bea, forget the propaganda your mother taught you,” he said, marking her forehead and cheeks with kisses. “We’re both adults, we’re in love, and we’re going to be married one day. That’s all that matters. I promise I’ll still respect you in the morning.”

  Beatrice tensed even more as images of Gwen flashed in her mind. As Paul kissed her lips, neck, and shoulders, she recalled her fleeting kiss with Gwen in the kitchen and how exquisite it had felt. Paul was handsome and gentle, yet kissing him didn’t feel the same.

  “Let’s go get in your bed, baby,” he whispered.

  She wondered if Gwen was making love with Quentin at that same moment and was overcome with deep sadness.

  “No, right here,” she said, holding on to him loosely.

  She tried to relax as his excitement imposed on her pelvis and his hands slipped under her blouse. With her eyes scrunched shut, she allowed his hands free range of her body but closed her legs as his fingers hovered toward her underpants. As he began working the waistband down, tears dripped from the corner of her eye and down her temples.

  “You have to relax, baby. You’re too rigid,” he said after she whimpered in discomfort.

  “It hurts,” she whispered.

  “It’ll be a little uncomfortable, but I’ll go easy, I promise.”

  As much as Paul did his best to go easy, Beatrice lay shaking for a long while after it was over. How could anyone consider that making love? It was more than a little uncomfortable physically, but the whole experience left her feeling dirtier than when she fantasized about girls. Thankfully, Paul was happy to lie there and hold her until she calmed down.

  “We should’ve given you a few cocktails first,” he whispered after a while.

  “Now you think of it,” she said.

  “We better get up and clean off your couch before it stains,” he said. “Looks like there’s a little spot of blood.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said, too queasy to examine the evidence.

  After locking the door, she started the shower, covered her face with a hand towel, and let her sobs flow.

  *

  Saturday night at the Bleecker Street Bistro a few weeks later, Beatrice was occupied managing her busy section of hungry patrons. Her tactic of taking on all the weekend shifts she could scrounge to avoid being alone with Paul had backfired in grand fashion. There he sat at his corner table in Beatrice’s section, on his third cup of espresso, grading a ruffled stack of student papers while waiting for her shift to end so he could escort her home.

  Biting her lip to contain her frustration, she tightened her ponytail and went over to refill his water glass.

  “Paul, there’s no need for you to hang out here all night. Wouldn’t you be much more comfortable doing that at home?”

  “Nonsense. Chivalry is not dead, my dear,” he said with a smile.

  She felt a pang of guilt. Why was everything he said and did chafing her nerves? All he wanted was to ensure she got home safely from work. Oh, that’s right, and to get under her skirt.

  She huffed without meaning to. “I appreciate that, but I won’t be alone. Ricky lives right around the corner, and we get off at the same time.”

  Paul raised an eyebrow playfully. “I can’t risk losing you to Ricky, the lecherous dishwasher.”

  She grimaced detecting a note of condescension. “He’s a nice boy and my friend.”

  “Nice boys and beautiful girls are a dangerous combination. I ought to know—I’m a nice boy, too.” He winked as he reached for the last paper in the stack.

  Beatrice shook her head and went into the kitchen to pick up an order. On her way out, the woman sitting alone in her section stopped her.

  “Hey, honey, I’m getting lonely over here. And dry.” She smirked and tapped an empty water glass.

  “Be right there,” Beatrice said.

  “That’s what you said twenty minutes ago,” the woman said in a teasing manner.

  Beatrice returned with a water pitcher, her mood suddenly brighter. “I might have to start charging you rent at this table.”

  “They charge enough for their fettuccini,” the woman said, adding with a flirtatious grin, “but I do happen to like the help.”

  Beatrice blushed. “Another highball?”

  “Yes, please.” The woman raised her eyebrows. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

  As soon as the woman said
it, she realized this gruff yet likable character was familiar. Her hair was longer and darker, but the resemblance struck her.

  “Donna.”

  “That’s right. Nice to see you again, Beatrice.”

  Beatrice nodded, glancing toward Paul, dying to ask about Abby. “You, too.”

  Donna flicked her head in Paul’s direction. “That your boyfriend?”

  She nodded again, peering down at her shoes in defeat.

  “Cute,” Donna said, still studying him. “A little manly for my taste, but I suppose you could do worse. How’d you end up working here? It’s quite a commute from New Haven.”

  “I’m getting my MA at NYU.”

  “That’s an impressive bunch of initials. What are you studying?”

  “English literature. So how is Abby?” Beatrice replied, surprising them both with the suddenness of the question.

  Donna smiled knowingly. “Abby’s good. She’s head librarian up at Columbia University. You ever get up that way?”

  “No,” Beatrice said softly as she glanced toward Paul and the kitchen. “Uh, my boyfriend lives a few blocks away, but I use NYU’s library.”

  “Well, I’m sure you have to get back to work, but if you ever have time for a cup of joe, I’d love to hear about how you ended up with a boyfriend.”

  Beatrice cringed, familiar with being the butt of someone’s joke, but no longer the shrinking violet, she stared Donna down. “I don’t think that’s funny.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be.” Donna glanced at her check as she pulled crisp bills from her wallet and looked up with sincerity. “If you ever want to talk, I’m around.”

  Beatrice smiled as she smoothed down her bunched-up uniform.

  “When you see Abby, please tell her I said hello.”

  Donna nodded. “I will.”

  *

  Her encounter with Donna left her nerves feeling more like live wires. Smiles blossomed randomly at the thought of Abby joining Donna the next time she came into the bistro and the warm embrace they might exchange. Had Abby thought of her over the years the way she had, occasionally yet always by surprise prompted by a familiar song, a scent, or a subway ad in which a carefree, long-fingered woman smiled broadly holding her tasty cigarette. Probably not. Abby was Beatrice’s first love, so it was natural that she would. A girl never forgets her first love. But had Beatrice meant anything at all to Abby? Recalling that unforgettable night in Pixie’s when they kissed, she indulged the hope that for at least one moment in time she had.