The Revelation of Beatrice Darby

by Jean Copeland

  “Good afternoon, Miss Darby.” He barely made eye contact from behind his desk. “Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” Beatrice sat, absently lifting her books to form a shield in front of her chest.

  “I’ve completed my review of your final draft and made a few grammar corrections, so after you’ve addressed those, you’re ready to submit it to the grad office.” He tossed her the sixty pages, and they landed with a slap on the edge of his desk.

  Beatrice flipped through the thesis, her eyes bulging at the bloody streaks of red ink scrawled throughout. “How about the content? I’m still not sure if my interpretation for “I Could Not Stop for Death” is thorough enough. Did you look it over?”

  Paul nodded. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I don’t want it to be just okay, Paul. Do you think I have enough analysis to support my argument?”

  “Professor Wainwright, if you don’t mind, Miss Darby.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “You do a fine job using it to support your morbid obsession argument,” he said, “but then that’s a rather obvious point. However, the part about emotional weakness leaves something to be desired.”

  “Why? What else does it need?”

  He smirked. “How about a whole new argument?”

  “You know I won’t have time to formulate a new argument. Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

  “First off, you handed in the draft to me late, and secondly, you’ve been a bit difficult to get ahold of.”

  Beatrice’s blood surged into her temples. “You told me it would be okay to hand it in late that night we went to the Whitman reading at Fordham, remember?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “Paul, you can’t do this to me. You know I can’t graduate on time without that grade.”

  “Bea, stop playing this game. Why don’t we go for a cup of coffee tonight and talk things over—the thesis and us.”

  “Clearly, I’m not the one playing games.”

  “All right, maybe I was a bit harsh in my assessment, but have a heart. I’m still a wounded man.” He tried an endearing smile on her.

  “You can’t penalize me because our personal relationship didn’t work out. It’s unethical.”

  “This whole thing is very disappointing, Miss Darby. I don’t want to think the only reason you dated me was for an A in my class and an edge on your thesis.”

  Beatrice skewered him with her gaze. “How dare you suggest I prostituted myself for grades? Have you seen my transcripts? I’ve hardly dated every professor and teacher I’ve had since high school.”

  “A moment of honesty here, Beatrice,” he said, chewing on the end of his pen. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  She shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  “We were such a perfect couple,” he added. “It doesn’t make sense for us to be apart.”

  “Look, Paul, it didn’t work out, and I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings. On the bright side, there’s no shortage of eager replacements around here.”

  He removed his eyeglasses and reclined in his chair. “So you’re graduating. Then what? The next logical step is to get married, isn’t it?”

  “Since I’ll have an MA in English, the next logical step for me is to teach and write. I don’t see how I’m supposed to do that while I’m baking cookies, changing diapers, and fetching my husband’s slippers before dinner each night.”

  “Bea, you’ve got it all wrong. That’s not the marriage I want. I don’t need kids. But I am thirty years old. It’s time to grow up and settle down with a nice girl. I’m ready for the quiet life of a henpecked husband.” He smiled broadly, seeming honored to offer himself as a sacrifice for the good of humanity.

  “I’m not interested in henpecking anyone. I have my own plans, and marriage doesn’t fit in with them now.”

  “You know I was only kidding when I said I couldn’t wait. I don’t mind putting it off for another year or two.”

  She shifted again in her seat. “Paul, you’re not hearing me. My first priority is getting a teaching position.”

  He rose from his chair and moved toward her. “Say no more, Bea. I know people. A few phone calls and I’ll have you all set up.”

  “Thank you, but I’d rather do it on my own.”

  He grinned. “Don’t be droll. It won’t be so easy doing it on your own. There are only so many positions available for women adjuncts. But I’m happy to lend a hand.”

  “I don’t want your help or the obligation that would go along with it. I’m not in love with you. Now please understand that.”

  She stood, surprised by her directness. As she reached for the doorknob, his outstretched arm pushed the door closed.

  “How about a kiss?” He pressed his body against hers. “It won’t do any harm, and it might even change your mind.”

  “I’m going to be late for class,” she said, backing away.

  “Come on, just one.” He held her shoulders and kissed her lips.

  She thrust her three-ring notebook into his stomach. “I couldn’t even count on you to review my thesis draft properly. Now you expect me to rely on you to find me a job? Good-bye, Paul.”

  She flung open the office door, and he grabbed her arm.

  “A word of advice, Bea. This attitude isn’t going to serve you very well in your career. Men don’t like working with women who try to act like them, even in the liberal world of academia.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Professor.”

  She left his office without another word, deciding not to press her luck before her degree was in hand. After apologizing to the instructor for arriving late to her next lecture, she spent the rest of the class trying to forget her encounter with Paul and stop stewing over the fact that it had been nearly three weeks, and she still hadn’t heard from Abby.

  *

  In the restaurant’s steamy kitchen, Beatrice dabbed her forehead with the back of her hand. Ricky tried to attract her attention through the crowd of wait staff clamoring at the counter. She finally looked up and saw him mouth the word, anything? She shook her head as she filled her serving tray with entrees. What did she need Abby for anyway? Or the guilt that had taunted her into insomnia for having had sex with someone who belonged to someone else?

  If Abby didn’t want to leave her unhappy relationship with Janice, that was her business, but Beatrice didn’t plan to wither away, pining for her like she had six years earlier. She needed a love triangle like she needed a hole in her thesis theory. And since Paul had all but abandoned her, she spent any free time she had working even harder to put the appropriate finishing touches on her manuscript. She was determined to complete her academic career with the same standard of excellence she’d always maintained, with or without his help.

  In the dining room, she noticed Donna sitting by herself at her preferred corner table, reading the menu. Beatrice approached her with a manner too indifferent to be convincing.

  “Hi, Donna, has anyone taken your order?”

  Donna folded her menu closed. “Nope. Waiting on you, cutie. Scotch and soda, and the chicken cordon bleu.” She paused as Beatrice scribbled on her pad. “Has Abby called you?”

  “No. Should I expect her to?”

  “I would think so. Janice is all moved out.”

  Beatrice drummed her pencil on the pad. “Is that so? Well, I wouldn’t know that since she hasn’t called.”

  Donna tried not to smirk. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll be hearing from her—soon.”

  “Who said I was worried?”

  “Not me.” Donna yielded a smile as she unfurled a New York Times.

  “Beatrice.” Abby waved tentatively from the maître d’s podium.

  As Abby approached, every word of warning Beatrice had with herself ran off like a con artist ditching the check. What was it about this woman that reduced her to a jumble of emotional contradiction?

  “Look, I kno
w you’re busy and probably can’t talk,” Abby said, “but I just want you to know Janice and I are over. She picked up the last of her stuff a few days ago.”

  Beatrice stopped herself from jumping into Abby’s arms, given the somber nature of the circumstances. Her heart actually ached for Janice at that moment as she gazed into Abby’s eyes, vulnerable and full of mystery. Losing Abby after having her had to be far worse than the mere pang of missed opportunity.

  “Are you doing okay?”

  “Sure,” Abby said with a shrug. “I know in my heart it was the right thing.”

  A shrug? Not exactly the demeanor Beatrice was expecting. “Well, um, I’m happy for you—I guess. I mean is that how I should feel right now?”

  Abby looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t seem very happy about it.”

  “It’s bittersweet, Bea, not something I feel like rejoicing about. It’s just, well, I don’t know.”

  Beatrice didn’t know either. Now that Abby was free to be with her, she expected her to come charging into the restaurant to proclaim her love. But then that’s what she could’ve expected in a Deborah Kerr movie. Abby had waited so long to contact her, and now she wasn’t even enthusiastic about it. Was she having second thoughts?

  “Congratulations,” Beatrice said icily. “I have to get these orders into the kitchen.”

  “Bea, hang on.” Abby grabbed her arm. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Beatrice glared at her. “In fact, everything’s peachy.”

  “Good,” Abby said, searching her eyes for confirmation. “I’ll take a 7 and 7 when you get a chance.”

  “Coming right up.” Beatrice stormed off toward the kitchen grumbling, “Good. I’ll take a 7 and 7 when you get a chance.” Of all the lousy nerve. That was all Abby had to say for herself?

  She broadsided Ricky at the sink. “Can you believe this? After hanging me out to dry for the last three weeks, she’s out there acting cooler than James Bond.”

  “Who?”

  “Who? Abby, that’s who.”

  “Did she break up with Janice?”

  “Oh, she broke up with Janice, all right. Now she’s acting like we’re nothing more than casual acquaintances. I could just scream, Ricky.”

  Ricky’s eyes indicated Chef Antonio eyeing them. “Pipe down. The walls have eyes and ears.”

  “I knew I never should’ve slept with her.”

  Ricky’s jaw hung to his Adam’s apple.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe I said that,” she blurted, and covered her lips with her hand.

  He started chuckling once he regained his breath.

  “Ricky, stop laughing. Tony is really looking over here now. Oh, crap, do you think he heard me?”

  Ricky shook his head. “I think I’m offended about this. Something this juicy happens, and you didn’t even tell me.”

  “I couldn’t bring myself to let you know I was a co-conspirator to adultery.” Beatrice rubbed her forehead. “God, I can’t imagine what you must think of me. In spite of how it seems, I’m really not a tramp, honestly.”

  “I know you’re not a tramp. Believe me, I know tramps.”

  Antonio’s voice bellowed across the kitchen. “Ay, are you still on the clock, Darby, or what?”

  “Yes, Antonio, but I don’t recall hearing the order-up bell.”

  Antonio’s fat hand slapped the bell frenetically.

  Beatrice glared at him and then deferred to Ricky. “What should I do about Abby?”

  He threw a hand on his hip and gave it careful consideration. “If you want to land yourself James Bond, you’ll have to play it as cool she is. If she doesn’t jump on your bandwagon, remember there are plenty of fish in the sea. You’re too pretty to flop around on the deck waiting for some crazy broad to see the light.”

  Beatrice smiled. “Even though you mix your metaphors, you always manage to make me feel better.”

  Ricky smiled. “It’s a gift.”

  Beatrice loaded her serving tray and headed into the dining room. Once out there, however, following Ricky’s advice to remain cool was easier said than done. Despite her vow to elude Abby’s penetrating eyes, she was losing the fight with her heart, especially when Abby waved her over to the table.

  “Do you think you could take my food order?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were only here to drink,” Beatrice drawled, grinning with satisfaction at Abby’s expression of surprise.

  “No,” Abby replied. “Strangely enough, I’d like something to wash down my whiskey with. How’s the trout?”

  “It leaves a little to be desired, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Well, you’ll spend an awful lot of time waiting for it to come around, and then when it finally does, it won’t be nearly as wonderful as you expected.”

  Abby and Donna exchanged looks.

  “Maybe that’s because the person waiting for it has overly idealized expectations,” Abby said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You have to admit, even the best trout isn’t perfect. No fish is.”

  “Then maybe the menu shouldn’t advertise more about the trout than the trout is able to deliver. Then the customers wouldn’t be disillusioned.”

  “Maybe the menu did give an accurate description of the trout, but the customer was too naive about trout to understand what it is she was getting.”

  Donna rolled her eyes. “Enough about the trout. Can’t you two just talk?”

  “I’m working,” Beatrice said stubbornly.

  “Perhaps we can finish discussing the trout at Dandy’s when you get off,” Abby said, yanking her napkin off the table and spreading it across her lap. “Would that be all right with you, Beatrice?”

  Beatrice shrugged and marched into the kitchen, still indignant. Making her way toward Ricky, she mumbled half to him, half to herself. “How could she leave me languishing on the vine for weeks and then be so blasé about the whole situation now that we’re actually free to be together?”

  Ricky wiped the steam from his chin. “You’re making my head spin. Do you want her or don’t you? I have to know so I can either hate her or smack some sense into you so you don’t blow it with this Princess Charming.”

  Beatrice scoffed. “Do I want her? Oh, I can’t stand her. She’s so smug, I just want to…ugh.”

  Ricky nodded and wiped his hands on a towel. “You want her.”

  “I want her, but it doesn’t seem like she wants me.”

  “How do you figure that? She broke up with someone for you.”

  “I don’t know. She seems so strange about it, almost like she regrets the decision. I don’t want to be hurt by her again.”

  “Again? You can’t blame her for leaving you blubbering on the steps of the library. You were seventeen years old.”

  “That’s not funny, Ricky. I was almost eighteen, and it really hurt.”

  He smiled sympathetically. “You know what? I think since Abby didn’t react exactly the way you expected her to, you’ve decided the whole thing is a bust.”

  Beatrice stewed over the temerity of his suggestion, tapping her shoe on the kitchen tile.

  “You do that sometimes, you know,” he went on. “If things don’t go exactly the way you think they should, you get yourself all in a dither. Life isn’t a romance novel, no matter how we try to convince ourselves.”

  She folded her arms stubbornly before conceding. “I suppose you make a sensible point.”

  “How did you two leave it?”

  “She wants me to meet her at Dandy’s after work.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I don’t know. I want to, but I’m afraid. Whenever I’ve let my heart have free rein, it’s ended up in a million pieces.”

  “Speaking in defense of love, you haven’t exactly picked the most promising candidates to fall for—a thirty-year-old woman when you were a teenager and y
our hetero college roommate? Those are some pretty tall orders, even for Cupid.”

  “I get the picture, Ricky. I’m just afraid of getting hurt.”

  “When you figure out a way to fall in love without that risk, please let me in on it.” He brushed her disheveled bangs out of her eyes. “Go to Dandy’s and be brave, my friend, be brave.”

  *

  Following her friend’s advice, Beatrice entered Dandy’s with her shoulders squared, determined to win Abby. She grabbed a beer for herself and a 7 and 7 for Abby and made her way to the intimate corner of their reunion weeks earlier.

  “I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” Abby said, standing and gazing into Beatrice’s eyes.

  “I almost didn’t.” She handed Abby her drink. “But I have to know one thing.”

  “What?” Abby sat and gestured for Beatrice to join her.

  “Why did you take so long to call me?”

  Abby sipped her drink pensively. “You scare me, Bea. Well, not you but my feelings for you. I needed time to straighten out my head after I broke up with Janice.”

  “You seemed like you regretted the decision.”

  “Not at all,” Abby said, grabbing Beatrice’s hand. “You have to understand I was feeling an awful lot for you in a short time, but you’re much younger than I am. You’re just starting out. I was afraid I was going to move too fast for you.”

  Beatrice smiled. “You’re not moving fast enough.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Beatrice stretched her limbs in their bed, roused from sleep by the clanking of spoons and cups and saucers in the kitchen. As Abby cooked breakfast, a Sunday tradition since Beatrice had moved in nearly three years earlier, the aroma of sausage links, pancakes, and brewing coffee drew her from her linen cocoon.

  Sundays were their favorite day of the week. If they weren’t taking in the city’s arts-and-culture scene, they would take out the Packard and drive over the Tappan Zee in search of a rural hamlet for some shopping and, later, a bistro for a light dinner. This Sunday was different, however. The Packard was going to squire them to Connecticut for dinner with Beatrice’s mother, a visit both were anticipating with the enthusiasm one usually reserves for a tooth extraction.