“I’d love to have a cup of coffee with you and be friends again,” Beatrice said.
Gwen’s eyes brightened. “Oh, I’m so glad, Bea. I was afraid city life had spoiled you for quiet afternoons in Madison.”
“Are you kidding? Look at this place. It’s breathtaking and right down the street from the water. I’m delighted that my brother’s been able to provide so nicely for you and the girls. And a little shocked.”
“Don’t be. Quentin is capable and very well-regarded by the company. He was recently promoted to head of the Northeast sales division.”
Beatrice smiled, her steely reserve no longer necessary. “Your daughters are just gorgeous.”
“They’re the loves of my life,” Gwen said, beaming. “Oh, Bea.” She threw her arms around her and gave her a quick, tight squeeze like she did when they were girls. “Let’s have coffee soon.”
“I’d like that.” Although the warm familiarity of the hug and the promise of reconciliation tugged at her heart, she couldn’t help considering the ultimate cost of Gwen’s easy way out. She glanced at two squirrels chasing each other round and round a thick tree trunk. “But we can’t go back to the friendship we used to have.”
“Oh, I know. Our lives are different now, but we can still be close. After all, we used to be best friends.”
Beatrice shielded her eyes from the late-afternoon sun. “Gwen, when I kissed you, it was because I wanted to—I was…”
“Hey, you don’t owe me an explanation,” Gwen said.
Beatrice shrank from the discomfort on Gwen’s face and forced a smile. “I’ll call you, Gwen. We’ll get together soon.”
“I hope so, Bea. I’d love to have…Well, I don’t want us to be strangers anymore.”
As long as Gwen couldn’t hear the truth, that was exactly what they would stay at the heart of it all. Beatrice glanced over at Abby in the passenger seat reading a cheap paperback, sunglasses resting in her raven-black hair. She loved Abby and couldn’t pass her off as a friend to Gwen, not if they were ever to have an authentic friendship.
“Abby’s an amazing woman, Gwen. I just want you to know.”
Gwen nodded and smiled, but her awkwardness was palpable. A lump rose in Beatrice’s throat. No matter how sincere Gwen was in her effort to rekindle their friendship, she wasn’t ready to have it with the woman Beatrice had become.
“I’ll give you a call,” Beatrice said, and waved once more before getting into the car.
Chapter Fifteen
Beatrice sat on the front stoop of their brownstone, sipping a glass of chardonnay, lulled by the scurry of dead leaves trapped in a wind swirl. She closed her sweater tighter as the October evening air sent a shiver through her. If she thought life at seventeen was confusing, this whole mess with her lover, her family, and her self-respect was quite the enigma to sort out.
“It’s getting dark and cold, love,” Abby said, poking her head out their living-room window.
“I know,” Beatrice replied pensively. “It’s keeping my wine nice and chilled.”
“Why don’t you come in and sit with me.”
Beatrice dragged herself off the steps and padded into their apartment. After downing the last sip of wine, she plopped on the couch and wrapped herself like a mummy in an afghan.
“What’s on your mind, love?” Abby asked.
“I don’t know,” Beatrice said. “It’s this whole thing with Gwen and my mother and brother. Everything feels so disconnected, so unsettled.”
“I hate to admit this, Bea, but your mother was right. You’re never going to change people’s mind when they feel strongly about something.”
Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “Tell me about it. I live with one of those people.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The house.”
“Oh, Bea.” Abby sighed. “I know how bad you want this, but the whole idea of it makes me so uncomfortable.”
“Why do you care so much about what other people think?”
“This isn’t a matter of keeping up with the Joneses. We have jobs we can be fired from, reputations that can be tarnished. We could get blacklisted here and never find new jobs. Don’t you remember what happened in The Children’s Hour?”
“You can’t be serious, Abby. That was a movie. We live in New York City, not some little dust bowl of a town.”
“I know it’s a movie, but you’re fooling yourself if you think it can’t happen.”
“I’m not that naive, Abby. I’ve tried so hard not to let the opinions of others define me, but the contempt for us is so pervasive. By not buying a house because society says we shouldn’t, we’re feeding right into that. I don’t want to be ashamed of myself or our love.”
“Bea, don’t you see what you’re doing? You’re deciding that we’re not okay the way we are by forcing us to fit into a mold we don’t belong in. Society says couples have to have a house with a yard and all the trappings that go along with it, or they’re not legitimate. You perpetuate that myth by wanting to conform. I love you, and I’m committed to you no matter where we live.”
“Maybe you’re not as committed as you think. Not having our names on something together makes it as easy to get rid of me as it was Janice.”
Hurt emanated from Abby’s eyes like a sad song. “Stop saying that, Bea. It’s not true, and you make it sound like I put her out like garbage. I never loved her the way I love you. If that’s a crime, then I guess I’m a criminal.” Abby got up from the couch and started for their bedroom. “By the way, if you want to pick a fight with me because you’re not getting your way, you’re doing a good job of it.”
Beatrice disentangled herself from the afghan and flung it on the couch. “Pick your battles,” her father used to say. Was she standing too tall on principle by reaching for something unattainable? Was Abby right that it didn’t matter where they lived as long as they lived together? Maybe she was too easily sold on the Ozzie and Harriet dream of backyard barbecues and apple pies on windowsills. Who knew if it was real for anyone? It seemed to be for Gwen.
She went in the bedroom, crawled into bed, and curled up next to Abby, resting her head on her chest.
“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t want to fight. I just go a little batty whenever I hear the words you can’t.”
Abby kissed her head. “I know. Maybe someday.”
Beatrice let that idea sink in over the eleven o’clock news droning from the small black-and-white TV on their dresser. Maybe someday. That seemed to be the resolution for everything in her life. Reuniting with her first love had happened through a divine act of serendipity. But what about owning their own home someday? Resolving her friendship with Gwen? Was she supposed to sit back and let chance resolve those, too?
*
The spirit of the Christmas season inspired Beatrice to make good on her word back in early fall to give Gwen a call. She favored starting each New Year fresh, with any and all loose ends from the year before tied neatly and stored away for posterity. Their get-together was strategically designed to include neither Abby nor Quentin, although both would have to be brought in eventually if she was to feel true resolution.
Beatrice observed the frenetic scene in Gwen’s kitchen as she sat at the table. Joanne and Janie had finally settled down in the middle of the linoleum floor playing with their new baby dolls, two presents from the armful of early Christmas gifts Beatrice had brought them. Joanne carefully cradled and doted on her baby, wrapping it in a small pink blanket, while little Janie tossed hers carelessly around the floor.
“Jane Elizabeth Darby, if you break that doll, Auntie Bea’s going take back the other toys she brought you. Is that what you want?”
The toddler’s round brown eyes looked up at her mother with only partial understanding, and then she threw the doll at Joanne, who took protective custody of it along with hers.
Beatrice grinned. “She’s fifteen months. I don’t expect the toy-death toll to stop at one.”
Gwen grinned, too. “I’m afraid of what I can expect from Janie when she actually hits the terrible twos.”
Looking somewhat harried yet still radiantly attractive, she brought a tray of coffee, cream, and sugar cubes to the table.
“Sorry. She gets that from me. I was murder on my toys.” Beatrice chuckled to herself. “I’ll never forget my eighth Christmas. My mother didn’t give me any toys because I’d destroyed the dolls I already had with haircuts and brain surgery.”
“Oh, she didn’t really do that,” Gwen said, looking surprised. She sat and cut into the cinnamon bunt cake she’d baked that morning.
“She most certainly did. It didn’t matter. I had more fun with Quentin’s train set anyway. Then a week later my dad slipped me a new doll on the sly, this funny-looking thing with braids and a plaid dress. It was hideous, but I loved it because he gave it to me.”
“Now I know where your brother gets it from. He spoils those girls to no end.”
Breaking off a piece of her cake, Beatrice smiled and tried not to feel envious of the charming family scene her brother was lucky enough to live each day.
“I’m so glad you called, Bea. I honestly didn’t think you would.”
The essence of a finely aged awkwardness still hovered between them.
“I didn’t know if I should,” Beatrice said. “So much time has passed and our lives are so different now.”
“I would hope no amount of time or difference would prevent us from speaking, or being friends, especially since we’re family now.”
Suddenly queasy, Beatrice put down her dessert fork. “There’s quite a difference, Gwen, a huge one.”
“Lord knows we were never clones of each other in college, but we still managed to get along famously. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember.” To her surprise, Beatrice began to tear up.
Janie let out a piercing screech, angry at Joanne for shoving her away after she stomped like Godzilla all over the pretend nursery.
“Mommy, tell her to stop,” Joanne whined.
“Janie, come here and have some cake.” Gwen scooped the child up and into the high chair, quelling her crankiness with a piece of bunt cake. “I’m sorry,” Gwen said, flustered. “Where were we?”
“I was just saying I remember how we used to be.”
Beatrice smiled at Janie smashing small bits of cake into her mouth.
“I don’t care about what happened in the past. I’d like to think we could be close again,” Gwen said ruefully. “The girls barely know you.”
“Gwen, I have to clear the air with you about something—Quentin, too,” Beatrice said slowly, but the rest of the words stuck in her throat.
After a long pause, Gwen said, “I think I already know.”
Beatrice’s eyes welled again. “I’m a lesbian,” she said in a whisper. “God, why is it still so hard to say it out loud?”
Gwen nodded and patted her hand. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”
“I do have to, Gwen. I have to know it’s all right with you.” She wiped away a tear and straightened her back.
“It’s who you are. It has to be all right.”
“You have to know I’m not crazy or dangerous.”
Before Gwen could respond, Joanne brought her new baby doll over and placed it in Beatrice’s lap, looking up with a twin set of Gwen’s voluminous eyelashes. Beatrice laughed in relief. “Thank you,” she said, and brushed her fingers under the girl’s chin.
“Give Aunty Bea a big hug, Jo Jo.”
Joanne climbed up into Beatrice’s lap and hugged her, resting her head on Beatrice’s shoulder for a moment. Then she was back to attending to her baby business on the floor.
“If you can stay for supper,” Gwen said, “we can sort this out with Quentin, too. He knows you’re coming today.”
*
After a tense dinner filled with stilted conversation and much diversion toward the girls’ mealtime antics, Beatrice and Gwen stood at the sink washing and drying the dishes, pots, and pans. An afternoon of sharing conversation and confidences had rethreaded some of the tattered bond between them.
“I want you to talk to Quentin while I put the girls to bed,” Gwen said firmly.
“All right already,” Beatrice said, clutching her stomach against some indigestion.
“I’m going to make him a Manhattan. You can take it to him.”
“Does he really need it to have this conversation?”
Gwen paused pensively. “I better make it a double.”
“Thanks,” Beatrice drawled.
“Buck up, Darby,” Gwen said with a smirk. “It can’t be any worse than facing Claire Billingsley.”
Beatrice chuckled at the memory. “That was the night I knew you were a woman among women.”
“Oh, it was awful what they did to those girls. I wonder whatever became of Shirley Dandridge.”
“Hopefully, she didn’t end up in the booby hatch,” Beatrice said, and they broke into giggles.
Later, she took the cocktail from Gwen and walked into the living room, handing it to Quentin, who was deeply engrossed in the latest episode of Mannix.
“Oh, thanks,” he said, sitting up in his leather chair.
Beatrice dropped down on the sofa. Quentin took a long sip of his drink and expressed his satisfaction with a resounding ahhhh and something about Gwen making one hell of a bartender if they ever needed another paycheck.
“So, Gwen and I had a nice talk this afternoon.” It took quite an effort for Beatrice to sound casual.
“Oh?” Quentin’s attention was still fixed on the television.
“Yep. She suggested I have the same conversation with you—if you can tear yourself away from Mike Connors for a minute.”
He slowly tilted his head toward her. “What’s on your mind?”
“You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”
“Although I’m a man of many talents, I can’t read minds.”
Beatrice took a deep breath. “You were right about me—what you said years ago.”
“What did I say years ago?”
“That I’m a lesbian. I believe the word you used was queer.”
As Quentin sipped his drink, the ice cubes made a clicking sound against the glass. He looked toward the television, but Beatrice could see he wasn’t looking at the screen.
“When you regain the ability to speak, you can skip over all the classic responses, you know, freak, deviant, sinner. I’ve heard them all before, and they don’t move me much anymore.”
She sounded convincing, but in truth, those words still cut through stone and would even more so coming from her brother.
“Well, it is a sin,” he finally replied with an eerie calm.
“Yeah, and I also know how you and I both feel about the church.”
“I’m still a Catholic, Bea, even though I disagree with some things.”
“I don’t know what I believe about Catholicism anymore, but I do know this is the way God made me.”
“God doesn’t make homosexuals. He made man to be with woman so they can procreate and prevent the human race from going extinct.”
“Well, obviously He made a few exceptions to the rule. Not every heterosexual human being procreates either.”
He shook his head with obvious disdain. “If that’s what you tell yourself to feel better about your decision—”
“Decision?” Beatrice scoffed. She leapt off the sofa and paced by the side of his chair. “You think I decided this? To be different from everyone I know? To be the object of scorn and derision from every ignoramus who believes homosexuals are monsters? Oh, sure, Quentin. It was the smartest decision I ever made.”
Quentin took a moment to comprehend her sarcasm. “So what then? People are just born that way?”
“I don’t know how it happens. But I know it’s part of who I am, and when I tried to deny it to myself and live a normal life, as it were, I was miserable. Being with Abby is the fir
st thing in my life that feels right.”
“Look, I don’t know what to tell you, Bea. It’s your life. If this is how you’re going to live it, I can’t do anything about it. But I sure hope you don’t expect my approval.”
Beatrice smirked, her heart racing with an inexplicable sense of victory.
“I don’t need your approval. But what I do feel entitled to as your sister is your acceptance. I happen to love your wife as a friend and adore your daughters, as little as I know about them. We don’t have much family, Quent. You, me, and Mom—that’s it. But I can just as easily go back to New York and never show my face here again, if that’s what you want.”
Quentin tilted his glass back until the ice cubes hit his lips, his molars crunching into a melting cube.
“That’s not what I want, Bea. You’re my sister, and Gwen misses your friendship. But I have to admit, I have more than a few reservations about the girls growing up around you and Abby. Wouldn’t want them picking up any bad habits.”
Beatrice sat on the arm of the sofa and laced her fingers in a stretch, suddenly bored with the conversation.
“Hey, if I didn’t pick up any bad heterosexual habits from Aunt Josephine and Uncle Phil, I’m sure your girls will be safe around us.”
Gwen popped her head around the corner from the kitchen. “Sorry to interrupt, but would you like another Manhattan, darling?”
“You’re not interrupting, Gwen,” Beatrice said, her voice clearer and stronger than it had sounded in a while. “We’re through talking.”
The Revelation of Beatrice Darby Page 21
