I nodded.
“We can eat lunch right there.”
Betty pulled her dress over her head. “It’s best if you wear your shoes. Sometimes there’s broken glass or you can get cut on a rock. Can you tell I’ve been here a lot?”
Betty wore a black high-waist two-piece bathing suit, and I tried not to stare at her cleavage or her thighs, which were a milky white. I stepped into the creek and felt my way toward the rock. Then, suddenly, I went under. Betty jumped in beside me. I grabbed onto her. “Can you swim?” she asked.
“I can swim.” I was treading water. “It just got deep all of a sudden.”
She laughed. “I love spending time with you, Gloria. You’re funny.”
I said, “Since you’re not going to Durham as much, maybe we can spend more time together.”
“Absolutely.”
As long as I didn’t tell her that I liked her, how I liked her … As long as I didn’t touch her, kept my hands to myself, I could be around her, and I needed her. I couldn’t afford to lose her.
We floated under the sunlit trees, and I imagined telling Betty the truth about my past, about Isabel and Sheff. I don’t love Jacob. I burned the old Gloria. I got married. I’m supposed to be just like everybody else, but I’m not. I never will be.
We climbed onto the rock and Betty pulled out the turkey-and-cheese sandwiches she’d made. She passed me one. I tugged at the bottom of my bathing suit. Betty smiled before taking a bite of her sandwich. “We really should go shopping more often.” She eyed my sad suit.
“You’re sort of a bitch, Betty.”
She laughed, nearly choking on her sandwich. “At least you know the real me.”
We finished our sandwiches. The sun felt warm on my back. It was the best day I’d had in months. After we ate, Betty lay on the rock, her back arched, her sunglasses perched on her nose. I caught myself admiring her waist, the line that ran from her belly button to her breasts, and those breasts, the whiteness of them, how they lolled to either side of her chest, how one was slightly larger than the other. Her wet brown hair was splayed on the rock. Her toes were painted red. She said, “Susie was really uptight. We never should’ve dated. I guess it was just easy because we’d known each other.” She thought for a minute. “What was I thinking? Jesus, but she voted for fucking Nixon.”
I said, “I was going to vote for Bobby Kennedy, but then he was assassinated, and I just sort of gave up on politics. I wouldn’t vote for Humphrey because he wasn’t going to get us out of Vietnam, and I wouldn’t vote for Nixon for the same reason. I don’t even watch the news or read the papers anymore. It’s too depressing.”
“Don’t give up, Gloria. How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“I’m twenty-nine. You can’t give up on the world. That I know for sure.”
“I guess.”
Betty sat up. “In addition to supporting Nixon, Susie was never okay with being gay. It took months before she could tell our friends that we were a couple, and even afterwards, she was uncomfortable. She thought she was committing a sin.”
I remembered Belmont. I understood how Susie must’ve felt. I wondered if she’d been locked up.
Betty said, “She was raised Baptist, and I think a big part of her wants to get married and have kids and do what her parents and her church want her to do. I never pressured her about anything, but whenever we were together, it was like she felt guilty for simply being herself. It’s hard to explain.”
“It sounds like it’s really for the best that you two split up.”
“I just want to be happy,” Betty said. “I look at my mom, and it hits me too fucking hard that I only get this one life. I gotta do it right. Live every moment like it’s my last.” She bit into a green apple. Juice dribbled down her chin and I reached out and wiped it off, putting my finger to my mouth. Betty tucked her knees close to her body. She said, “That’s the thing I don’t get. How could she be dating someone else? She’s not, not unless it’s a man.”
I had no answers. “Do you love her?”
“No.”
“Then, just forget it.”
“Sometimes, I wonder if I even know what love is.”
“I knew someone who said the same thing.” I lay back on the rock, my head touching Betty’s, the dappled light streaming through the trees. “I’m really glad that we’re friends.” There was nothing else I could say.
Betty said, “You’re going to regret that when I’m calling you up whining because I miss Susie.”
A bee flew over my hand. Betty said, “Be careful.”
I laughed. “I’m not afraid of bees. They’ve got way more important things to do than bother humans. Do you know that bees have to beat their wings something like two hundred beats per second to hover over a flower? Do you know that they die if they sting you?”
“You’re into bees.”
“I guess.” The sun was setting, and I rolled onto my stomach. The gray rock felt cool. “I’ve been stung twice. The first time I was seven years old. My mother had gone into premature labor.” I drummed my fingers on the rock. “She lost two babies.” I paused for a second. “Just tell me to shut up if I’m talking too much.”
“No,” Betty said, “keep talking.”
“The second time was during my wedding ceremony. I was just about to say, ‘I do,’ and a bee stung me behind my ear. Both times, I kept it to myself. I never told anyone that I was stung.” I was thinking out loud. “There are all these myths—Native American, African, and Celtic—about how bees are symbolic of birth and creativity; they can be spirits traveling from one world to the next.”
Betty said, “Have you always been this far-out?”
I smiled. “I guess so.”
“Does Jacob know about the bees?”
“Nah.”
“Is everything okay with you two?”
Here was my chance to tell the truth, but I didn’t. “Sure. Fine.”
“I’m sorry about your mom’s babies.”
“She was depressed for a long time, but she’s better now.”
Betty said, “My mother has no idea who I am this week. I went to see her yesterday, and she said, ‘I don’t know where I am, Julie.’ She called me Julie. I don’t know who Julie is. Then she said, ‘Is it safe here? I’m worried it’s not safe here.’ I told her that it was safe.”
Betty looked like she was going to cry. I crawled across the rock and hugged her. She felt soft and wet in my arms. My chest was pressed against hers. I didn’t want to let go. I didn’t think she wanted to let go either.
A few weeks later, Jacob was in Raleigh for the night. Betty came over. We were drinking a bottle of Chardonnay. I pulled her into the pantry to show her the beehive situated between the wood lath and the exterior of the house. I said, “It’s a secret,” my finger to my lips.
“Most people would call somebody and have it removed or torch it.”
“I’m not most people.”
“Don’t I know that.”
“It’s like a universe right there.”
“And you’re not scared?”
“I told you they don’t care about me. They’re busy protecting their queen, producing honey. I’m irrelevant.”
“And no one else knows?”
“Just you.”
“And now I feel special.”
And she was.
part three
I know he’s dead! … I can still like him, though, can’t I? Just because somebody’s dead, you don’t just stop liking them, for God’s sake—especially if they were about a thousand times nicer than the people you know that’re alive and all.
—J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye
26
IN EARLY DECEMBER, JACOB TOLD me that we were spending Christmas at my parents’ house. Unbeknownst to me, he and my father had been corresponding. Jacob had written, explaining that it was hard to remain a purist when he was making money hand over fist. He bragged that his restoration
business was booming. I knew that we were broke. At least, I never saw any of this reported income.
On the telephone, my father said, “It sounds like you two are doing quite well for yourselves. Jacob says business is good.”
“I guess so.” I didn’t know what else to say. “I’m looking forward to seeing you at Christmas.”
“Same here. Your mother is ecstatic.”
Whether we were making money or not, the business kept Jacob busy. He was always in Raleigh going to estate sales and flea markets, buying more furniture. I liked that he wasn’t home. It meant that Betty could come over. Sometimes, we watched television. Sometimes, we listened to music. Sometimes, we just talked. Her mother was going rapidly downhill.
On December 21, Jacob and I left for my parents’ house. Oscar went to Betty’s. On the drive, Jacob talked about the estate sales he’d been to in Raleigh. He said, “There’s a greater potential for bigger profit if we buy higher-end furniture. The pieces we’re restoring are fine, but I’d like to get into a more lucrative bracket. I’m thinking it might be a good idea to bring in investors.”
I looked down at my black-stained hands. “Uh-huh.”
“I wonder if your parents would want to invest.”
“I don’t know.” But I did know. This was part of a ruse. We weren’t doing well. He was after my parents’ money. Jacob kept talking about how our business was a great opportunity for anyone with common sense, how my father would be foolish not to invest. I didn’t want to fight, so I stayed quiet. Eventually, I fell asleep. I woke just before the exit for Maryville.
On Christmas Day, my parents invited the Babineauxs and Uncle Eddie to the house. Uncle Eddie was in town for the holiday. Since we were staying at the house, Uncle Eddie was staying at a motel close by.
Gwen, Eugene, and Uncle Eddie arrived around five. Gwen and I sat close together on the sofa, drinking hot toddies. She asked about our restoration business. I figured that Jacob had already hit Eugene up for an investment. I told her, “We’re not being very purist since I spend all day inhaling fumes. And I don’t know anything about the money side of it.” Then, I told Gwen about Betty, about her mom and the forgetfulness, the nursing home. I told her about Wampus Creek, about the blue dress Betty had bought for my birthday, but I didn’t tell her that Betty was gay. If I’d told her that part, she would have known straightaway that I was attracted to and most surely in love with Betty Jenkins.
When I caught myself talking solely about Betty, I changed the subject. I switched to Poppy. “She’s the biggest gossip. I think she might actually open people’s mail.”
“No!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. She should write a gossip column. She seems to know all the dirt on everyone in town.”
The men sat talking at the kitchen table. I hoped Jacob wasn’t pitching them too hard. Here was a man who didn’t want to take charity from anyone unless it suited him.
I was making a drink when Eddie came up, resting his hands on my shoulders. “We need to catch up.”
I turned to see him. “Where’s your Honey my mother told me about?”
“Walk outside with me.”
I grabbed my coat. Snow blew through the blackness.
The patio was slippery. Uncle Eddie took my arm. “For the record,” he said, “you and your shit-for-brains husband can come down to Vilano Beach anytime and meet Honey in person. She’s with her kids in Miami this week. They’re grown. She’s a grandma.”
“Don’t call Jacob a shit-for-brains. God! You haven’t changed.” I stuck out my tongue to catch a flake. We walked toward the pines.
“I’m sober,” he said, “usually. More than before.”
“I stand corrected. That is a big change.”
“I know!” He patted his own back. “But seriously, Gloria, I don’t like him. He’s a prick.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I just spent an hour listening to him. He’s an arrogant prick. He’s so full of himself, I’d say he’s got some kind of serious fucking mental problem. What’s it called? There’s a name for it.”
“What?”
“I’m thinking.” He snapped his fingers. “Delusions of grandeur. I think that’s it, like he thinks he’s better than everybody else.”
Uncle Eddie had just psychologically analyzed my husband, and he’d pretty much hit the nail on the head. “He’s a good guy.” He wasn’t, but he was my husband. I ought to defend him.
Uncle Eddie shook his head. “He’s a fucking shit-for-brains.” We walked farther on. “All I’m saying is I don’t like him. I don’t trust him. Get rid of him.”
“That’s all you’re saying?”
“That’s it. Nothing to it.” Then, Eddie changed the subject. “Honey is a great woman. I really want you to meet her. You’ll like her. She’s not a shit-for-brains. You only make that mistake once.”
“Maybe next year I’ll come down.”
“Come down anytime. We’ve got room.”
“Can I bring the arrogant prick?”
“If you must.”
That night, Jacob and I climbed into my girlhood bed. It was the same as I remembered. I watched the snow fall outside the window. I didn’t feel particularly grown up, no more than I had ten years prior. Jacob slid his hand between my thighs. I wasn’t in the mood. I rolled onto my side, my back to him. Uncle Eddie was right. I’d seriously fucked up.
On the drive home to Greeley, Jacob said, “Why did you move my hand when I tried to touch you? You’re my wife! I’m allowed to touch you.”
“I was tired.”
Then, he didn’t say anything for a few minutes. “Your father said no. He said that he didn’t want to invest until he saw our books. I guess that’s reasonable enough. I just figured that since I’m his son-in-law and you’re his daughter that he’d want to help us. We’re family.”
I said, “Why don’t you ask your father?”
“He doesn’t have any money. You know that, Gloria.”
Then, we didn’t talk for over an hour.
The snow disappeared, replaced by brown slush. I thought that I should’ve stayed in Maryville, but my home was in Greeley, with Betty. I missed her. I wondered how things had gone with her mother. I’d done a lot of thinking in Maryville. After we were home, I would tell Jacob that I wanted a divorce. Only one person on my mother’s side of the family had ever gotten divorced, and he’d been shunned. I had vague memories of being at my grandparents’ house. Maybe I was four or five, and this man had come down the stairs. I remembered my nana and pa looking up. My mother did the same, and he’d disappeared back up the stairs. There were whispers. Later, my mother would tell me that he’d caught his wife cheating, but just the same, divorce wasn’t an option. Somehow, he was partly to blame for her infidelity, but I knew that my parents wouldn’t shun me. My marriage wasn’t technically a sacrament. There’d been no Mass.
Considering Jacob’s temper, I’d have to be ready to leave right after I told him. I’d have to make sure that he hadn’t been drinking. His temper was worse when he drank. Then, after I was separated and divorced, I would tell Betty how I felt about her. It would take time, but it would be worth it. I would be happy. Riding home to Greeley, I was hopeful.
27
I MISSED MY PERIOD. IT was the third one I’d missed. I’d chalked it up to irregularity, to being too thin, to inhaling too many lacquers and stains. Then, Betty brought it up. “Did you ever get your period?”
“No, but I’m sure I will.”
“You’re pregnant.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I bet so.”
I hadn’t been home a week. She insisted on taking me to see her obstetrician-gynecologist in Washington City. She got me an appointment for that day. Jacob was in Durham on business. I was planning to ask for a divorce soon, very soon.
Betty picked me up. I didn’t want to be pregnant. I wanted to tell Betty the truth about who I was and how I felt.
Betty d
rove the twenty miles to the doctor’s office. It was a squat brick building beside a towering hospital. “Whatever happens,” she said, “it’ll be good.” Before I saw the doctor, his nurse, Janelle, did a blood and urine test. Then, she took me and Betty to a room to wait for the doctor and the results. “It might be a while,” she said. “Dr. Donato delivered a baby this morning, so he’s a little behind schedule.” She pulled the door shut.
Betty said, “Are you excited?”
I shook my head. “I feel nauseous.”
Betty came over and patted my thigh. I admired her red fingernails.
“I don’t think I’m good at being married. I really don’t think I’d be a good mother.”
“Darlene said that Jacob hit her. I didn’t know if she was lying. He doesn’t hit you, right?”
“No. Of course not.” He’d pushed me, choked me, berated and bullied me, but he’d never hit me.
“Thank God. Probably nobody is good at marriage, Gloria. Everybody says it takes work, but I know you’d be a good mother.”
Then, the doctor opened the door and Betty took my hand in hers. Dr. Donato wore a long white coat. It was partway open. He wore a green seersucker necktie and khaki pants. “Mrs. Blount, it’s nice to meet you.” He shook my hand.
“You too.”
“Hi, Betty.”
“Hi, Dr. Donato.”
He looked at my chart. “You are most certainly without a doubt pregnant.” He smiled. “I hope this is good news.”
I was speechless. Betty said, “Yay!” and clapped her hands. “I’ll be an aunt.”
“You told Janelle that you weren’t sure, but you thought your last menstrual period was sometime in September. Have you had any nausea?” the doctor asked.
“Right now.”
“What about breast tenderness?”
“Yes, but I kept thinking that maybe my period was about to start.”
“The good news is that you’ve been through what some women consider the toughest trimester.”
“What does that mean?”
Lost in the Beehive Page 15
