Beatrice Speaks
West Virginia, USA 1995
Chapter One
Coming through the trees, she saw it; a small cabin tucked beneath overgrown Indigo and Red Chokeberry bushes. A twelve-foot-tall shrub, aptly named Devil’s Walkingstick, looms above the roof, its pernicious leaves, stalks, stems, and branches, all with razor-sharp spines and thorns, awarding the plant an almost prehistoric appearance.
“Is anybody there?” she called, making her way toward the structure, stopping just shy of the few mossy paving stones in front of a deep porch. Silence hung; draped the air, like the canopy of branches laden with panicles of creamy-white lemon-scented flowers, surrounded by clusters of small purple-black berries, of the aforementioned Devil plant. She called out again, “I said, is anybody there?”
Receiving no answer, the eighteen-year-old moved forward, pushing aside one of the prickly branches to mount the four wooden steps to the front door. The sprig caught her jacket, capturing her momentarily. It took a few seconds to release her corduroy overlayer, but not before receiving a few good nicks on her index finger and thumb. Her instant response was to curse and promptly insert the punctured digits into her mouth to relieve the pain.
Grunting, Beatrice moved forward to the door that stood slightly ajar. Old fir floorboards moaned under her feet as she stepped over the threshold and surveyed the few rooms, all of which were empty save for a smattering of items. Beatrice couldn’t help but imagine the people who had once resided within.
After some minutes of exploration, the youth leaned back against a wall in the main room and removed a soda from her day pack, pulling back the silver tab on the top. The fizzing sound accompanying the escaping air intruded on the quiet space. Holding the can well above her head, she raised a toast to the empty room. “Hi there. I’m Beatrice. Thanks for having me, and here’s to you,” she mused, drinking a quarter of the can in one go.
The drizzle from earlier in the day turned to light rain; with it rose a gusting wind, blowing wide the front door, causing dead leaves and dirt to advance toward her. Beatrice didn’t mind; in fact, she believed it may have been a sign from those passed that they welcomed her as a guest. Perhaps they were answering her greeting. Beatrice fancied herself to be a bit intuitive, at least, that is what a friend had told her, and she was inclined to agree.
Opening her small pack a second time, she withdrew a brand new, black-bound book and a blue ballpoint pen. The last two years of journal writing had been a healing act that presented a much-needed outlet for emotions, thoughts, and expression.
Beatrice had beautiful penmanship; stylistic and neat. While the young woman was not one for seeking compliments, this attribute awarded her re-occurring applause from her teachers. As the ink glided across the page, she smiled, knowing the adulations were well deserved.
Inside these walls, forgotten life
inside the wheels of earth, fire, silk, blood, and spring
inside these walls, cradle to the grave
I’m going back
surge to the past
Swollen pine
is hosting phantom names
in its frame,
and I can hear the rain.
Beatrice closed her eyes, inhaling the sweet, musty aroma of time, and fell into a semi-slumber for several minutes until the trill of a bird snapped her awake. A clip atop her head, holding wispy brown hair, burst open, causing fine dark strands to descend past her shoulders.
The one remaining item in the pack, a map of America, she spread flat upon the floor. This was one of Beatrice’s favorite pastimes: scouring maps, eyes exploring, mind wandering over endless possibilities of travel destinations. Now, after what had transpired over Christmas, she looked toward the twisting veins and arteries with newfound urgency, desperate to formulate a plan for freedom.
Chapter Two
Beatrice wasn’t close with her parents (Ivy and Henry), at least not inwardly. Outwardly, she was seen as a dutiful daughter; obedient and respectful. But even as a youngster, something was missing from the parent-child relationship that other families seemed to possess. This substantive truth could have been due to the fact that her parents were quite religiously devout and Beatrice, while willing to go through the expected rigmarole, was just not interested in any of it; she was merely a reluctant Catholic. Once she learned the outright conspiracy (in her mind) that her parents and relatives had been cloaking for so many years, all emotional ties slipped away.
Beatrice wouldn’t have minded being adopted if she had only been informed of the facts surrounding her history. She had gently asked about it once, but the question was immediately referred to as a preposterous notion.
It had been confusing early, as a pre-teen, when she would visit her Auntie and Uncle; there were blatant similarities in appearances. Her Auntie’s youngest child, Hazel, seemed (in photos) to be the spitting image of Beatrice as a child. This was confounding, as Beatrice appeared to look nothing like her parents and everything like her Auntie and cousins.
It was Thanksgiving, 1994, when Beatrice was seventeen, that she had presented her questions regarding her parentage. “Why do I look so much like my cousins?”
“You don’t,” her mother replied.
“But, I do. I don’t look anything like you or Papa. And old pictures of me are so much like Hazel. I really don’t mind if I am. I just wanna know. Mamma … am I adopted or somethin’?”
Her mother’s hand came swiftly and forcefully, landing firmly across the young woman’s face.
“That’s a preposterous notion. Never contradict me again,” her mother spat, face scarlet with animosity.
But the notion was not preposterous, as it was true. Her parents had adopted Beatrice. Her ‘Auntie and Uncle’s’ daughter, Pearl, had birthed a child out of wedlock as a teenager, and both mother and child were sent away to live with Pearl’s Auntie Ivy and Uncle Henry.
The couple never officially adopted baby Beatrice and no paperwork was ever issued. The two had simply assumed parental roles for the infant from the moment Ivy collected the child and disconsolate teenager. Pearl was altogether cut-off from her purloined offspring, leaving the young mother fundamentally abandoned by the entire family. This rejection, for Pearl, was not only condemning and untenable, but soul crushing; so she fled, broken hearted, leaving her child behind.
Beatrice uncovered the truth a month on, Christmas 1994, when she and her parents returned to her Auntie’s for a week. The eve of Christmas saw the family ready for a church gathering, followed by midnight mass, but Beatrice was to remain at the house to mind Hazel, who was still only eight years old.
By ten p.m., Hazel was in bed, and Beatrice was both bored and annoyed as she had forgotten the bag with her journal and a new book, The Chronicles of Narnia. Beatrice was only allowed to read books on the approved list for Christian families. This book had been given to her the day previously by her mother. Beatrice scoured the paltry-filled bookshelf. Unsurprisingly, the tomes were all religious-based. Besides the four copies of the Bible, there were titles such as Lord on High, Man’s Relationship with God, Learn God’s Laws, He, Who Is The Almighty, and Man and His God. Beatrice noted there were no books with the word ‘woman’ but was certainly not surprised by that fact, given the patriarchal roots and anti-female rhetoric of the religion.
Beatrice had recently attended a family friend’s wedding, with Beatrice’s father presiding over the ceremony. While she could not remember the vows exactly, she was flabbergasted that the man’s vows included something about the husband being the head of the wife and the overseer of marital decisions. In contrast, the woman’s vows included her willingness to submit to the husband and understand that she had been created to be a man’s helper.
An upper shelf held an open box, and Beatrice dragged a chair over to reach it, hoping there might be a couple non-religious books. It was a box with one small photo album inside. “Oh, neat,” she said aloud, removing it and sitting down on the couch to flip through its pages.
The front door opened, and to her surprise, her cousin Elijah walked through it. He was now twenty-seven, strapping, handsome, and had returned home for Christmas on a surprise visit. He had left the church services early as he was ‘not feeling very well.’ Beatrice thought otherwise. He seemed perfectly fine to her, and full of energy.
The two sat side by side, Elijah naming people and places in the photographs. “I haven’t looked at these since I was about fourteen,” he said. “Mama thinks photographs are the devil’s work. Looking at photographs is just a form of Pride, but Papa liked them, so I guess she allowed him one book. I’m surprised she hasn’t burned this album, really, but maybe she looks at the pictures from time to time. You know, to visually re-connect with Papa and Samuel. Hard to believe Papa has been gone for so many years. Samuel, too.”
“I miss Samuel,” said Beatrice. “He was such a sweet boy. He never minded playing with me either, even though he was three years older.”
Grief furrowed the brow of Elijah. “Losing Papa to the black lung wasn’t much of a surprise given all the years he’d spent below ground in coal mines, but no one expected to lose young Samuel to pneumonia so soon after.”
Beatrice went to close the album, but Elijah stopped her. “Oh hey, one more page.”
Elijah turned to the last page and promptly said, “Oh here, I’ll just put this back on the shelf.”
“No, wait, I want to see the page,” pleaded Beatrice.
Elijah shrugged and handed the book back to her, surrendering to fate.
“But … who is this girl?” asked Beatrice. “I mean, this could be me, don’t you think? She looks to be around my age, too.”
“Mmmm, I guess,” said Elijah, looking to the floor.
According to Elijah, his sister Pearl was dead. He remembered her well, recalling that when he was ten, there had been a baby in the house for a few days. He recalled his Auntie Ivy (Beatrice’s mother) coming to collect both mother and child. Then, four months on, he and his brothers were informed that Pearl and the baby had died. Shortly after, the brothers were told that Auntie Ivy and Uncle Henry had been blessed with a child, a girl. Beatrice.
The conversation ended with, “Elijah, am I your sister’s child, do you think?”
Elijah swallowed hard. “Don’t know for sure, but—could be? I was only a kid with little time for babies. Pearl was older than me, sixteen. But I was devastated when she was taken away, as I loved her.”
A disgruntled Beatrice replied, “Well, I’ve certainly never heard her name before tonight.”
Elijah offered one acknowledgment. “I asked about her once, but Mama got mightily upset, so I never asked again. No point in upsetting anyone,” Elijah said, glancing sideways to Beatrice as if to say, ‘Don’t you upset anyone.’
Elijah excused himself while Beatrice sat on the couch fuming with anger, waiting for the family to return home—determined to confront them all. But, she fell asleep and did not stir until the morning. A blanket had been thrown over her by someone, Elijah most likely.
Her mother was first up on Christmas morning and passed Beatrice on the way to the kitchen. “Morning, child,” she said.
“Not your child though, am I?” she said, under her breath, but loud enough for her mother to hear.
Ivy turned, red-faced, arm up, hand flat, prepared for an assault. “We’ve talked about this. Don’t make me take a hand to you again.”
At that moment, Beatrice knew she was right. All she wanted was honesty, but that was not to be, and she would never look at her family the same way again. Even Elijah, who had been forthcoming with information, carried on as if their previous conversation had never occurred. Had her mother died? If she hadn’t, where was she?
Could her mother have abandoned her? Perhaps she had been forced to leave her, given her age. Maybe her real mother had been sent away purposefully. This would mean her Auntie, who was now making her way to the kitchen, would actually be her grandmother. Elijah and his brothers, her uncles, not her cousins. It was strange to think that Hazel was likely her auntie, at eight years of age.
Chapter Three
Beatrice retreated internally and externally. She became moody and depressed, and her grades slowly but surely declined during her last high school year. The names ‘Mama and Papa’ used only when entirely unavoidable. Mostly, she let those nouns fall by the wayside. Her parents were becoming concerned. What if Beatrice was slipping away from her Catholic upbringing and ended up stepping into the rebellious shoes of her birth mother, or worse, falling pregnant out of wedlock, as Pearl had.
By her eighteenth birthday, Beatrice had become a striking young woman with startlingly blue eyes (like her birth mother, like young Hazel) with delicate features on a slender frame. Her personality was strong and determined without being unlikable, with soft spots for animals and nature.
It was during this time that Beatrice stumbled across the abandoned cabin while hiking and formulated an exit strategy. She needed a vehicle first and foremost, which meant finding work and relying on her mother for transportation until she had freedom via her own wheels. A convincing façade of loyalty and improved behavior would be a necessary ruse, to look as though a corner had been turned, in order for her mother to agree to the eventual purchase of a car.
Her mother, especially, was overcome with emotion as Beatrice became more loving toward her. Her mother saw this as maturity and vocally praised the Lord for the transformation. This irritated Beatrice to no end, as her mother’s Lord had nothing to do with it.
She found part-time work at the Bluebonnet library and genuinely enjoyed it. Beatrice was fond of reading. It was a form of escape, and the teen would spend as much time as possible flipping through pages of books that would never have been allowed into her house. Of course, banned books were irresistible to someone with a rebellious streak and she would often sneak select titles home for pre-bed entertainment. Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut Jr and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey were two of her favorites.
Happiness blossomed when graduation ceremonies concluded as it meant she could take longer shifts at the library. Nonetheless, Beatrice had reluctantly acquiesced when her mother insisted she attend the graduation dance a few days later, with a suitable boy from the parish named Stanley.
A new dress for the event would be in order. Beatrice and her mother went to a dress shop in Bluebonnet, but her mother determined most garments improper, even though Beatrice found a few that she liked. Ivy said the ones Beatrice slipped on were ‘too clingy’, ‘too low-cut’, ‘too short’. In the end, they had agreed on one that was still ‘a bit too short’ (just above the knee) but acceptable.
On the night of the dance, Stanley arrived with an overly large corsage that kept flipping forward when attached. Beatrice eventually got a safety pin to add to the flimsy clasp. Frustrated at waiting, Stanley’s mother (Florence), beeped the horn several times until the two emerged from the house. Stanley got into the front passenger seat, which left Beatrice alone in the back—which she found mighty odd. Florence eyed Beatrice via the rear-view mirror several times and, with each glance, the car veered slightly off course making the drive rather stressful.
Once at the school, Florence took several Polaroid pictures. She turned to leave, but Stanley insisted his mother give one of the photos to Beatrice for a keepsake. Reluctantly, Florence handed over one in which Beatrice’s eyes were at half-mast. “Thanks,” said Beatrice, placing it in her small shoulder bag. She didn’t care, as she planned on dumping it into the trash anyway.
The music coming from the gymnasium was so loud they had to shout over it to hear one another. A few couples were dancing, but most students stood on the periphery looking uncomfortable. The doors opened a few moments later, and Jessica Talbot and her date, Drew Penn, entered. Jessica, head cheerleader, was just about every boy’s fantasy. Tall, busty, and blonde.
Drew, captain of the football team, was like a Greek God, a chiseled marble statue with prominent muscles that caused strain on his tuxedo.
“We could dance,” suggested Beatrice to Stanley, looking for some way to get the evening over.
The two entered the dance area just as Sheryl Crow’s All I Wanna Do poured out of the speakers. “Oh, I love this song,” an enthusiastic Beatrice said. Perhaps the evening might be fun, and she began to move to the poppy rhythm. Stanley, it turned out, had not an ounce of rhythm and moved as though he was being taken by a fit.
Many students openly pointed and laughed at Stanley, though he didn’t seem to notice. Eyes then turned to Beatrice, who had a keen sense of groove and was a superlative dancer. She knew people were watching her, giving her a bit of a thrill, but then Jessica and Drew entered the dance area. All eyes went to the bobbing couple. Drew had ditched his jacket, and his white dress shirt was open to the waist, revealing a solid six-pack, while Jessica’s red dress swirled, exposing her matching underpants.
