A Conclusion for Beatrice

The long shadow stretched out on the path could easily have belonged to one person, but it instead trailed behind two lovers, synchronized in their every movement. Edison’s trousers had small tears from where the top of the gate had caught the fabric, and even though they were his nicest pair, he didn’t mind. Beatrice’s lavender dress complemented the colors of the garden, but Edison realized she was incomparably stunning, and squeezed her hand a little tighter as if to demonstrate this sensation.

The path curved around the rows of flowers, down the hill from the pools and tennis courts and golf courses and cafés. Beatrice had once hated it, this country club, but it had now become her place to meet Edison. A place where her father would never know. But not just him. No one could know.

“Anne’s family will be joining us for dinner this evening,” Beatrice said.

“That should make it easier, I hope,” replied Edison. He glanced at Beatrice, captivated by the pain in her eyes. She loved her father, but he seemed to think poorly of Edison no matter how Beatrice tried to change his mind.

They reached the fountain, in the middle of the garden, and Beatrice stopped. She sighed and buried her face in his chest. Edison noticed the way the sunlight bathed her in gold, and thought it made her look even more beautiful and delicate. He closed his eyes too, leaning on her perfectly curled chestnut locks, which always smelled of vanilla and peaches.

“I’ve no idea what to do,” confessed Beatrice, her voice breaking. Edison wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as he felt her chest go up and down with the weight of a thousand unleashed sobs.

Through the walls of water cascading down the fountain, Edison spied a figure running in their direction. He warned Beatrice of what he saw, whispering in her ear as he kept his eyes up.

Beatrice pulled away fearfully, glancing around in search of movement.

“Shall I go?” Edison asked, leaning into her ear once more. Beatrice shook her head, looking at him with wide, tear-filled, pleading green eyes. When she blinked, a tear rolled down her cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb, cradling her face in his hand for a moment longer. “It’s going to be okay,” he promised.

“Beatrice, Beatrice!” Their heads spun in the direction of the shriek, where Anne was running toward them. Her hair was tied up somewhat messily, and she held up her dress so she could run more comfortably.

“Hello, Anne,” greeted Beatrice with a smile, stepping toward her friend and away from Edison as if he were simply an unimportant acquaintance she’d been making small talk with in hopes of being rescued by a call from someone more enjoyable, like Anne.

“Come and see, they’re playing billiards,” said Anne, pulling on Beatrice’s arm. Beatrice shot an almost helpless glance back at Edison, who wanted to help but was afraid of interrupting and consequently drawing attention to himself.

“I really don’t think I ought to,” Beatrice said, weakly, as if even she knew any excuse she’d make would be invalid.

Gesturing to Edison, Anne suggested, “He could play some, if he’s inclined.”

Beatrice and Edison exchanged worried looks, both well aware of Edison’s inability to participate in billiards or any other activity typical of Beatrice’s upper-class lifestyle.

Beatrice shook her head. “Edison has fallen and hurt his arm,” she explained, hoping for it to be believable before she was overtaken by her own voice in her head, cursing her for revealing Edison’s name to Anne. “And you know how claustrophobic I get in those crowded rooms, just awfully uncomfortable…. I suppose we’ll have to join you next time.”

“Oh,” said Anne, having been disheartened by her friend’s lack of enthusiasm. Flashing a smile in Edison’s direction, she quipped, “Sorry to hear about your arm,” and, turning back to Beatrice, “I’ve got to go. Jasper’s playing in the billiards game.” With that, she departed with just as intense of a speed as she’d arrived with, holding up her skirt as she rounded the path circling the fountain and disappeared behind the trees, which separated the garden from the rest of the country club as well as providing often-needed shade to the passersby.

As the sun approached the perfectly manicured lawn which spanned the horizon as far as they eye could see, Beatrice and Edison eventually parted ways, following a tearful goodbye on Beatrice’s part. Alone, Beatrice struggled to keep her head up as she returned to the country club in search of Clark, the boy who had been hopelessly and irreversibly in love with her since they were young children–and, due to his family’s impressive wealth and social status, had garnered much support from her father. Edison knew of her uneventful escapades with Clark, which she forced herself to indulge in every once in a while to keep Clark–and her father–at bay. Of course, she knew this sporadic involvement was only a temporary fix, but she was willing to do it–at least until she was older and she and Edison could run away together like they’d always dreamt of.

Beatrice made polite conversation in Clark’s car, which smelled strongly of leather, and crossed her hands in her lap, hoping to appear as though she were comfortable. When the black car pulled into her driveway, it shone with the light of the lamppost that her father had left on, awaiting her return.

“Thank you, Clark,” said Beatrice, opening the car door. “It was a lovely trip home, as always. I hope you have a wonderful rest of your evening.”

“Of course, darling,” Clark replied sweetly. Beatrice tried not to visibly recoil. She couldn’t stand when he called her that, but she couldn’t risk any argument or questioning.

Beatrice waved goodbye to Clark and stepped inside, closing the door behind her and hanging her jacket on the coat rack.

In the living room, a fire was crackling in the fireplace as her father read some cumbersome novel (Beatrice couldn’t understand how, in such dim light) in his favorite leather armchair. Between his fingers, he held a cigar, and the smoke curled around him like a veil of immunity from anything Beatrice has or would do.

“I’m back, Daddy,” Beatrice announced lightly, careful not to annoy her father with her interruption.

He glanced up at his daughter over his reading glasses only for a moment before returning to his literature. He put the cigar to his mouth, taking a long breath, and Beatrice remained in the doorway uncomfortably, waiting for a response.

Her father kept his eyes down and exhaled a cloud of smoke that hugged the space surrounding him as if it were not yet ready to leave. “Your mother is almost done with dinner,” he informed her. “Perhaps you should inquire about assistance.”

Beatrice nodded curtly and, sensing closure to the conversation, retired from her prolonged position in the doorway and made her way to the kitchen, where her mother was setting the table.

“How was the country club, dear?” asked her mother, gently delivering a fork beside each plate.

“Quite nice,” Beatrice answered absent-mindedly. Though she appeared to be mesmerized by the knives now being distributed around the table, she was, in actuality, stuck on the dilemma surrounding Edison. What to do, what to do? The question haunted her and she feared she may never find a resolution to her problem, but instead more questions and decisions and inconveniences. How could it be, she wondered, that any other girl had made it through so terrible? Was she truly alone, or was there room for hope? Hope–such a dangerous thing. Under the guise of hope, Beatrice wasn’t sure even she could trust her own actions. But how could she resist hoping for something as marvelous as Edison? “Where’s Andrew?” Beatrice wondered aloud, the thought of asking to help having completely slipped her mind.

“He’s upstairs playing,” responded her mother. The doorbell sounded, echoing through the house, and Beatrice’s mother looked over the table once more to ensure it would be presentable. “Why don’t you go fetch him for dinner? I’ll greet our guests awhile.”

Beatrice muttered some affirmative remark as she wandered up the stairs in a nearly aimless manner. She called her brother’s name and he stumbled out of his bedroom, leaving a scene of discarded matchbox cars in his wake. He barreled past her, leaving her flattened against the wall she’d pressed herself to in order to avoid him as he continued down the stairs in a full-force sprint.

As she trudged back downstairs, Beatrice could hear the chorus of greetings being exchanged between her own family and Anne’s. She joined the group, and the mundane nature of it all seemed to add an almost dreamlike effect, in which phantoms of Edison floated around for only her to see. This trance she was in was the reason that, for a moment, it didn’t feel real when Anne said, “The billiards game was wildly entertaining this afternoon. It’s a shame Beatrice and that boy of hers couldn’t see it, what with his injured arm and all.”

“Injured arm?” repeated Beatrice’s father, lowering the forkful of broccoli he’d been lifting to his mouth. “If I’d known that, I’d have picked you up myself. What did that Clark get himself into now?”

Beatrice froze, despite being in the middle of chewing. She could feel her entire body tense up in fear of what might happen next.

“No, no, not Clark,” Anne corrected him, casually as if there was nothing significant about the conversation. “He was taller, with darker hair and bright blue eyes, I remember that.” Beatrice bit her lip, ignoring the strange surge of jealousy she felt–as if his appearance should be known only to her. “What did you say his name was, Beatrice? Edward?”

Beatrice could not bring herself to make eye contact with anyone else at the table, but she could feel every pair of eyes on her, most notably her father’s, glaring like ice-cold daggers.

“Edison?” Her father’s tone sent chills running down her spine. It was no doubt everyone at the table could feel the overwhelming tension, and Anne had realized her mistake, but–unfortunately–it was far too late now.

Beatrice met her father’s eyes, and didn’t need to respond to his inquisition.

“To the living room,” ordered her father. “Now.”

Her hands shook as she stood, fumbling with the napkin she’d placed in her lap before everything had gone so horribly wrong. She trailed behind her father, her face scarlet with humiliation and regret in keeping secrets from Anne, such a close friend.

Beatrice’s posture was rigid as she sat on the couch, watching as her father paced intimidatingly in front of the fireplace, sliding the cigar between his fingers. He sighed somewhat dramatically, and opened the cabinet to pour himself some bourbon. It was nearly impossible for him to realize the extent of the danger the silence caused his daughter due to the magnitude of distress she felt, and the speed of the thoughts racing through her mind.

“It’s because I love you.” It was an explanation she hadn’t asked for. Beatrice, for the longest time, had been containing countless questions, letting them pile up with no expectation of answers. This answer, however, belonged with none of her questions. For, she thought miserably, what did the intentions matter when the actions were so clear, and so detrimental, at that? Beatrice did not know how to respond, so she didn’t.

Her father returned the bottle and closed the cabinet with a gentleness Beatrice found surprising. She’d never seen her father as a very emotional, sensitive person, but it seemed to her now that he had another, more hidden, part of himself.

“I’ve decided to go speak with Edison and his family,” he said, matter-of-factly. Beatrice felt her breath catch in her throat, unable to believe what she’d heard, much less decide how to feel about it. “From what I can tell, he falls short of every standard I can think of. I wish it wasn’t so, but there’s not much I can change. I can’t tell you what exactly has come upon me, but I feel a surge of open-mindedness, or generosity, or something of that sort.”

Beatrice sensed lies, that she couldn’t be sure about anything. Mystery and confusion gripped her, leaving her in a haze much like that of the cigar smoke. She was overwhelmed with contradictory thoughts, like the myriad of things she imagined herself saying and the simultaneous desire to remain silent indefinitely (an easier, and potentially more powerful, option). No matter what angle she examined it from, though, her father’s mal intent was clear, and she did not plan to waste even a second trusting him.

Her father looked upon her, expecting her to say something. She thought–just for a moment–that she saw his bottom lip quiver, but she couldn’t be sure, and the moment passed so quickly that it slipped her mind instantly.

Wordlessly, Beatrice’s father began to head toward the door. In a panic, she jumped up, grabbing him by the arm. “No, Daddy–please,” she begged, tears welling up in her eyes for the second time that day. “Leave Edison alone.”

Much to her dismay, he was–expectedly–a much stronger force than she, and pulled his arm out of her grip with ease. “I will not be told to leave a boy alone who cannot leave my daughter alone,” he said firmly, his voice booming. With nothing else to say, he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Dizzily, Beatrice backed away from the door. All she could think about was Edison, and the gun her father kept in the car. And, crushed with the gravity of the situation, Beatrice began to sob as she ran upstairs. She covered her face with her arm as she passed the kitchen, not forgetting the intensity of her humiliation. Once she reached her bedroom, she slammed the door, almost hoping her father could hear her and understand the impact of his negativity. Her sobs shook her entire body as she lay curled up on her bed. Gusts of wind blew in from the scenic picture window, the one she used to look out from as a girl, declaring herself princess of all she could see. Rain had begun to pour from the dark skies, lit up by flashes of lightning every so often. Beatrice remembered that night she’d been home alone, when her parents had gone someplace with Andrew, and she and Edison had sat together on the roof. And right now, she would do anything to go back in time to that moment. It would be indescribably lovely, she imagined, to be there again. She hadn’t gone out to the roof since that day, for fear of tainting the memory in any way.

Beatrice, so lost in her own world of uncontrollable thoughts, didn’t even notice the sound of Anne’s family leaving, or Andrew going to bed, or her mother puttering around downstairs until the early hours of the morning, when her father returned with Edison. They’d reached a compromise, he explained, and wanted to talk to Beatrice. But her mother’s attempt to find her was made in vain, and when Edison finally found her body lying in dewy grass, blanketed in the light of the sunrise and the peaceful petrichor, he wept for hours alongside her parents. In her death, all of them had become more understanding of her as a whole. What they could never understand was why she fell off the roof that night.