Thursday's child has far to go

It had been a day and yet she could not stop thinking about it. The man she had talked so briefly with at the bank- Benjamin Compton, had surprised her far more than anything else could have.

She had stood in shock at him, her mouth agape, after he had divulged the plot of his novel and afterwards, within several short awkward words, their conversation was over. Beatrice headed to the bank with Benjamin gone from her sight and yet she could not, for the life of her, get him out of her mind.

She doubted the plot was a coincidence of course; the story was still notorious in Winthrop's Hollow, several years after the event occurred. Retellings were exchanged in hidden whispers and exchanged rumors down by the pub and in the parlor of nosy housewives. And it had always started the same way, with Evelyn Young being found on Monday morning, very much beautiful and very much dead in the water.

Perhaps he had heard the story from a local and became curious by the morbid tale. She hoped however, he had no idea what her involvement in the event was.

And Beatrice feeling immensely guilty about her fascination with the man, when she was married just a few short days ago, tried to get him out of her head. It wasn't like her to dwell over a boy. But moment after moment her thoughts turned to him.

Perhaps, she decided, she was just particularly vulnerable and hurt after what happened. It might have been a defense mechanism her mind used to cope- the way she took up writing a journal after Evelyn's death.

But come Thursday afternoon, she was cooped in the house, absolutely bored out of her mind and yet at unease. She had visited the post office again in the morning, but to no avail, as the letter to the bank had not come back. It would have been pleasant, she supposed, to stroll around in town, though it would hardly be a wise decision given her rash return and the very nasty rumors that surrounded her. The whole town had seemed stiff and almost unpleasant at her reappearance.

It might have simply been that she was vaguely paranoid and conscious once again in a setting where she might not have felt accepted, but she doubted it had to do with her state of mind. When she had waved to old widow Wilson who sat all day, rocking back and forth on her porch, she had found the old lady giving her a horrible look of disdain before she looked down again at her knitting. Robert the greengrocer, usually very friendly and conversational, smiled rather coldly at Beatrice and had only given a curt nod when she attempted to make conversation about his wife and kids.

And so she found herself at four in the afternoon, merely lounging in the kitchen, sucking on the tip of her fountain pen as she struggled to find fitting words for her journal. It was almost therapeutic, this sort of sharing she did. Sharing with an inanimate object involved far less worry and actual trust than doing the same things with a human being.

 It would be a while before she decided to interact with the townsfolk again, partially out of mortification and partially from apprehension. She would give them time to adjust to her living in Winthrop's Hollow again- for them to warm up to her. She reclined on the wooden rocking chair shifting slowly back and forth, accompanied by the gentle snoring of her great aunt.

There was a knock on the door, and Beatrice, desperate for any sort of human interaction (with any hint of warmness), ran to the front of the house.  

Annie Young stood at the porch, carrying a large plate of pastries and wearing a beaming smile. She looked older than Beatrice remembered, and at age 20, had already begun developing the slightest hint of stress lines upon her face. Her blond hair was cut into a smart bob, shorter than the wavy curls she used to have and her eyes, the same shocking blue that belonged to Evelyn, glinted excitedly at the sight of Beatrice.  "Jinx!" she cried.

Annie ran into the house and set the plate down on a nearby table. Pulling Beatrice into a tight embrace she said, "I heard about what happened to Johnny from Frances and I'm so sorry. But I also heard that you were back in town and I knew I had to visit you as soon as I was able."

Beatrice smiled gratefully at her friend. 'Well I'm very glad you came to visit. It's been so boring cooped up in the house for the past couple of days."

Annie tilted her head in confusion. "Does your great aunt not allow you to leave?"

"No, it's not that. Everyone just seems so unapproachable since I've gotten back and well- it's awkward."

"Well that's because God knows when the last time these housewives had found good gossip. The most exciting thing that's happened in the past six months was Dolly and Max getting engaged only to break it off. You know as well as I do how boring this place is. I'm positive everyone is just surprised."

Her words brought Beatrice a little comfort and she relaxed slightly, a tiny bit of the burden she had been carrying these past few days disappeared, making her feel lighter.

Annie had always been the friend she had felt the most at ease with. And it was no coincidence she had been Beatrice's first in Winthrop's Hollow, when she had felt so terrified in a strange town. The same chilly atmosphere had manifested at her first arrival, when she, at the age of eight, had shown up at her great aunt's door, penniless and newly orphaned.

Most of the children hadn't dared talk- or even acknowledge her. And the one time she had gathered her courage, a week into living there, to approach the girls playing by the woods, they continued on laughing and joking, pretending that she was not there.

The interaction had left Beatrice hurt and embarrassed and for months, she had refused to be on speaking terms with anyone in town.

And even as a little child she had known that when she was not there, the parents would say awful things about her and their children would listen.

They said that her father was a drunkard. And that he burned down their house in a fit of rage.

Some even went as far as to make the audacious claim that her family was sinking in debt, unable to pay and as a consequence those that loaned them money had committed arson.

Looking back, it was all a load of rubbish in a place that was far too short of conversational topics, but as a young impressionable child, she started to believe the lies as well.

Annie had talked to her first, and she was nine by the time it happened. Annie introduced herself to Beatrice, who was instantly taken with her demure but sunny demeanor.

Eventually the two had become rather close friends and Annie finally introduced Beatrice to her older sister, Evelyn and her best friend Frances.

The rest was history.

"It must have been awful for you too," Beatrice realized suddenly, "to have everyone talking about you after Evelyn's death."

By that point, she was sick of the attention and within weeks, had run off. She had never faced the initial explosion of speculation, after the town had time to react to the news. But Annie and Frances must have felt the full blow, without the consolation of Beatrice there too, sharing the experience.  

There was a hint of sadness in Annie's smile as her piercing eyes looked straight into Beatrice.  "It was. Especially after the police found out we were supposed to meet her by the old ash tree the night it happened."

Beatrice remembered it clearly, and how she, along with Annie and Frances were brought in to discuss what they witnessed that night. The three of them agreed that they had never even seen Evelyn, with Beatrice spraining her ankle on the way there.  And by the time Annie and Frances arrived, she was nowhere to be found and the two left, disappointed.

The silent contemplation was interrupted by the loud wailing whistle of the kettle, little puffs of steam rising from the sprout.

"Do you want any tea?" Beatrice asked, getting up to check on the boiling water.

"Oh I'll do it myself."

Taking two chipped cups from the cupboard, Annie unsteadily poured the hot liquid into them, her hands shaking.

"We never did find out what her secret was," Beatrice commented suddenly.

In surprise, Annie's grip slipped for a second, sending drops of boiling water onto her hand. Wincing in pain and gnashing her teeth to keep from crying out, she wrapped some ice from the icebox around a handkerchief, letting the coldness soothe her swollen flesh.

Beatrice had sat down at the table and was gazing off through the grimy window into the snowy woods, her eyes doe like. She seemed not to notice what had happened. Annie, recovering from the burn, sat down beside Beatrice still clutching her aching hand. "Sometimes people wouldn't believe we were sisters, or that she was merely two years older than me. I mean we looked alike, of course, but they always thought Evelyn was far more interesting than me."

There was a slight bitter edge in Annie's voice as Beatrice handed her the tea and she took a tiny sip from the searing liquid. "That's what made her so interesting I reckon. The fact that she had so many secrets and that no one ever knew them all, not even me."

Beatrice nodded, agreeing completely with what she had said. That air of mystery was what had made Beatrice want to be friends with her in the first place, why she was so irresistible to everyone. She had this charismatic presence that made you want to know her, to amuse her and by doing so you could perhaps finally understand her.

She doubted anyone ever understood Evelyn. Not even Evelyn herself.

"I thought," Beatrice added, clutching her aching hand, "that Evelyn made it quite clear it had something to do with a boy."

"Most likely," Annie said shortly.

Annie darted her eyes to the kitchen wall, staring at it as if there was some fascinating element to the greasy linoleum she couldn't be more interested in. It seemed as if she was desperate to end any mention of Evelyn.

Beatrice couldn't help but emphasize with Annie.  As soon as word had gotten out that Johnny had passed, people surrounded themselves around her. Hearing feigned condolences and very sugar coated sympathies had made Beatrice sick. They had talked to her of course, asking her how she felt, though those actions were far more out of curiosity than concern. She would give short monosyllabic replies that effectively ended the conversation. The death of the person she loved most was not something she ever wanted to share with someone, it was baring her soul out and it made her feel vulnerable.   

More vulnerable than she had already been.

 "So, now that you're back in town, what are you planning to do?"

 "Well I wrote to the back asking about the old fund Johnny and I had saved up, so I was hoping that would tide me over for a few months."

"How awful!" Annie cried sympathetically. "I would love to help but we don't have much either,"

She blushed sheepishly and seemed very embarrassed by the thought that the Youngs were barely better off than the Graces had been.

"That's very kind," Beatrice replied gratefully, "but it really isn't necessary. I was hoping Frances would lend me some money to get me back on my feet again."

Annie's blush deepened. The financial disparities of the two families became even more prominent with Frances constantly around them. Her family lived a very comfortable life and she had never wanted anything. With parents who adored her she was constantly swathed in dresses of expensive materials and shiny necklaces that dangled down her neck.

And so it was an incredible surprise when immensely wealthy Scott Morgan chose Evelyn over Frances.  

"I'm sure Frances would be very happy in lending you money. She always adored you. Said you were the little sister she never had."

Beatrice snickered loudly into her tea. "I didn't know Frances was capable of emotions. She seemed really cold to little Fay when I met her down at the station. And if I remember correctly, she spent half of our childhood teasing me viciously."

"Well I don't think Frances really likes children. You know how adamant she was around us at first when she realized Evelyn expected her to be friends with younger girls."

"Well it's her daughter. I doubt most mothers would be so indifferent."

"She's always indifferent. Especially now I suppose. I haven't talked to her in months."

Beatrice choked on her drink. It seemed impossible to imagine that the girls, who had grown up together and spent countless hours by the lake, sharing secrets and laughing until the cooling hues of twilight would have been no more. "What happened?"

"It wasn't anything sudden or dramatic. After Evelyn's death and you running away half of our sanctum was gone and it just- I supposed we couldn't bear to look at each other anymore, it reminded us of the awful things we had been through and the way things would never be the same again. We tried talking again after that. But it didn't feel right. It was strained and forced and I suppose in the end neither of us really wanted to continue again. We simply drifted apart."

Beatrice couldn't help but wonder if she had stayed, instead of escaping from her fears and her sorrow, would things have been the same? Would she have tried to make conversation with Annie or Frances on the streets when she saw them, only to realize that the monosyllabic words they exchange were empty and devoid of warmth?

Or would they have been as close as they were three years ago?

"Things change I suppose."

Annie smiled a little too grimly for her usually friendly face. "Well a lot has changed since you were here last. All of us change. You changed. Frances changed. I changed. It's nothing to dwell over and the past is in the past."

"I changed? How so?"

"You're older for one.  You're bonier, which I assume it from years of poverty induced starvation. And- and I can't quite put it into words but there's this discernible air of sadness around you. It's apparent from the way you talk and how you refuse to open up. When you smile it never reaches your eyes."  

"I'm sure that the air of sadness you described has been around me longer than just three years."

 "It has," Annie admitted, "But it's worse now and frankly its part of the reason why I came to see you. You look like you'll never be happy again."

"I'll live."

And that was the endless mantra that Beatrice repeated to herself like a dark murmured prayer. As if hoping, wishing desperately that one day she would be happy again. In the meantime she would have far more pressing problems to distract her from the dark thoughts that resided within her.

Her thoughts turned yet again, somehow, to Benjamin. He was as good a distraction as she could have. He seemed charming and for a few brief blissful moments, during their conversations, she had not been thinking of the pain of losing Johnny.

Annie brushed away a lock of brown hair that fell in front of her eyes. Tilting her head, she squinted at the grandfather clock in the hallway, struggling to find read the time.  It was a few moments before she reacted again. "I'm so sorry Beatrice I really have to leave soon. Mother's expecting me to make dinner for the night and we're out of bread. Take care and don't starve yourself for God's sake."

"Wait!" Beatrice called after Annie, who was halfway out the door with her coat on her thin frame. She didn't want her friend to leave so soon, and in a moment of blind panic, desperately tried to think of a thing that would stall her. "You told me I was always sad. That's hardly true. In fact I met someone when I mailed off a letter yesterday and had a rather pleasant conversation."

Annie looked very surprised, her blue eyes staring wide at Beatrice. Any intention of rushing away was clearly gone now, as she stood by the door, taking off her heavy coat again in the heat of the house. Slowly, almost uncertainly, a smile tugged at the corner of Annie's lips. "Have you really?" she asked incredulously, "who was he? Was it Gerald? I always thought he was sweet on you."

"No. From what I gathered he moved here recently. I would think he's new in town."

"Well how romantic," Annie said dreamily, her eyes sparkling, "it's practically one of those novels that Frances used to read all the time. A dark handsome stranger to sweep you, a young withering widow, off her feet and find that true meaning of love again."

"That's foolish," Beatrice chuckled, "we merely had a pleasant conversation and he didn't seem to be holding his head in disdain as he talked to me, which is quite the novelty these days."

"Well you never know. Do tell me, Jinx, what was this fine gentleman's name. This is a tiny town and I'm bound to have talked to him before. I could suggest he take you out lunch. Would you like that?"

Beatrice blushed scarlet, her cheeks feeling hot. "His name is Benjamin Compson."

 Annie stared at her friend, tilting her head thoughtfully. Her eyes narrowed as if she was thinking rather hard about the name and after a few seconds, she still did not speak. A look of great confusion came across her face as she stared at Beatrice with a judging expression.

"He doesn't exist. There is no one in Winthrop's Hollow named Benjamin Compson."