The Revelation of Beatrice Darby

Author:Jean Copeland [Copeland, Jean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781626393837
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2015-02-16T08:00:00+00:00

*

As she boarded the train in New Haven two weeks later, Beatrice still felt guilty for not taking Gwen’s phone call in the days after their visit. The curiosity of what Gwen was going to say nagged her, but she simply couldn’t bear anymore heart-wrenching exchanges that would only end with the same result. She could barely handle seeing the initial disappointment and fear in Gwen’s eyes. Beatrice couldn’t face her, especially to say good-bye.

Chapter Nine

Beatrice’s first year at NYU sailed by without much ado. She appreciated the low-key existence, eluding the disaster of her emotions by immersing herself in her studies: Victorian literature and a minor in the poetry of Emily Dickinson. She’d also taken a job waitressing at a Greenwich Village bistro that allowed her the small pleasure of living a vicarious social life through the conversations of eclectic patrons.

At the start of her second year, however, she brought new meaning to the phrase “giving it the old college try” with one of her professors. Paul Wainwright was thin and lanky with a baby face and shock of blond curly hair. He smoked profusely, wore elbow patches on his corduroy blazers, and, above all, he knew his Dickinson. By his third request to see her privately in his office, it was evident that he was interested in more than just her educational aspirations.

On their first date, she’d discovered Professor Wainwright was unlike any of the boys, few as they were, she’d dated. Paul was a man—confident, worldly, and intelligent. He took her to Ma Rainey’s, a soul-food restaurant in Harlem where the smell of fresh corn bread and sounds of Ellington and Holiday enveloped the small space packed tightly with patrons of all backgrounds and an array of African art and architecture.

“This place is fantastic,” Beatrice said as she gazed around at the collection of faces both living and artificial.

“Nothing keeps the creative juices flowing like surrounding yourself with culture: people, places, music, and food. They all inspire in their own fascinating ways.” He smiled and took a sip of his martini. “Frankly, I’ve never understood how Dickinson was able to be so prolific while being a shut-in.”

“I don’t know how she was that prolific at all. I’ve tried to write like her a million times and failed miserably every time.”

“That’s your problem right there, Bea. You should be writing like Darby, not Dickinson. You think she tried to be like anyone else?”

Beatrice shrugged and sipped her 7 and 7, an ode to Abby Gill.

“Think of Dickinson’s style,” he went on. “The dashes, the seemingly random capitalizations—today’s critics would eat her alive for that, but those are the most recognizable aspects of her writing.”

“She’s just marvelous. How anyone could write such a beautiful poem about wind blowing into her room, I’ll never know. I keep trying to write poetry, but I’m just not any good at it.”

He engaged her with piercing blue eyes as the weight of his full attention fell on her. “All you need to do is discover where your own writing strengths lie.

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