Beatrice Melts Down

Beatrice awoke to the buzzing sound of an electronic alarm clock on December 15, 1982. It was 6 a.m. on a no school day and she had lots of work to do– in hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Barb Benson, the battered housewife who lived down the back alley in town. Beatrice walked to the post office the same time every day for years and always looked forward to seeing the pretty lady washing dishes in her kitchen window. Barb wasn’t in her kitchen window for three days straight and it troubled the young girl.

Barb always had black eyes. Perhaps the bruises were from the fists of a husband who beat her, or maybe it was only dark circles under her eyes-- black from pure exhaustion. A life of boredom may have been what caused Barb to have black eyes.

Beatrice had a plan. She was going to deliver a tray of Christmas cookies to her and formally introduce herself to Barb and get an up close look at those welts. After all, the two have exchanged glaces through a window for years and Barb seemed like a close friend.

She stole some Christmas cookies that her mom had made and stored in deep freezers in the basement and created a Christmas gift basket for the mysterious blonde babe, Barb Benson.

She walked bravely up to Barb’s door with a tray of cookies and whoopie pies, rang the bell and expected an angry, drunk Mr. Benson to answer the door.

But Barb wasn’t there. It was an elderly woman with hair as grey as crick clay who answered the door.

"May I help you?" asked the old woman.

"Where’s Barb Benson?" asked Beatrice.

"Barb Benson?" the elderly one asked with her forehead wrinkling up and exposing thousands of snake like crevasses.

"Barb Benson. The woman with three children!" said Beatrice in a confused tone.

"Barb Benson was my mother responded the elderly woman."

She handed the old woman the plate of cookies and said "Sorry, wrong house."

Beatrice ran home as fast as she could and threw her pack of Lucky Strikes down an embankment.

"Could I have been only imagining her?" she thought.

Beatrice made it back home, ran to her bedroom and tried to make sense of it all.

"But I know she was there. I saw her every day." she kept repeating to herself.

The Bible she was reading the other night was still on the floor. She picked up the good book, held it to her chest and began to cry.

"How childish of me. That woman must think I’m crazy." Beatrice said to herself.

A soft voice came from the closet in Beatrice’s bedroom, a voice that sounded just like she had imagined Barb’s voice would sound.

"Fear not, for behold I bring you tidings of great joy!" said the voice in the closet of Beatrice’s mind and imagination.