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5. CB & Beatrice

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Beatrice came to light in my parents’ cellar. They were clearing their house in preparation to migrate to sunnier climes, and were in the midst of looking through the accumulation of those things saved for a rainy day. Everyone thought she was a real worm and wondered how long she could survive without dirt, but evidently Beatrice was made of tougher stuff. My daughter was quite taken with her and although Beatrice was timid, she was charmed as well. She told us she was married, but had not much to say about her husband. He was so busy tilling the soil that he didn’t leave much time for her, so they didn’t know each other all that well. One thing that really bothered her but she didn’t want to admit, was that he had trouble pronouncing her name. He’d call her “Be-truss” when she felt more like a “Bea-ah-triss.” He was good to her, he worked so hard to provide, that she didn’t want to make a fuss, but it honestly tweaked something deep inside of her that she didn’t understand and really didn’t want to. It was as if he had no idea of who she really was, and it hurt her that he didn’t seem to notice. That was the convenient thing about there being so much dirt for him to turn. If he was so busy then there was no need to go into details. He’d only notice her disappearance when he ran out of mulch to digest. We found a nice dress for her. She said it made her feel young and happy, like springtime. It helped us, too, because without it, she tends to blend into the background. The cleaning woman almost chucked her out one day by mistake, and it took awhile to explain why we wanted a worm in our house, so the perky clothing made all the difference. Beatrice was transformed in our company. She had wandered into that cellar in the hopes of finding something that she’d tucked away in a safe place, but then got distracted by the enormity of the project. LaFon happened by in his early days of going his own way, and she said he made her laugh. He taught her to sing the blues, and said she could make a fortune in the nightclubs in Paris, but he left before she knew any more. So, she’d spent a good many years wandering around in the dark, sorting the papers from one pile to another and singing Norah Jones’ tunes. She told us that she was ready to learn a new song. Could anybody teach her?