Bea

It’s Opening Day, and Bea is sitting in a grandstand seat at Fenway. It’s a little chilly, but it feels wonderful to be back. Bea remembers her final spring in America, when a group of them went to Opening Day. It was a Friday, she remembers, a bit foggy and drizzly but quite warm. They snuck out of their afternoon classes and ran down the hill to the trolley. She can’t recall now who else was there, or anything about the game, really, but she remembers the smell of spring. The feeling of freedom. The rare joy of doing something illicit. She’d been a good girl for so long.

Gerald comes back to their seats with hot dogs and beers, and she bites down into the hot dog, wiping the mustard off her top lip with the napkin. Nothing like this at home, she says. I’m so glad I decided to come. Me, too, Gerald says. Twenty years, Bea says. Twenty years since the last time I was at Fenway. Were you here, too, that day? Gerald shrugs. I don’t know, he says. I don’t think so. Didn’t you say you cut school to come? That wasn’t really my thing. Bea laughs. Agreed, she says. It wasn’t mine, either, the only time I ever did, but it was fun. I can’t remember if we got into trouble for going. Probably your father talked to me sternly about the importance of rules. They both smile and cheer on the runner headed for first.

William was probably here, Gerald says. Maybe, Bea says, but I don’t really remember. She knows he was. Gerald nods. That was a tough spring for him, he says. All those fights about college. Bea nods but doesn’t respond.

What happened with the two of you, Gerald says after a pause, not looking at her but squinting out at the field. What happened in London? Bea knows he’s wanted to ask this. He almost did ask, again and again, when he was in London for the wedding. She could feel him trying to get there, trying to find the right words. And she’s considered, over and over, how to respond. What the right answer really is. What do you mean, she says, stalling. He had a few days, he was upset about your father, he came to see me. Bea, Gerald says. It’s me. Not your mother, not my mother, and certainly not Rose. Me. What happened? This is important.

Now he turns and looks at her. Freckles are still sprinkled on his nose. His honest gaze is still the same. Nothing, she says. Nothing happened. Gerald looks back at the field. You told me you loved him, back when you were here for the funeral, he says, cheers erupting around him as the Sox even up the score. I did love him, she says, I do love him. He was my first love, Gerald, you know that. But, in London, in 1951, we were different people, even though only six years had passed. He was getting married. Rose was pregnant. We were no longer teenagers. There was no way we could have been together, even if we had wanted to. She pauses, taking a sip of beer, looking out at the field. She can’t tell him the truth. To hold on to that moment is the only way for her to hold on to William. She doesn’t want to share him with anyone else, even with Gerald. By the time he got to London, she says, the moment had passed.

Really? he asks, turning toward her again, and he looks like the Gerald from those early days, so earnest and open. Really, nothing happened? Bea shakes her head, forcing herself to meet his eyes. Honestly, G? We spent most of the time fighting. You know what he was like. She watches Gerald try to smile. We had a nice time together, she says, we did. When we weren’t fighting. But he was sad and I was sad and we also had to deal with my mother.

Wait, Gerald says. Your mother was there? Bea nods. She’d been somewhere on vacation. Italy? Spain? With some friends. But she came home early, same time William showed up. So, we all spent the time together. I didn’t know that, Gerald says. Somehow, I thought it was just the two of you. We had this awkward dinner in the kitchen, Bea says. She didn’t make it easy for him. And then he left? Gerald asks. Bea nods. He took the train to Southampton. We said goodbye at the door of the flat. And that was it. Hard to believe that was almost fourteen years ago.

Bea watches Gerald’s jaw relax. Not telling him doesn’t have anything to do with the way she feels about him. It’s simply a way to protect what she and William had. And then they’re both on their feet. A run is scored and the tie is broken and they’re winning at last.