– Fiction by Helen Orr –
Featured in Issue 22 of Dreamers Magazine.
Lottie cried. She was not the one who usually cried. Evelyn was the one most often cradled in Beabea’s lap, gently
rocking back and forth while Beabea stroked her back.
Beabea told them things. These two girls were her precious treasures. She rocked them in her rocking chair and told them who they were and who they would become.
When Evelyn wailed, “Lottie’s being mean to me,” Beabea stretched out her arms and took the hurt feelings into her lap and soothed their sting.
“You are queen of all you survey,” whispered Beabea. She looked at Lottie over Evelyn’s head and whispered loud
enough for Lottie to hear, “We are each a queen of our own world, my pet.”
The words brought a little comfort. Evelyn nestled into Beabea’s wrinkled embrace, safe from torment. There was
the real solace of home.
Beabea’s arms were strong, but her back was bent from kneading the dough for bread and stirring homemade soup
that she ladled into bowls for the girls on the coldest days. Then she told them stories of her own.
“I used to live in a big house, like this,” Beabea said. “I lived with cats and dogs and children and friends and relations. There was always noise and teasing and eating. Oh, so much eating. I used to have to cook all the time to feed all those hungry mouths. Would you believe I had to cook a whole dinosaur one day, there were so many people to feed?”
Evelyn laughed. “Because you were the queen?”
“Of all I surveyed,” said Beabea.
“But then you came here,” said Evelyn.
Lottie listened but knew the stories were not exactly true.
“I did indeed,” said Beabea. “One day, I looked out and all I could see was empty space, and so I had to come and find a place where there were people I could be queen of again.”
“What happened?” asked Evelyn, who sat on Beabea’s knee and rocked when lunch was finished. Her small hand stroked the grey hair that lay against Beabea’s cheek.
“Well, some say there was a great sickness that killed the weak, the young, the old, and scrubbed the world clean.
I think it just erased what it saw in front of it. The sickness came to all I surveyed and then I was alone.”
“But then you found us,” said Evelyn, who only wanted the happy ending to the story.
“Your Ma and Pa found me,” said Beabea. “They came to my castle and asked if I could help tame the two wild beasts that lived in their great hall. ‘We need a housekeeper. There is always so much to clean and they eat so much,’ they said. ‘As easy as pie,’ I told them. ‘Two monsters are nothing to what I have tamed before.’” And Beabea kissed the top of Evelyn’s head and then winked at Lottie too.
“And now you’re here,” said Evelyn.
***
“And now I’m here,” said Beabea.
“But you still haven’t tamed Lottie.”
A rare time, it was Lottie’s turn. She nestled into the rhythm of Beabea’s rocking.
Lottie missed their mother less than Evelyn did because when her mother came home from work, Lottie was no
longer the ruler of the roost. But that day, it had been Pa who had found fault with Lottie, had told her not to be unkind. That did not happen often. Worse, she knew that she was wrong.
She had told her sister that Ma was never coming home, a secret hope and fear of Lottie herself. She was gone to
school most days, which suited her fine, but Evelyn was home all day awaiting her mother’s return. Lottie had been
unkind and knew it. Her father’s wrath and her mother’s coldness were justified.
Beabea rocked back and forth with Lottie cradled in her lap, her forgiveness and understanding easing the cords that bound the unkind feelings to her heart.
“You’re a strong-willed girl, Lottie. You must look outside the window, not dwell too much inside. You are queen of all you survey. This world with Ma and Pa and Evelyn and Beabea is too small for you.”
Lottie’s eyes grew heavy and her breathing slowed.
Beabea rocked some more. “I once had a girl like you. She flew, and I let her go, because I knew she needed more than what I had to give.”
Lottie held on tightly to her words.
“Some day your Ma and Pa will let you go, and you’ll know. The time you had with them helped you grow. Look out the window and find your path.”
“What about Evelyn?” whispered Lottie.
“She has a heart for home,” said Beabea.
“Do I have to leave?” Lottie felt the tightening of her throat.
“A path leads both away and back,” said Beabea.
“And you?” whispered Lottie.
“I’ve been and gone,” said Beabea.
Lottie rocked in Beabea’s chair as the last of the mourners left the house where they had grown up. Their parents had been gone for years. Evelyn’s eyes were red, but she smiled and took the hands of the friends who had not really known Beabea. Not the way they had. Nor had they.
Their mother had been her little bird that had flown away; her husband, the one who sickness had stolen and left her in a tragic way. She could not have loved or been loved more. But it was funny how she’d never said.
The reading of the will confirmed that Beatrice Vincent had borne a babe out of wedlock and had had to let her go. A lifetime passed in a childless marriage before she found the babe who had become a mother to two hearts, Charlotte and Evelyn. The rocking of her chair became the new rhythm of her days.
Lottie got up from Beabea’s chair and went to say goodbye to the visitors, her arm around her sister’s waist.
About the Author – Helen Orr
Helen Orr has a Creative Writing Certificate from the University of Toronto. In a former life she taught French and was a school Principal. Now, she is a writer of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. Her children’s book, Belinda and the Fairy Lair was published in 2024 by Nightingale Books, an imprint of Pegasus publishers. Books 2 and 3 in the series are in production. Her article “Weekend Warriors on the Bruce Trail” can be found in Boomer magazine. Recently, her short story “The Communications Officer is Silenced” appeared on Little Old Lady comedy blog. Two of her short stories were awarded Honourable Mentions: “Life As We Know It” from Glimmer Train and “Sunshine on a Cloudy Day” by the Stratford Writer’s Festival. Helen currently resides in Stratford with her husband.
Meanwhile, at Dreamers…
Fireside Writing Retreat
It’s simple; a set of prompts, a loose structure, and time set aside to move through it at your own pace. You can follow it closely or not at all. There’s no expectation to produce anything finished.
Dreamers Writing Farm
Dreamers Writing Farm is the physical home of the Dreamers community, a quiet, creative space on the Bruce Peninsula in Ontario. Writers, artists, and travellers stay here throughout the year in simple, literary-themed cabins, tents, and studio suites.