Betty’s Forever

The following story contains sexual references, brief foul language, and brief violence.

Betty’s Forever

“Do you think this is what death is? We’re not really gone. We can watch the living go on living. Would it be sad? Would we want to come back? Is it something to fear? Or just another chapter of life?”

I remember like it was yesterday peppering my cousin Billy with questions after we finished rehearsing my lines for Emily in Our Town.

“Whoa, Betty. That’s a lot to ponder,” he said.

That was the first time I began imagining what would happen if I died—before I had even met Jack Clark.

Now, I’m sitting in the dark auditorium watching Joy and Seth rehearse when it hits me—I have turned my fate—my very life—over to Jack.

As soon as the thought arrives, so does Jack. The strange energy I’ve been feeling arrives with him—I’m all nerves as he plops into the seat next to me.

Not looking my way, he leans in and whispers, “I’ve decided to accept your proposal.”

Breathing comes hard and my hands shake.

“Will you take me back?” I whisper, hopefully.

His lips almost form a smile. “I don’t know yet. But I will do what you’ve asked. I’m just not sure which thing.”

Surely, he’s kidding. He will come back to me. I touch his shoulder.

“What more could a girl ask?” I try to not betray my frayed nerves.

“Do you have that notepad you’re always writing in?” he asks.

I reach down, unsnap my purse, and pull out the pad and my Bic.

I hold the pen above the pad. “What am I writing?”

Jack rubs his hands together. “Well, we may get back together, and you could live, all happily ever after.” He stares at me, the smile gone. “Or I could fulfill your wish to die.”

I shudder.

“Where would that leave your sweet Jack?” he asks. “In prison for life?”

“Oh, no, Jack.” My voice cracks. “It would be on me. I’m asking you to do it—if we aren’t to be together.”

“But if I decide we can’t, and I do this thing, how would anyone know it was your choice?”

I look down at the pad and pen on my lap.

“We’ll tell them!”

I write the date at the top of the page.

“I can write anything you want.”

“Ok. What you said—that it’s on you, your choice.”

I’m desperate to please, so the words flow, then I hand him the pad.

I want everyone to know that what I’m about to do in no way implicates anyone else. I say this to make sure that no blame falls on anyone other than myself.

“That’s good. But why? Say why you want to die.”

Why do I want to die? It would only be because he has rejected me. But that would be blaming him, wouldn’t it?

I write furiously, then hand him the pad again.

I have depressing problems that concern only me. I’m waging a war within to find the true me; and I fear that I am losing the battle. Rather than admit defeat I’m going to beat a quick retreat into the no man’s land of death.

Jack traces the words with his finger, reading them twice, then looks at me. “Oh, that’s good. But why me? Look, I would only do this because you asked. I’ve got to be the innocent . . . the hero.”

I grab the pad, and it takes a minute to find the right words.

I shove the pad Jack’s direction. “How’s this?”

As I have only the will and not the fortitude necessary, a friend of mine, seeing how great is my torment, has graciously consented to look after the details. His name is Jack Clark, and I pray he will not suffer for what he is doing for my sake. I take upon myself all blame, for there it lies—on me alone!

Jack musters the biggest smile I have ever seen on his face.

“If I have to go this direction, this is perfect. Sign it.”

He hands me the pad. I sign Betty Briscoe.

“Give it to me,” he says.

He folds it and places it inside his jacket. “See you at rehearsal tonight, then I’ll come to your house around 10:30. I’ll pull up in the alley.” He rushes off.

Shaking like a leaf, I close my eyes, lean back, and take a breath. Then, it comes. Serenity. It’s out of my hands.

What awaits? A new life, either here on Earth, or out there, wherever we go when we leave here.

Outside, I finally feel spring in the air—a touch of cool, bright sun, a blue sky. My bike is weightless. My spirit watches Betty ride.

When I get home, I fetch Betty’s Life. I stare at the next blank page and realize there is nothing left to write. With a few strokes of the pen, Betty’s life was given to Jack.

***

At tonight’s rehearsal, Jack’s character, Trock, will murder Seth’s and Joy’s; mine will say it’s good they died young. But I know it’s just a play, not real life. In real life, the girl should get the boy.

When we’re done, Jack does what he usually does: clings to Joy. Before I can get his attention, they leave.

“Is everything alright, Betty?”

It’s Seth.

“I just wanted to tell Joy how good she was tonight. You still taking me?”

“You bet. Where to?”

“Home, sweet boy.”

I follow Seth to his big pink Dodge. It’s odd, but it’s comfortable and smells new.

I feel a twinge of regret. Seth is nice, and his feelings for me aren’t in doubt.

I put my arm around his shoulder and my hand on his knee. He flinches.

“Betty.” He hits soprano, laughing. “You want us to wreck?”

That’d be a way to go.

I’m following an impulse. If this is my last night, someone should have an unforgettable memory of me. I run my hand up the inside of his leg. He’s driving, but I’m not sure how.

That’s enough for now. I pat his knee and scoot back to my side of the car.

“Gee, Betty, that was . . . nice.”

When he stops in front of my house, I run my hand up his shoulder, through his hair, kiss his lips, and rub his shoulder. “Why don’t you come back at 10. Park in the alley. The parents will be asleep. Can you?”

“I’ll find a way.” He says, all out of breath.

I’m glad I left him a memory.

The house is eerie quiet. I’m thankful Ted and Peggy have gone to bed.

Billy. I go to the kitchen and dial his number, then slide down to the floor.

“Hello.” It’s Billy. I swallow hard.

“It’s Betty.”

“Is everything alright?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“What gives?”

“The same old things. Mrs. Fields still has me playing the old man. Jack’s still chasing Joy.”

“Are you sad?”

“Just a little melancholy. But it’s spring, and things are looking up. I say fuck old Mrs. Fields and Jack Clark. Betty makes her own luck.”

“My ear hurts,” Billy laughs. “But I’m glad you’re taking charge.”

“Billy?” I swallow again.

“Yeah, Cuz?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I slide up the wall, back to my feet, hang up the phone, and stare at it. Good night, Billy.

I walk slowly to my bedroom. My evening isn’t near done.

I rummage through my nighties. Pink. That’s the color. I put it on and look in the mirror. The shorts have a lace fringe, and my midriff shows. Absolutely perfect.

I’m ready to win hearts.

I sneak out the back door like a bandit. Light shines through the fence. Seth and his pink Dodge are waiting.

I have to laugh: the dark can’t hide Seth’s open mouth and bulging eyes.

“Oh, Betty,” he gasps.

I scoot over and rub his cheek. “You like?”

“You’re so sexy.”

I muss his hair and rub his chest. His hands hover, having no clue of their purpose.

“You’re sweet, but you should wait for a girl who deserves such a nice boy.”

“Aw, Betty, you’re a very nice girl.”

I reach for his hand. “I know you see the best in me. But I’m sure you’ve heard all about Bad Betty Briscoe. She’s a bit of a whore.”

“You’re just full of passion, not dull. I mean, you are interesting . . . and beautiful.”

Why, oh why, isn’t he good enough?

I snuggle next to him, and his arms figure out what to do: he holds me. I need to be held.

I’m jarred awake as lights blare through the windshield. It’s Jack’s jeep. Right on time.

“What the heck?” Seth pushes his face against the windshield.

“It’s Jack.” I’m calm. “My God, I didn’t think he would actually come.”

A quizzical look strikes Seth’s face in the light from Jack’s headlights.

“Why?” he asks.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be alone out here . . . before I go with him.”

“Why?”

I squeeze his hand. “I have to call his bluff, even if he kills me.”

I turn, open the car door, and shield my eyes from the headlights.

I almost float into Jack’s hunting vehicle, wondering why he’s not in the Studebaker.

“Who’s that?” Jack asks.

“Seth.”

“Why is he here?” His voice is stern.

Why is he so cold?

I compose myself. “I didn’t want to wait alone. I wasn’t even sure you would come.”

He huffs. “I told you I would.”

The jeep crawls down the alley.

“Did you wear that for me?” His voice is softer now.

I lay my head on his shoulder. “Of course.”

A thousand thoughts swirl, but we drive without talking. It feels good. We feel right. The city lights fade into dark Texas, and I close my eyes. The jeep bumps down the familiar ranch road; then, we stop, and Jack cuts the engine.

“We’re here,” he says.

There’s just enough moonlight to see the trees surrounding the stock pond. It’s so beautiful.

“We can sit for a while.”

He helps me out of the jeep — a first—, takes my hand, and walks me to the bench.

The moon hangs just above the pond below. I curl up and lay my head on Jack’s lap. The scene doesn’t look real—what Heaven must look like at night. I sense Jack enjoying it, too, but he says nothing.

I run my hand up his leg. He fidgets, grips my shoulders, and raises me to a sitting position. “I’ll go get the blanket. We can lay down together.”

Ahh. I am in Heaven. I bask in the moonlight shining on the water.

Jack returns and spreads out the blanket.

“Come.” He sounds far away.

He waves his hand over the blanket. I settle on one side, leaving room for him.

“Wait a moment,” he says.

He walks behind the bench and leans down, picking something up. I can’t see what it is until he is standing over me.

The moonlight shines on the barrel of the shotgun planted in his shoulder

A bright white light flashes and rushes toward me.

***

The sun is shining in my eyes over Percy’s shoulder, who is laughing hysterically as he points his BB gun at me.

The last BB gun war. Of course, that is what I will remember when I’m dying—the day before Ted Briscoe began molesting me.

Percy jumps from behind the tree.

“POW! Gotcha, Betty.”

“I concede!” I’m laughing even harder than him. “Good one.”

What a moment that was.

I look around at the useful patch of earth between our houses. I’ve missed this place.

Why am I here now?

Darkness.

Then the bright light fills my eyes again. And I remember.

***

I’m back in Texas, above the stock pond, the moon hanging peacefully in its place, immune to the violence on the big rock it faithfully circumnavigates.

I look back at Mrs. Clark’s sunset bench, where Jack is cradling odd objects in his arms. He drops them on the blanket. I have avoided looking at the lifeless body lying there. But I glance away from Jack long enough to see.

Betty. She seems to have lost her head—or most of it.

Poor Betty, I guess.

But who am I?

And what is Jack doing? He wraps wire around Dead Betty’s legs, loops the wire through slots in the heavy objects, then ties everything together, weights and ankles and hands, fashioning a fancy knot with the wires.

It’s more fascinating than the shower scene in Psycho. How often do we get to see a Trock, a murderer, perform his handiwork? Movies and plays are only mildly entertaining by comparison. There’s nothing like the real thing.

Jack drags the body down the hill, like someone who knows what he’s doing.

I float down the hill to get a better vantage.

He takes off his socks, shoes, and pants, grabs his wire-wrapped masterpiece under his arm, pulls the body toward the pond, and walks out until the water is just above his knees.

“Do you need any help?” I holler.

Jack looks around, like he’s heard something skulking in the bushes, then, shrugs it off and finishes the job. He pushes the body toward the middle of the pond. It disappears in an instant.

Flash.

***

Everything turns to white light again, then fades to reveal the stage at Amarillo High. Before me lies Garner Blair, pretending to be dead Romeo. My Juliet is committing her last act of eternal love, collapsing on him.

Garner sits up. “That was great. Listen to the crowd.”

Everyone is on their feet, cheering us.

Garner rises and offers his hand.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Betty.”

I suddenly remember my circumstance: being, like Garner, who hung himself, no longer among the living.

“Why you?” I ask.

“Who else? You taught me what love really is. I owe it to you to show you the ropes here.”

I wrap my arms around him, but they go right through. He looks physical, but he’s just an image in the air.

“You’re the only girl I ever wanted to feel.”

“That’s sweet, Garner, but why am I here?”

“I figured you’d want to visit your best memories. We learned that from Emily didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did. Wait, were you there? At the last BB gun war?”

“As your guide, I was allowed to take you. I got to watch, from outside. It’s hard to explain.”

“How did Thornton Wilder know that we could do this?”

“I guess the same way we are doing it now. It’s what you want, so here you are.”

“Is this it? I just travel around to all my old memories?”

“Not only that. You can keep watching the living.”

“You mean, like, what’s going to happen next to my murderer?”

“Yeah, like that.”

A flash of white light.

***

The only thing I can see is moonlight glistening on the barrel of a shotgun. In the same instant, I realize Jack is pointing it at me.

I have read about people jumping to their death from the Golden Gate Bridge. In this moment, I know exactly what they were thinking when they let go.

“I want to live!”

I grab the barrel, bound to my feet, and shove with all my might. I am face to face with Jack, down on the ground, holding his shotgun between us. I force my weight down on him and try to wrest the gun away.

He roars like the Devil and propels me back. I lose my grip on the gun, falling on my back, my shoulder striking a rock.

Through the pain, I plead, “No, Jack! I changed my mind! I don’t want to die!”

He’s standing over me, the gun in his shoulder, sporting his murderous Trock face.

“You should have thought more about living when you were telling Joy I was unknowingly dating my half sister.” The vile heat of his voice pierces the calm air, like lightning in a storm.

“She told you that?”

“She didn’t have to. Out of the blue, she asks, ‘why me, Jack?” He does a cringy imitation of Joy. “‘What happened with Marci? She’s so much prettier than me,’” he yowls with contempt.

“I didn’t mean to. Please, please, Jack. I love you.”

“Love?” he shrieks. “There is no love in this world, Betty Briscoe. Haven’t you figured that out? You’ll be better off dead.”

He points the gun again. I thrust my feet hard at his knees as I feel the cold steel strike my forehead.

Another flash of white light.

***

The sun is shining, the water splashing at my ankles is wondrous cool, my white breasts are bobbing up and down. It’s the day Jack, Janette, and I went to the Canyon beach. But it’s not Jack waiting for me in the stream. It’s Garner. I wrap my arms around him and kiss his lips; I sink into his handsome face—he and the water are the same.

“I love you so much, Garner. I’m glad you’re here.”

“It was a bit of a trick, but I guess within the rules of my job.”

I back away and look around.

“Oh. This is another of my good memories.”

“It works that way. You get to enjoy the memory a little.”

I take his hand, and we walk out of the water. My bra is laying by the towel where I left it. I pick it up and swing it above my head and my insides nearly split with laughter.

“I guess it doesn’t matter whether I wear this or not.”

“Not really.” He laughs with me. “Are you ready to glimpse the future?”

“You mean what happens to Jack?”

“Sort of. Before you decide in which memory you will spend eternity, you must find justice.”