Fool's Journey by Mary Chase Comstock Page A

didn't want to hear. Her mind flashed immediately to Eunice.
What if . . . ?
                “I need to make some things clear," Bess began.
"This is very difficult. You might have noticed I don't share very
easily." She took another sip of wine. "What I'm about to tell you
will change the way you think of me. You’ll lose respect for me.”
                Deirdre shook her head. "Don’t
be absurd–"
                “Hush!” Bess interrupted. “Just
listen to me, Deirdre. I’m going to tell you a story that will make you sick.”
She looked into her wineglass for a moment before meeting Deirdre’s eyes. “I’m
only telling you this because I'm going to die soon."
                Deirdre felt her eyes widen. Simultaneously, Bess Seymour
gave her a crooked smile.
                "I see I have your attention." Bess said it
lightly, but her voice was unsteady.
                Shocked, Deirdre reached across the table and grasped
Bess's hand. It felt as frail as her mother’s, almost as if it might crumble. Her
fears felt so selfish now.
                “Yes, my old enemy is come for me at last. Cancer took my
mother and my sister. Now he’s here for me.”
                Deirdre felt as if she'd been punched. Until this moment,
she'd had no idea how much she'd come to value the quiet, sensible woman.
                “What about treatment?” she heard herself ask.
                Bess shook her head. “That's not an option.”
                “What do you mean? Have you seen another doctor, gotten a
second opinion? There’s got to be something you can do.”
                “I’ve considered my choices, but I’ve made a conscious
decision to do nothing—except resume some old vices." She reached into her
purse and drew out a pack of cigarettes.
                That was why they were sitting outside. Deirdre watched
in horrified fascination as Bess lit the cigarette and drew on it with deep
satisfaction. She's helping herself die, she thought.
                  Bess exhaled and
watched as the smoke circled their heads. "Trust me on this, Deirdre—I
know all about cancer. I’ve seen it up close. They can shoot me full of poison
or they can whittle me down, piece by piece. Call me vain, but I’d like to
avoid making my final exit both bald and boobless. I’m going to take the third
option.”
                Deirdre felt a chill descend.
                “I’ll just sit back and wait for Mr. Death. It’s the only
way I can keep the shreds of dignity I have left.”
                “What do you mean, ‘shreds of dignity?’ You’re a
recognized authority in your field. Your students admire you–”
                “You don’t know anything about it,” Bess snapped impatiently.
Deirdre felt the tears start in her eyes.
                “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Look,
we’re not here to discuss my health. I’ve already made my decision. I only
mention it at all so you’ll know what prompts me to tell you this sad, stupid
story.”
                Bess drained her glass, poured another and went on. “This
is the story of how I was a fool and handed my freedom over for less than
nothing. It’s a story I don’t want to happen to you.”
                What could this possibly have to do with her? What did
Bess know? Deirdre sat back and prepared herself to listen. It was all she
could do.
                “It started when I came to the university about
twenty-five years ago,” Bess began. “I was full of myself, sure of myself.
Academically, at any rate. If there was an award, I’d won it. I made my
reputation early, but it was in Victorian literature, you know, not gender
issues. That was my quiet little vice. No one talked about gender in academe
back then, let alone