The Queen's Gambit

THIRTEEN
Jolene was not in the Lexington directory. Beth Tried information in
Louisville and Frankfort. No Jolene DeWitt. She could have married and
changed her name. She could be in Chicago or the Klondike for that matter;
Beth had not seen or heard from her since the day she left Methuen. And
there was only one thing to do if she was to go through with this. Her
adoption papers were in a drawer in Mrs. Wheatley’s desk. She got the
folder out and found a letter with the Methuen name and slogan at the top of
it in red. The phone number was there. She held the paper nervously for
several moments. At the bottom it was signed in a small, neat hand: Helen
Deardorff, Superintendent.
It was almost noon, and she had not had a drink yet. For a moment she
thought of steadying herself with a Gibson, but she could not hide the
stupidity of that idea from herself. A Gibson would be the end of her
resolve. She might be alcoholic, but she was not a fool. She went upstairs
and got her bottle of Mexican Librium and took two. Waiting for the tension
to ease, she walked into the yard which the boy had mowed the day before.
The tea roses had finally bloomed. The petals had fallen from most of them,
and at the end of some of the stems were spherical, pregnant-looking hips
where the flowers had been. She had never noticed them when they were
blooming in June and July.
Back in the kitchen, she felt steadier. The tranquilizers were working.
How many brain cells did they kill with each milligram? It couldn’t be as
bad as liquor. She walked into the living room and dialed the Methuen
Home.
The operator at Methuen put her on hold. Beth reached over to the bottle,
shook out a green pill and swallowed it. Finally the voice came, shockingly
crisp, from the receiver. “Helen Deardorff speaking.”
For a moment she couldn’t speak and wanted to hang up, but she sucked
in her breath and said, “Mrs. Deardorff, this is Beth Harmon.”

---

“Really?” The voice sounded surprised.
“Yes.”
“Well.” During the pause that followed it occurred to Beth that Mrs.
Deardorff might have nothing to say. She might find it as difficult talking to
Beth as Beth did talking to her. “Well,” Mrs. Deardorff said, “we’ve been
reading about you.”
“How’s Mr. Shaibel?” Beth asked.
“Mr. Shaibel is still with us. Is that what you called about?”
“I called about Jolene DeWitt. I need to get in touch with her.”
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Deardorff said. “Methuen cannot give out the addresses
or phone numbers of its charges.”
“Mrs. Deardorff,” Beth said, her voice suddenly breaking through into
feeling, “Mrs. Deardorff, do this for me. I have to talk to Jolene.”
“There are laws—”
“Mrs. Deardorff,” Beth said, “please.”
Mrs. Deardorff’s voice took on a different tone. “All right, Elizabeth.
DeWitt lives in Lexington. Here’s her phone number.”
***
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Jolene said on the phone. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
“How are you, Jolene?” Beth felt like crying, but she kept the quaver out
of her voice.
“Oh my God, child,” Jolene said, laughing. “It is so good to hear your
voice. Are you still ugly?”
“Are you still black?”
“I am one black lady,” Jolene said. “And you’ve lost your ugly. I saw you
in more magazines than Barbra Streisand. My famous friend.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“Jealous.”
“Jolene,” Beth said, “did you ever get adopted?”
“Shit, no. I graduated from that place. Why in hell didn’t you mail me a
card or a box of cookies?”
“I’ll buy you dinner tonight. Can you get to Toby’s on Main Street at
seven?”

---

“I’ll cut a class,” Jolene said. “Son of a bitch! U.S. Champion at the
historic game of chess. A genuine winner.”
“That’s what I want to talk about,” Beth said.
When they met at Toby’s the spontaneity was gone. Beth had spent the
day without a drink, had her hair cut at Roberta’s and cleaned up the
kitchen, almost overcome with the excitement of talking to Jolene again.
She arrived at Toby’s a quarter of an hour early and nervously turned down
the waiter’s offer to bring her a drink. She had a Coke in front of her when
Jolene arrived.
At first Beth didn’t recognize her. The woman who came toward her
table in what looked like a Coco Chanel suit and a full, bushy Afro was so
tall that Beth could not believe it was Jolene. She looked like a movie star,
or a rock-and-roll princess—fuller in the figure than Diana Ross and as cool
as Lena Horne. But when Beth saw that it was in fact Jolene, that the smile
and the eyes were the Jolene she remembered, she stood up awkwardly, and
they embraced. Jolene’s perfume was strong. Beth felt self-conscious.
Jolene patted her back while they hugged, and said, “Beth Harmon. Old
Beth.”
They sat down and looked at each other awkwardly. Beth decided she
had to have a drink to see her through this. But when the waiter came,
blessedly breaking the silence, Jolene ordered a club soda and Beth had him
bring her another Coke.
Jolene was carrying something in a manila envelope, which she set on the
table in front of Beth. Beth picked it up. It was a book, and she knew
immediately what it was. She slipped off the envelope. Modern Chess