by Sandy Lowe
“Let’s go,” Beatrix said, leading the way.
As they approached, her mother looked back and forth at them, confused. Alexandra hated her for not already knowing what Beatrix meant to her, hated that she wouldn’t get the chance to explain, maybe ever.
“Honey, we were so worried about you,” she said, taking Alexandra into her arms and giving her a stifling hug.
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m really good. This is Beatrix, by the way. She helped me get here.” Beatrix held out her hand and shook everybody’s. A sick feeling like the one she usually felt when she thought about traveling bubbled up in her stomach. She hated hiding things from her family.
“Alexandra, I should go,” Beatrix said, lightly touching her arm. “I hope you have a good trip.”
Alexandra saw the sadness in her eyes and threw her arms around her, hugging her fiercely. When they broke apart, Beatrix turned slowly away and made her way toward the street. Alexandra couldn’t watch her go, so she started walking toward the ship. Her heart broke all over again with every step she took.
Later, after she’d eaten far too much for dinner and was lounging on her ocean view bed, Alexandra remembered the box in her bag. She dumped the meager contents of the backpack on the floor and found it, opening it carefully. Out fell a note along with a small silver airplane pendant.
Dear Alexandra,
I miss you. I saved my number in your phone while you were sleeping. I hope you’ll use it when I’m in Boston again. Hours before I got on the plane, I accepted a fellowship at the Boston Repertory Theater. I’ll be there July 15th. I hope you’ll show me around.
XO,
Beatrix
Green Gables and Golden Opportunities
Allison Wonderland
Allison Wonderland is delighted to be Anne-thologized in another inescapably pleasurable Bolds Strokes book. Earlier excursions with BSB involved Girls Next Door, Girls on Campus, and Myth & Magic. Allison was tickled pink when she visited Green Gables in the summer of 2017, and she now desires to experience Christchurch, New Zealand; Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House; and the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast. To find out more about this gadabout, consider aisforallison.blogspot.com for your next outing.
As a Sapphic sojourning on Prince Edward Island, the Canadian province that produced the carrot-top-of-the-line literary heroine known and loved as Anne Shirley, I have every right to wear a statement shirt that states I’m a Lesbi-Anne!
Alas, this puffy-painted proclamation, tacked onto textile the color of grape bubble gum, went over not only my head.
It also went over the head of my…traveling companion.
Once upon a time, I called Arlene my bosom friend, and vice versa. We’d met at a creative writing program the summer we were fifteen, corresponded for the fifteen years that followed and, upon realizing we’d endured too long a separation—and deserved a vacation from the austerities of adulthood—proposed a reunion. As lifelong Anne fans, we decided to meet on the island, where we could explore Green Gables and similarly scholarly sites of bosomy friendship.
But this morning, a mere two days into our week-long reunion, Arlene saw the words on my bosom, and the top tanked everything. Our friendship had been safe on stationery, where we never discussed our love lives. Now, in person, where an important part of mine was out in the open, it was just…stationary.
I would have been okay with ambiguous acceptance, some cutesy comment like That shirt is tops! Even an eye-roll of apathetic acknowledgment would have appeased me. Instead, when I edified Arlene that I had indeed fabricated my identity—but only in a DIY capacity—her eyes stretched wider than embroidery hoops. In any other context, that look would have had me in stitches. In this one, it performed the same function as a seam ripper.
Can you take that off? she requested, sounding like a schoolmarm moonlighting as a temperance movement leader.
No can do. I declined, doing my own impression of a virtuous Victorian.
We then proceeded, in the sort of silence that’s conducive to contempt rather than reflection, to Green Gables Heritage Place, which features the nonfictional farmhouse depicted in L.M. Montgomery’s inaugural Anne novel.
We’ve since gone our separate ways—she to the kitchen and me to the highlight of the home, Anne’s bedroom. There, behind the baby-gate-sized safety screen, I try to appreciate its contents: the pastoral pastels, the upbeat pleat of the linens, the winsome window-to-the-world view. But I’d appreciate it more if Arlene were here to enjoy it with me.
Maybe she’d feel comfortable being seen with me if she had an inordinate coordinate: a shirt that says I’m NOT with her. Or perhaps the directness of I’m not WITH her would be more desirable.
“I’m with you. Or I guess I should say I’m like you, in that I also prefer kindred spirits to…well, Blythe spirits.”
This admirable admission, coupled with the reference to Anne’s love-hate interest Gilbert Blythe, makes me laugh. Or it would if I could summon some sound from my system. But I can’t, not since discovering that I’m sharing the doorway of the room with a preposterously pretty—and similarly Sapphic—Anne fan.
Her gaze shifts from my strongly worded mantel to my eyes. While mine are a bland blue, hers are the color of a steamer trunk and deeper than a wishing well. They are bracketed by thrillingly twisty tresses and complemented by bookcase-brown skin.
“Right. I’ll leave you to it. Didn’t mean to darken your door.”
Clearly, I’ve been doing far too convincing an impression of Matthew Cuthbert, Green Gables’ bashful bachelor. But I don’t want to compare myself to a man, so when I apologize, which I’d better do straight away before this not-straight girl walks away, I think I’ll mention someone a bit more ladylike.
“I am so sorry. My senses just took ‘Avonlea-ve’ of me. Um, remember that character from the first book—Mrs. Blewett? Just think of me as her contemporary counterpart: Mrs. Blew It.”
In response, she extends a hand and a smile. The former is lither than a ribbon bookmark, while the latter puts every picket fence on this property to shame. “Trishelle,” she shares.
“Damaris,” I offer. “Dam for short, although Arlene will probably address me as Demerit now, assuming she’ll keep writing to me at all.”
Trishelle’s brow replicates a ruched collar. “Long-distance relationship problems?” she ventures.
“More like immediate-vicinity homophobia problems,” I clarify, glancing at Anne’s open closet door, against which a sausage-shaded puff-sleeved dress is displayed. Not even that zealously feminine frock could conceal a girl’s lesbi-Anne-ism, which is probably why it went out of style. “This morning, I…informed a friend that I was queer,” I tell Trishelle. “I thought it would be the coming-out equivalent of a meet-cute—you know, because of this shirt—but it went over about as well as Anne’s introduction to Marilla Cuthbert.”
“Marilla came around,” Trishelle reminds me. “Slowly but Shirley,” she jests. “Not all that slowly, actually. Maybe your friend just needs a little more time to adjust than the average puritan.”
A cluster of little girls crops up then, giving Trishelle and me no time to adjust as they elegantly elbow us aside.
I find myself up against the wall, practically pressed into its posy-patterned panels, unsure what to say next. But the wallflowers in this farmhouse are exactly where they belong, so I step toward Trishelle. “Let’s explore more of Lucy’s ‘Maudacious’ heritage, shall we?”
“You mean the L in L.M. doesn’t stand for lesbian?” Trishelle whisper-freaks, clutching my arm like a string of pearls.
I don’t even try to ignore the teapot-hot feeling that whistles through me.
We head downstairs to the parlor, and by the time we arrive, Trishelle’s grip is as well-preserved as Marilla’s prized plums.
Now would be a plum opportunity to determine if this hold we have on each other has the potential to hold up.
I know it’s sudden, but I’m merely takin
g a page from Ms. Montgomery’s book. Anne Shirley and Diana Barry solemnly swear their faithfulness to one another within minutes of meeting, so why shouldn’t we duplicate their devotion?
I have to do it before I lose my nerve—all of them, each tightly packed in my belly like a ball of yarn. Threading my fingers through my hair, I take in the room—and some breaths. The décor is at once sedate and ornate, and everything—from the carpet to the settee to the curio stand—is equipped with curves befitting an oil lamp.
So, too, is Trishelle.
But she’s more than a Victorian visual, obviously, and I’d like to learn just how much more.
Fortunately, the furnishings furnish me with just the inspiration I need to ask the hard questions. “Where are you from? Who are you with? How long are you staying?”
Trishelle chuckles. “Damn, Dam. Okay—Grand Rapids, myself, three days.”
“I’m from Kalamazoo!” I hoot, effectively compromising the composed component of this room. “Not only are we Michiganders; we’re neighbors. Do you think our meeting was kismet or just coincidental?”
“Well, since it coincides with my occupation, I vote for ‘dental,’ Dam.”
“So much for kindred-spiritedness,” I tease. “I’m a visitor services manager at a children’s museum.”
“Well, if you’re looking for some hands-on activities for your visitors, may I suggest human hair wreaths?” She points to the wall opposite the curtains, where a lady’s locks have been pruned, festooned, and framed.
“Looks like there’s something here that’s queerer than you.”
A swift swivel of my head reveals Arlene. Her disapproval isn’t nearly as dissonant as I would have expected, and while she might not be wearing a smile, at least she isn’t wearing a smirk.
“I’m going to check out that field day event that’s starting soon,” Arlene announces. “Just so you’ll know where I am.”
“Have a field day,” I offer.
“Thanks,” she accepts.
I watch her sally forth, then turn my attention back to Trishelle. “You game?”
“Nah,” she declines. “Race is kind of an issue for me.”
I feel my face turn redder than the maple leaf on the Canadian flag, but I doubt that’s the color she’s craving.
“The worst are three-legged, potato sack, and wheelbarrow. I just can’t seem to get the hang of any of them.”
“You’re a queer girl, Trishelle,” I observe, quoting Diana Barry but putting her name in for Anne’s.
“‘I heard before that you were queer,’” Trishelle replies—emphasis hers, infatuation mine—continuing the quotation. “‘But I believe I’m going to like you real well.’”
Make that infatuation mutual, I decide, as we make our way outside.
Being inside the farmhouse, with all its normality and practicality, was like inhabiting a sewing basket with the lid lifted. Being outside…well, it’s not just the gables that are green.
The vastly verdant vibrancy feels all-inclusive—yet exclusive to our heroine’s homestead. It’s a bucolic frolic of Earth Day green, Girl Scout green, stuffed stegosaurus green; each shade freckled with flowers and illuminated by a sun with rays for days.
Beside me, Trishelle claims her own place in the sun.
I may be in the bosom of all this beauty, but there’s only one tourist attraction that interests me right now.
Ours.
***
Yesterday, I would’ve said that when it comes to carriage, Trishelle has more bounce than a horse and buggy.
Today, as a passenger in the actual apparatus, I’d say my initial assessment was inaccurate.
Matthew’s Carriage Ride, conducted by a genial gentleman in overalls and a boater hat, is wobblier than Diana Barry after imbibing currant wine. The terrain is the main detraction: a chunky, clunky pathway the color of sweet potatoes and unglazed pottery. Each time the contraption jiggles, I don’t see green. I look it.
Trishelle, my seatmate, has already confirmed this, comparing my pallor to the tint Anne dyed her hair when attempting to remedy its redness, then throwing Anne’s sagest advice in my green face: It has been my experience that you can nearly always enjoy things if you make up your mind firmly that you will. “In other words,” she annotates, “that’s the way the buggy bounces.”
How I envy Trishelle’s ability to remain jocular in the midst of all this jostling.
Even Arlene, who’s riding shotgun with our tour guide instead of benching her bigotry and occupying the empty one in front of us, seems entirely too comfortable—with the turbulence, that is.
“Do you think she’s flirting with him?” Trishelle teases.
“I doubt she has a thing for frumpy old men,” I mumble, wriggling against the rivets in the hay bale–hued seats, as if this mildly more tolerable sensation will “bale” me out of my discomfort. Above me, the surrey’s fringed top shimmies, giggling at my futile attempt to negate my nausea.
“Well, I think she’s being very respectful of our privacy,” Trishelle surmises, and surprises me by placing her hand on my thigh. She does it with such majestic modesty, she may as well be arranging an antimacassar on the back of a settee.
My own doily—um, hand—feels oily from the sunscreen I lathered on this morning, so I refrain from situating it on top of hers.
It’s a wise decision, I realize a moment later, when the horse hoofs it to the Lake of Shining Waters, tossing Trishelle’s fingers into my…well, if it’s premature to refer to it as Silver Bush, would it be immature to refer to it as Rainbow Valley? Anyhow, the point is—had my hand been in contact with hers, it may have impeded this inadvertent incident of intimacy.
“I like the ripples, Dam,” Trishelle remarks, as the carriage performs further feats of strength-testing shudders. “The ones on the surface of the water are nice, too.”
I take in the lake. It is indeed similarly sinuous. Not to mention sumptuous. Graceful grass girds its body like the binding on a bird’s nest, but can’t contain its effulgence. If the natural wonders of Prince Edward Island took part in a beauty contest, the Lake of Shining Waters would tie with the sky—and vie with it for attention. I’ve only ever seen this shade of blue on a world globe, the textured type that you can feel with your fingers, as Trishelle is so skillfully demonstrating.
The demonstration is accompanied by an explanation, one that’s intended to beguile every rider in this carriage, each in different ways. “This lake makes me wonder why Anne of Green Gables never made waves—or a splash—in the Black community. No one I know has even read it, which is why I didn’t come here on a family vacation or a girls’ trip. Anne just isn’t one of ours, you know? But she should be. I mean, yes, the girl is whiter than plain yogurt, but the whole feeling-like-an-outsider theme is still relatable—wanting people to accept you for who you are, trying to find kindred spirits who appreciate your queerness, hating your hair.” A curl finds itself wrapped around one of Trishelle’s free fingers.
I’m surprised there’s room, what with me already wrapped around all of them.
“Even Marilla admits to having been twittered—old-school style—about her looks,” Trishelle continues.
“What a pity she is such a dark, homely little thing,” Arlene contributes. There’s no gloating in her quoting. In fact, she almost sounds…doting. “Her aunt said it in front of her when she was a child. It stuck with her forever.”
Trishelle nods. “Some things you don’t want to stick with you forever, other things you do.”
She nudges me, though it may be more textural than sub-textual, given the ground. Trishelle has covered nearly all of mine, thanks to our mercurial mode of transportation. Who knew the erratic could be so erotic?
Inescapably, the stimulation of each undulation leads to liberation, as well as its corresponding vocalization, which, mercifully, is muffled by the neighing and swaying of the carriage.
Trishelle’s hand treks back to her own lap. For the remainde
r of the ride, we sit in shaky silence.
And everything feels completely stable.
“Can I kiss you?” I request upon our return.
Trishelle scrutinizes me as though I’m a few volumes short of a box set. She cants her chin toward Arlene, whose conversation with our driver can only go on for so long.
I shrug.
“Well, if Rachel Lynde can handle a scandal like everybody’s business, then so can we, right?” Trishelle relents. Then she consents to my request with an appeal all her own. “You are raspberry cordially invited to kiss me.”
So there, surrounded by blues and greens and oohs and ahhs—the latter of which are, I’m quite sure, only in my mind—I do.
Kissing Trishelle is like flying a kite, besting a boy, and experiencing ice cream for the first time all at once.
Just like Anne, neither of us holds our tongue, which enables me to identify the assemblage of flavors on hers: star anise, cranberry orange, amber maple.
The kiss is excruciatingly and unimaginably scrumptious.
What’s more, I no longer feel like a brooch breaking off a blouse, but one that’s pinned perfectly in place.
***
Tomorrow, Trishelle will be heading back to the airport, but today, she’s heading up to the watch room of the lighthouse at the seaport.
“You and I kissed and she and I made up,” I update Trishelle, as she sets a silver-strapped sandal onto the top step of the bowling pin patterned edifice.
To my shock, Arlene was improperly horrified at the sight of our smooch, which is to say she was not horrified at all. In fact, her eyes stretched no wider than the thumb slot on a pair of fabric scissors. What followed that evening in the tea-toned room of our bed-and-breakfast was a pal-oriented palaver, experienced with cookies and candor and considerably more comfort than the carriage ride.
