by Sarah McCoy
The song brought on a tear, and Marilla didn’t tense a muscle to stop it. Tears were misunderstood, she thought, and used inappropriately most often. They were designed as a private response of being. Because sometimes life filled you to the brim and spilled over. Tears were the body’s way of cleansing the overflow of emotions, from sorrow to joy and so many others that couldn’t be described. Like now. Marilla felt an overwhelming relief that a silent night was holy, that a calm could be bright, that a virgin could be a mother, and that death and sleep were two kinds of the same heavenly peace.
“Sleep in heavenly peace, Mother,” she whispered to Matthew’s tune. “Sleep in heavenly peace, Father.”
* * *
The next day Matthew came back from town in an anxious fluster. Marilla was in the kitchen mixing up a new bread sponge, her hands covered in flour. He held the newspaper up in front of her nose, but she didn’t have her spectacles on, so all she could see properly was the date: December 20, 1860.
“What is it, Matthew? Can’t imagine anything causing such distress so close to the Yule.” She waved him toward the wood box to take off his boots. He was leaving slushy footprints across her clean kitchen floor.
“South Carolina seceded from the United States. The other southern states will join it. America is about to crack in half. It means there’s probably going to be a war at our doorstep.”
Marilla’s mind immediately went to Izzy and the “distinguished guests.” Thank goodness she was coming to Green Gables, away from the border.
“All of this to keep their slaves in bondage?”
Matthew pulled off his boots. “That’s not the only reason—or at least, so they claim.”
Marilla frowned and wiped off her hands. “Let’s not bring up politics while Izzy is here. Turns my stomach sour. Izzy’s been gone all these years. I want us to have a happy Christmas without sullying it with war talk. Let the Americans handle their own business, and we’ll handle ours.”
“Discord doesn’t end at a line in the dirt.”
Yes, she knew that to be true, and yet she hoped that a line in the dirt could protect the innocent just the same.
“If that line is the Northumberland Strait, I don’t see why not,” she said and put the yeasty sponge above the stove to rise.
While Matthew added kindling to the parlor hearth, Marilla pulled on her eyeglasses to read the newspaper article.
Special from the London Times: This is the result of slavery. It began as tolerated. It is now an aggressive institution that threatens to dissolve the American Union and spread like a virus throughout the world. It must be inoculated for equality to root itself in our modern era. Negro or white. The color of a person’s skin must not predicate freedom . . .
Matthew returned, so she quickly went back to cleaning her baking board, dusted over with brown-white speckles. The idea of bigotry based on color seemed foolish, laughable even, if it weren’t so horrific. But people were killing and dying because of it. Red bled from all.
XXX.
Aunt Izzy and the Three Magi
As dusk turned everything to blue velvet on Christmas Eve, a covered buggy trundled its way down Green Gables lane. The horse’s jingle bells stilled when the buggy came to a halt at the front porch, and Matthew and Marilla hurried out to welcome their guests.
“You folks must be the Cuthberts.” The driver stood and took off his hat with a bow. “I’m Martin Meachum.”
An older gentleman, he was as tawny and tall as one of the Frenchmen from the West Indies. His eyes sparkled hazel against the bleak land. But there was no mistaking the curl of his hair or the pink underside of his palms.
For all her talk and advocacy, Marilla had never had a black man as a guest in her home, and she wondered why ever not. There were families of African descent in Avonlea, in Nova Scotia, and across the Canadian provinces. But they kept themselves apart from the broader white community, for reasons she understood were closely tied to the American unrest.
Mr. Meachum gave a magnetic smile and called, “Mademoiselle Izzy!”
His tone was so warm, Marilla found herself leaning in like a potted geranium toward the window.
Izzy’s head popped through the curtained carriage window. Her hair had gone gray as a dove’s breast, but she was beautiful as always. Marilla’s heart stammered at the sight of what her mother would’ve been. Her vision tunneled at the peripheries, but she forced her eyes wide to the cold until it moored her.
“Is that my flower girl and Matthew?” Izzy swung the door open. “You’ve aged about as many days as I have—which I count as none!”
Mr. Meachum helped her down from the cab. Marilla noticed a slight sway and give of Izzy’s body, like a beach reed. Another five inches of snow had fallen overnight, concealing the ice beneath the powder. It was easy for a boot to slip, so Mr. Meachum stayed close to steady her.
“Come on, boys,” Izzy called into the carriage. “Meet my niece and nephew. No need to be bashful.”
Marilla looked to Matthew, thinking it strange that houseboys should need coaxing. Two nut-brown faces peeked out, the younger from below the older.
Izzy introduced them: “This is Abraham and that’s Albert.”
Matthew grinned. “Welcome. It’ll be nice to have more men about the place. Between Marilla, the dairy cows, and the hens, a fellow can feel lonesome for others of his kind.”
The younger boy, Albert, dared to step out. The snow came to his knees. He ran a hand through it and marveled.
“So much,” he whispered back to his brother. “Like a sand pit, only softer and cold.”
Mr. Meachum cleared his throat. “Al’s never seen this much snow.”
“I seen seven winters, but I only remember the last three. Snows be like dandelion seeds in the harvest time, moving with the wind. Not like this—staying in one place and piling.”
He turned to Abraham, who frowned and shushed him.
By their look and speech, these boys could only be from the American South. Marilla put a hand on Matthew, not for his sake but for her own.
“We got plenty more coming. Best get you settled,” said Matthew. “I’ll help Mr. Meachum with the luggage.”
“There’s hot tea and gingersnaps inside,” said Marilla.
Abraham wore an old military cap with tassels that he pulled down low on his forehead. At the mention of gingersnaps, he raised the brim with a flinch of a smile, which he bit back between his teeth.
“Yes, let’s get within. Don’t look behind us or we’ll turn to pillars of ice!” said Izzy.
Matthew helped Mr. Meachum unload the carriage while Izzy brought the boys up the porch and into the foyer.
“My Marilla,” she said when finally embracing her niece.
Marilla closed her eyes and let herself fold into it. Lilacs. Time returned and rooted itself between them. She felt her mother’s heart beating again; her father’s quiet presence; the Gables sentient as spring; life and love muddled under a canopy of unseen possibilities. She was so wrapped up in the memories that she almost missed the wide gazes of the two boys.
The fir tree stood gigantic to their statures, each branch festooned with treats that glowed under the light of the purring hearth.
“I forgot it be Christmas.”
It was the first time Marilla heard Abraham speak. Catching himself, he put a hand to his mouth.
Al swathed himself in the hem of Izzy’s blue cape, then tugged on it to get her attention.
“Miss Izzy.” He was quiet as a nesting sparrow. “It be just like the house in my dreams.”
Izzy cupped his fawn cheek. “It’s Marilla’s house. Safer than dreams.”
Marilla dared to give Izzy a look, but then Mr. Meachum and Matthew came through the front door with the trunks. They all proceeded upstairs to settle.
Marilla made up Izzy’s old room in the East Gable, neat as a pin with its whitewashed walls and braided rug. Years before, she’d found one of Izzy’s sewing cushions: red
velvet like an apple off the bough. Marilla had set it on the three-corner table where the mirror hung so that the color refracted across the room. She brought in Izzy’s yellow chair that had been by Clara’s bedside and hung one of the muslin frills they’d made together across the window.
Izzy went to it, fingering the tatting at the edge. Then she held it aside to look out at the cherry tree, grown tall and thick with branches that tapped lightly against the house. Each spring it blossomed so fully that Marilla feared opening the window would give bridged access to every squirrel in Avonlea. In the flower garden that bordered the Gables bedrock, she’d planted lilac trees beside her mother’s white Scotch roses, specifically for her aunt. Marilla knew Izzy would return one day.
“We made the North Gable, Mother and Father’s room, into a spare. It’s bigger, but I thought you might like this.”
“It feels the same, even though they’re gone. I thought I would feel differently.” Izzy turned to kiss Marilla’s cheek. “It’s just as it should be—life keeps on.”
Down the hall, Matthew showed Mr. Meachum and the boys into the hired hand’s room.
“Hope you’ll be comfortable.”
“More than. We’re grateful for a place to rest.”
“It’s hard to sleep during the day,” yawned Al.
“Have you been night traveling?” asked Matthew.
“Miss Izzy wanted to be here in time for Christmas,” explained Mr. Meachum. “Had to keep apace.”
Marilla looked to Izzy, and Izzy seemed to read her thoughts. She took Marilla’s hand and patted it. “It’s the eve of our Savior’s birth. Let’s leave it at that. My heart’s full of peace and joy to be here.”
“Marilla?” Matthew called from the hall. “I think our young guests might be hungering for some of those snaps.”
“Your belly be talking,” said Al to his brother.
“No, it ain’t,” defended Abraham. “That’s my shoe.”
“Maybe it be mine then. Whenever I’m cold, I feel something emptier.”
Izzy started toward them, but her knees gave a quiet buckle that only Marilla noticed.
“Let me,” she said. “You change out of your traveling clothes. I’ll take the boys down for a nibble while Mr. Meachum unpacks.”
Izzy gave an appreciative smile. Her dimple had deepened under an eddy of wrinkles.
“Hot tea waiting for you when you’re ready.” Marilla closed the East Gable door and went out on the landing to Matthew and the boys. “Our cow Bonny-D’s just done her night milking. I imagine it’d be a perfect pairing with the gingersnaps. Don’t you think, Matthew?”
Matthew pursed his lips in consideration. “Well, I tend to think so, but warm, sweet milk from one of the island’s best cows isn’t to everyone’s liking.” He turned to Abraham. “How old are you?”
“Ten, suh.”
Matthew nodded slowly. “Old enough to make up your own mind about such things. What’s your opinion?”
Abraham gulped and when he did, his stomach gave up a little groan. Al cleared his throat in an I-told-you-so and Abraham elbowed him.
“I—I like fresh milk plenty, suh.”
“Me too!” said Al.
Matthew stroked his beard. “Then it’s settled. Three Christmas milks.”
Marilla led them down to the parlor, where the boys dipped their gingersnaps in warm milk by the log fire. The combination had a soporific effect. They were half asleep by the time she led them back up to their room. Mr. Meachum had laid out their pallets.
“Dream sweetly, lads,” said Izzy. “I’m away to bed too, dear.” She was in her night robe, face washed dewy and hair neatly plaited. The only adornment was her quartz pendant—the wishing stone—glinting like the snow’s shadow on the window sash. “Today was quite a journey. I have the utmost admiration for the Magi following the star.” She winked. “Like them, what I’ve found at the destination has fulfilled my hopes and dreams. You’ve done a beautiful job with the Gables. Clara would be so proud.” She kissed Marilla’s forehead.
“Good night to you,” said Mr. Meachum. “And thank you again, Miss Marilla.”
The footsteps in the hired hand’s room soon went still. The light capped.
Only Matthew remained down in the parlor, reading.
Alone in the upper hallway, Marilla put a hand to each wall, north and south. The house was filled up with people. She closed her eyes to feel the warmth of breath and bodies through the boards. How good it was. Green Gables was built for family, and she delighted that the rooms were full. Her father had built them for a purpose.
It was a night when they believed in miracles. A virgin mother. The son of God. A star to guide the shepherds. So right then, with arms bolstered by each wall, she prayed for one: Let life and love runneth over here.
Instead of preparing the kitchen for the following morning, she went up to the attic. By a short wick of candlelight, she opened the cedar chest where she’d stored the extra scarves and mittens she knitted with her mother but outgrew before she’d had a chance to wear them. She’d chastised herself many times for hoarding them in the hope of “maybe one day.” She never could decide what that one day might bring. So year after year she made extra items for the Hopetown orphans as penance for not being more willing to give and give up. Now it surprised her how eager she was to see them on Al and Abraham.
Marilla lifted the little mittens and ran her thumb over the finely crafted cables. What skill her mother had lacked in needlework she made up for in knitting. Marilla held the items to her lips, remembering the graceful movement of Clara’s hands as she threaded and knotted the strands of wool together, the clicking of her needles like music. It was time these were put to use.
She wrapped two sets of gloves and scarves in brown paper with big bows made from the last of the tartan ribbon and placed them under the Christmas tree with peppermints.
“Happy Christmas to all,” she whispered, then snuffed out her candle.
XXXI.
A Green Gables Christmas
Early the next morning the sky opened like the seam of a sugar bag, powdering the land and filling in the tracks with fresh snow. The timber in the hearth threw cheerful sparks. The boys were giddy, and it was catching. For the first time in many years, Marilla could think of no chores to be done. She was happy just to be.
“For us?” asked Al.
Marilla nodded. “Father Christmas knows where every child dwells.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Abraham flinch, then cast his gaze far out the window.
“Come,” she said and pulled him close.
Gathered in the parlor, Matthew read a passage from their father’s Bible: Luke 2. Izzy and Mr. Meachum bowed their heads in prayer while gusts of white flapped gently against the windowpanes like angels’ wings. The boys unwrapped their gifts, then ate their bellies plump on buttermilk biscuits studded with sweet currants, sprinkled with cinnamon, and drenched in maple syrup. Afterward, Matthew laid out the checkerboard on the three-legged table and the brothers set to a tournament.
While they swapped moves and good-natured jibes, the adults convened in the kitchen. Marilla brewed coffee, and Izzy ate her plain buttered biscuit. She hadn’t changed in her predilections. She cozied up in her same spot at the wooden table, with Mr. Meachum by her side and Matthew across.
“My niece is a famous cook.”
“I can see why.” Mr. Meachum took another biscuit from the plate. “Mighty grateful for the sustenance, Miss Marilla. My boys, especially, could use it.”
Marilla caught the pronoun: “my”? Mr. Meachum seemed too old to be their father, but then, she was unfamiliar with how those things might go. It was obvious that he was some relation. She poured steaming coffee into cups.
“Abraham and Al are solid lads,” Izzy said. “Just need a bit more meat on their bones for the kind of winters they’ll see in Canada.”
“Are they to be staying in St. Catharines with you now?” asked Matth
ew.
Mr. Meachum cleared his throat, but Izzy put a hand on his before he could speak. The intimate gesture surprised even Matthew, whose query showed on his face.
“Marilla, Matthew,” said Izzy. “You’re my family, and I’ve never feared truth between us. We’ve shared much.”
Marilla sat down at the table.
Izzy looked to Mr. Meachum confidently, and he turned his hand over so that it grasped hers.
“Martin is not my butler,” said Izzy. “He is my truest companion. We met ten years ago, through the Reverend Mother at Hopetown. Martin was a contact for the orphanage, helping to bring children up from America by way of the Underground Railroad. We had a friendship based on admiration and common mission. Soon enough, however, it became much more.”
She squeezed his hand and something in the gesture made Marilla’s stomach tighten: the memory of her own hand in John’s.
“I offered Martin a job as my dress shop assistant and butler so we could continue our work with the runaways. It’s an effective disguise. No one suspects an old spinster dressmaker and her shop butler of anything. It has allowed us to be together, unconventional as it may be.”
Marilla had stopped breathing at some point. Now she drew in a deep breath. She wasn’t sure what to think. Her aunt was in a relationship with a man, a black man—and a former slave? She looked to Matthew, who’d taken out his pipe. For once, she would not admonish him for smoking.
“So . . .” She rubbed the twinge in her forehead. Where to begin? With the most pressing question, she decided: “Are Mr. Meachum and the boys runaway slaves?”
“I am free,” Mr. Meachum answered. “The boys are my grandsons. When my wife passed away of sickness, our five children were sold to various plantations across southern America. My master promised me that I could buy my freedom, which I did lawfully, and then I moved to St. Catharines. There I was introduced to Mr. Jermain Loguen and the Underground Railroad while attempting to learn the whereabouts of my children. Nothing could be found. So I pledged myself to the Railroad’s mission. I worked with the nuns in Hopetown and, through them, met Izzy.” He squeezed her hand. “We’ve been able to secure safe passage for hundreds through the years.”
