Content warning: grief
Author's Note:
Thanks again to all who have read and reviewed! Writing this is difficult but also extremely satisfying, and just knowing that anyone is reading lifts my spirits tremendously.
I changed the POV in these past few chapters in order to give a bit of relief from Gilbert's inner thoughts. One more Avonlea chapter to go and then we'll move along a bit.
Chapter 9: Sacred to the Memory
Cora Blythe poured steaming cups of tea for the three quiet young people seated at her kitchen table. She had expected them to return from their visits worn out, but it troubled her to see that even the placid Reverend Blake had a rather grim set to his jaw. Things must be as bad as ever at Green Gables. Cora resolved to go herself before the week was out, though the prospect made her belly feel hollow.
"Thank you, Mrs. Blythe," murmured Jo as she passed him a cup.
Cora poured tea for herself, and for John as well, who came in from the yard and took the chair next to Gilbert.
"Will you be leaving on the morning train, Rev. Blake?" asked Cora.
If only she could get them talking again . . .
"Yes. We're sorry to go so soon, but we must be back in Kingsport for prayer meeting on Thursday."
"Of course. Tell me, Mrs. Blake, how are you getting along in setting up housekeeping?" Cora barreled along, deciding that the best course of action was to spur the conversation on until they took the reins.
Phil blinked slowly and gave a tiny shake of her curls, as if rousing herself from sleep.
"As well as could be expected, Mrs. Blythe."
You'll have to do better than that, my girl.
"I remember my first month of housekeeping here in Avonlea," Cora said. "I was so keen to have everything exactly right. Do you know what happened? It was the rainiest June the Island ever saw. Mud everywhere — that thick, red mud from the roads that gets into everything. It rained so much I couldn't hang the wash out to dry, so instead of setting up my tidy little sitting room just as I had imagined, I had to string the clothesline through and hang up all our sheets and stockings there. I was mortified, but John only laughed and said he'd just as well take tea in the kitchen."
John Blythe chuckled and gave his wife an encouraging little nod. Phil managed a wan smile and sighed.
"There are so many things to learn and I'm learning quick as I can. I don't want to ask any of the ladies of the church for help, for fear I would shock them with my ignorance."
"Surely they wouldn't mind lending a hand?" smiled Cora.
"Oh, I'm sure they'd relish it," Phil winced. "I've heard enough opinions about women with B.A.s being poor housekeepers, and that's without giving them a chance to find the evidence by going through my bread box and scrap pail."*
Jo put an arm around the back of Phil's chair. "Luckily, we're new enough that we're still being invited out among the congregation. The people of Patterson Street are poor, but they've welcomed us into their homes with open arms."
Phil nodded emphatically.
"It's amazing to see what the ladies can cook, even without much in the way of funds. Plain food, but ever so tasty! I've been going home to Mount Holly on Fridays and getting lessons from Mrs. Weston — she's the cook — and I've almost mastered the art of pork of chops. Vegetables remain a mystery, but I expect I'll bring them to heel in time. And Jo is such a dear. He just eats whatever I serve."
"There was that one time, with the fish . . ." interjected Jo, a slow smile creeping into the corner of his wide mouth.
"Yes, yes." Phil cut him off. "But I know how to use the can opener now, and I never make the same mistake twice, so let us not speak of it."
John laughed at this and Cora began to relax.
"Well, dear, you must take home some of our spiced apple preserves for your jam closet," she said with decision. "And I'll send you more after harvest."
"That's awful nice of you, Mrs. Blythe. I wouldn't be afraid to have people over to tea if I knew I had something nice to serve them. I can make nice, fluffy biscuits, though. Anne taught me."
A strangled silence blossomed on the tabletop, pushing the speakers away from one another. Cora felt it spread, and girded herself for battle.
"I can see how Anne would have sympathized with your plight, dear," she said evenly. "She had an awful time learning to bake herself. Always getting into one sort of scrape or another."
"Did you ever hear the story of Professor Richardson's retirement party?" inquired Phil, a merry gleam overcoming the sparkle of tears in her soft, brown eyes. "He retired from the English department last May. Anne was quite fond of him, so she rallied a bunch of the arts students to throw him a little party. That was when she was teaching me to bake, so she let me help her with some of the eats. I made a whole platter of the most darling little sugar cookies, and Anne frosted them beautifully. Then we made one big one and iced Best Wishes on it."
"Did Professor Richardson enjoy it?" asked John, egging Phil on.
"The poor man never got so much as a whiff! When we carried the refreshments to the reception room Anne had reserved, we found that a crew of workmen had torn up all the carpets. The roof had leaked and the room was a fright. But it was lovely day, so Anne just laughed and said we'd set things up on the lawn outside the department instead."
"Don't tell us," smiled Cora. "Someone threw a football into the table?"
"Nope."
"You got caught in a thundershower?" guessed John.
"You'll never guess in a hundred years."
"The college president walked by and swiped it?" offered Jo.
Phil giggled. "We put all the goodies out on one table and then began to set up a few chairs. As soon as we stepped away from the table, the biggest squirrel you ever saw hopped right up and scooped the Best Wishes cookie. Before I could say boo, it was off running, and Anne chasing after. It shot right up a tree, still holding the thing in its mouth. I was half sure Anne was going to follow it right into the branches!"
The kitchen erupted into general laughter. Even Gilbert managed a weak smile.
"That reminds me of the first time I met Anne," said John, still chortling. "It was right after we came back to Avonlea. Maybe even the first day back."
Gilbert raised his eyebrows, surprised to hear that there was anything about that day he didn't know already.
"Yes, the first day you were back in school, Gil. I was up in an apple tree and my ladder fell. So there I was, stuck in a tree, when this little girl with the reddest hair I'd ever seen appeared out of nowhere. She fetched my ladder for me and we chatted a bit. When you came home and told me about the slate, I could picture it perfectly."
"Anne did love trees," chuckled Cora. "One day, when Gilbert was teaching at White Sands, an errand took me past the Avonlea schoolhouse. Imagine my surprise when I looked up into Mr. Bell's spruce grove and saw the whole class up in the trees, Anne right in the thick of things."
"You never knew where you'd run across the scholars in those days," John agreed. "One day, Anne had them down to the shore to recite 'Charge of the Light Brigade.' When she was finished, she made little Paul Irving hop up and try. The poor boy had to shout above the waves just to be heard. Though, come to think of it, maybe that was the point."
"Anne was wonderful with recitations and speeches," said Jo. "Did you know that she picked my candidate text for me, and helped me revise the sermon?"
"What was your candidate text, Rev. Blake?" Cora asked.
"I couldn't decide between three. And Phil was no help at choosing."
"Certainly not!" laughed Phil.
"I read all three to Anne, and she decided right off. Matthew 6:14."
Cora smiled wistfully. "She would choose Matthew, wouldn't she?"
"I understand that it was one of Marilla's standbys when Anne was a girl and always getting into mischief. It's a wonderful text for a congregation that is not always at peace with itself: For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you."
No one knew quite how to follow that. Jo's story settled among them as a benediction, and their jovial camaraderie dissolved into thoughtful silence.
It was not Cora who broke the spell, but Phil.
"Gilbert," she said, startling him, "you must come see us often when you return to Kingsport."
"Kingsport," he repeated blankly.
"Yes. You'll come to Sunday dinners. I can't promise you food worth eating, but the the company will be first rate."
Gilbert did not answer. Cora watched his face, still and vacant, and felt her heart breaking.
"That sounds lovely, dear," she interjected, smiling kindly at Phil.
"Yes, thank you, Phil," muttered Gilbert, prompted into something approaching manners.
"That reminds me," said Cora, who was not in the least forgetful. "I've had a letter from Uncle Dave and Aunt Katherine in Glen St. Mary. Gilbert, they've invited you out to stay with them for a few weeks before term begins."
"You used to love a summer up at the Glen when you were a boy," added John, trying to help.
Gilbert looked up into his mother's face, making eye contact for the first time that evening. She held his gaze, willing him to recognize the chance they were offering him.
But the hazel eyes that were so like her own were dull and glassy. They did not spark with understanding nor anticipation. Cora, who had seen her son's beloved face in every mood from stormy temper to giddy joy to dismal heartache, quailed to find there only apathy.
"I'll think about it," he whispered, looking away.
On Thursday evening, Gilbert dragged himself up the hill overlooking the Lake of Shining Waters. Of all the routes he had traveled in the past month, this was one he had avoided as assiduously as if it had been paved with broken glass. He clutched a bouquet of wildflowers in his fist, his grip tightening with every step he took toward the little Avonlea graveyard among the poplars. The only mercy was that he met no one on the road.
He had met her there so often, walking her home after she had brought offerings to Matthew and Hester Gray. Those were quiet walks, but not always sad. Visiting tended to make her wistful, and she would sometimes let him peek into her memories, of how Matthew had once brought her chocolate caramels, or how she had loved little Katie Maurice in the bookcase. There was rarely any need for him to speak. He would listen, and press a reassuring hand over hers, and be rewarded with a sweet, tremulous, trusting smile.
Gilbert knew that Marilla had buried her beside Matthew. He had tried to avoid thinking of her grave at all, but it did give him some comfort to think of them together. He could picture Matthew's grave clearly. Marilla had certainly been responsible for choosing the upright stone of gray shale, unadorned but for Matthew's name and dates of birth and death. But, behind the stone, loving hands had planted a bush of white Scotch roses, offshoots of the plant that Mrs. Cuthbert had brought out from Scotland so many decades ago. How strange that two memorials should speak so eloquently of the mourners themselves, and their own ways of loving the dead.
At the gate, Gilbert paused and closed his eyes. He had hoped that a prayer would come, but the only words that presented themselves were his mother's.
There's no right way to do this. There's no wrong way to do this.
This did not still the desperate flutter in his chest. But it did give him the strength to walk through the gate.
He saw it immediately. With leaden steps, he approached, then dropped to his knees on turned sod that was just beginning to sprout new grass.
The stone Diana had selected was a handsome slab of white marble, framed with architectural details that reminded Gilbert of a fairytale castle. New and clean, it fairly sparkled among the lichen-mellowed monuments of crisp gray shale and homey red-brown sandstone. That was well enough; it should stand out, shouldn't it?
Beneath the marble turrets, a carved garland of flowers draped over her name. Gilbert wasn't sure he liked that; stone flowers seemed a sacrilege. But, on reflection, it meant that she would always have blossoms, even in the winter. Under other circumstances, he would have smiled at Diana's sensibilities: romantic enough to choose perpetual flowers; limited enough to overlook the paradox of flowers that had never sprouted, never swayed in the breeze, never known a bee.
"This is very Diana," Gilbert muttered, not entirely insensible to the irony. In truth, he was grateful. Diana had performed a necessary task as well as anyone could. Certainly far better than he.
And what would he have chosen if he could? Could anything made of stone truly honor her? She was sky and forest, blossom and fancy. If she had a physical monument, it would have to have been something that grew, and changed, and lived. Even her writing, precious as it was, was only the reflection of her dancing imagination. She should have written living epistles, and walked the earth immortal in the bodies of her children.**
Gilbert placed his wildflowers at the base of the marble marker, then blinked and cleared his throat. "I . . . I hardly know what to say," he began. "I ought to be able to speak, but I fear that Redmond would be quite ashamed of me at the moment."
He paused, feeling self-conscious, and looked back toward the gate to be sure he was alone.
"Anne . . ."
The quiet syllable seemed torn from him. His voice cracked and he gulped several shuddering sobs, hoping to contain them. Unable, he spoke through them instead.
"I'm . . . . so . . . sorry . . . for everything . . . for Timothy . . . and not telling you . . . I meant . . . to keep you safe but . . . I was so selfish . . . and then I stayed away . . . so long . . . I could kill Mrs. Lynde . . . . I should have knocked her down or . . . broken in . . . and I'm sorry . . . for being distant . . . these past months . . . I thought I was working . . . for us . . . for you . . . and now it's all gone . . . and I should have . . . spent every second . . . with you . . . we should have eloped and . . ."
He doubled over, fingers gripping the back of his head, white knuckled, weeping.
It was several minutes before he could speak again. When he did, his voice was flat, if not precisely calm.
"I'm going away now. To Glen St. Mary. I might have been able to resist Mother, but now she has Phil and Jo on her side. And after that . . . I don't know. They want me to go to medical school. But I don't know. It just doesn't seem to matter anymore."
He knuckled away a few straggling tears, blew out shaky breath.
"I don't know when I'll be back. But wherever I am, I'm yours."
*Recall that Rachel Lynde did exactly this when she visited Anne for Christmas in Anne's House of Dreams.
** "Living epistles" from Anne of Ingleside; "Redmond would be ashamed of you" from Anne's House of Dreams.
