CHRYSANTHEMUM
Fiction
by
Monique Hayes
by
Monique Hayes
I knew we were kindred spirits after she stuffed all those dandelions into the dunce cap, dearest Matthew. For the past few months, Minnie May Barry has been the worry of all of Avonlea. I suppose our non-poetic neighbors, namely Josie Pye, don't understand the magnificence of marigolds or the celestial catkins of a young yellow birch. Tennyson valued beatific blossoms more than most, but six-year old Barry comes pretty close. No part of me relishes reporting the actions of the budding "Queen of Roses" to her mother but her mother's bundle of letters weigh heavily on my mind. Purveyor of Puffed Sleeves, should I be the person who decides whether my student should be a horticulturalist or homemaker? I wish we could discuss this on one of our regular jaunts through the White Way of Delight. Forgive me but I'm not quite ready to see those snowy petals yet now that you're under the ground.
Many times you were the single individual who indulged my tastes. Minnie May doesn't seem to have that in her pristine homestead. I remember the discomfort on her red face when she took the ipecac. She shifted among the sheets, full of horror and heat-stricken, confused about the illness overtaking her. I was confident about how to handle the croup but now that she's bewitched by her father's crops, I'm at a loss about what to do for her. Mrs. Barry wants her to learn the alphabet and arithmetic as long as Minnie May's ambitious eyes remain on matrimony. With her fair locks and skin, Mrs. Barry's certain she'll find a lovely match someday. How is she going to be attractive with flecks of soil on her stockings and ruddy cheeks after being in the fields? I think of gorgeous Marilla, who stands like an erect warrior amongst worms in the Green Gables gardens, but it's always a difficult task to speak up to Mrs. Barry. I couldn't even ask her for an extra napkin at the Carmody Christmas Ball.
It gives me unspeakable pleasure to be useful here at the graveyard and tend to your rosebush. While the thorns poke like miniature scabbards, they're no worse than the worst paper cuts. They're far easier to endure than the eight story rejections I've received over the last three months. I dare not tell Marilla about my melancholy over the missives because she's got her own ship of sorrows.
However, I do see growth in the classroom at Avonlea School, especially when we're discussing current events. Formerly shy students chatter continually about Alexander Graham Bell's achievements in Ontario. Louis Pasteur's vaccine for anthrax amazed Moody Spurgeon's mischievous cousins. Of course Minnie May was entranced by the flowery offerings of the Crystal Palace. The site was thirty years old but no less thrilling after I revealed that Tennyson, Darwin, and Dickens had visited the glorious greenhouse. I hope I'm planting the seeds of dreams in a room I struggle to keep warm.
Miss Ames failed to fix the school's stove before her departure yet she left behind some rather cold compositions. The Board told me to check the drawers for her notes on the curriculum and her students. While I wasn't expecting tender-hearted commentaries about each of the young scholars, I was hopeful for a few sensitive sentences. Truth be told, I grit my teeth while reading them more than the sorrel mare you used to hitch to the buggy.
Minnie May displays an unhealthy appreciation for Asian literature and she may've recovered these texts from the church's donation box. I'm grateful she can only understand the pictures. I don't know what strange ideas she's picked up from them but now she's more inclined to dig in manure for samples than read fairy tales. With your tutelage, Miss Shirley, she can get back on track and fulfill her mother's wishes.
Gil says every teacher undergoes this particular test, when you have to choose whether to follow in your predecessor's footsteps or take a brave new road. I've yet to prove myself, however, even if I'm ecstatic about my progress over the last four months. My sword to battle laziness and listlessness is taken out every day but do I have enough mettle to challenge Miss Ames' methods and Mrs. Barry's mindset? Can I defend their imaginative minds against such old ideas? You told me it's not easy to knock a pole out of place, Matthew. Furthermore, you can't change everything, like the spelling of chrysanthemum, which Gil very well knows.
***
"How was your conference?" asks Gil, ladling cider into Marilla's old pink punch bowl.
I set a plate of Charley Bates Brownies on a doily and glance at the grandfather clock. While my habitual conference with Matthew is a necessity, it is near one in the afternoon.
"Soul-affirming," I reply. "Though regrettably short. I wish I'd chosen a different day for the Twist Tea Soiree. It's only right we toast to a celebrated novelist after completing our new works."
"How about rethinking the party's title?' suggests Gil.
"Never tell a wordsmith that, Mr. Blythe," I say. "Would you be so kind as to fetch the Fagin fruit tarts?"
"Yes, Ms. Shirley," says Gil, retreating into the kitchen.
Diana Barry passes him on her way back to our elegant presentation of Oliver Twist-themed sweets. Marilla assisted me with the cooking and she found some small enjoyment in helping me with the dishes' names.
"Gilbert Blythe looked awfully handsome hovering over the table," remarks Diana, twirling her raven-colored braid in her fingers.
If I ever doubted it before, now I was clear which daughter inherited Mrs. Barry's love of match-making. Diana was the epitome of savoir vivre at Orchard Slope's social events. I saw that term in a French novel, a language Diana didn't utter herself, but it described my bosom friend perfectly whenever she hosted those remarkable affairs. She mirrored her mother as she rearranged the furniture, then offered menu selections. It was not easy to convince her to push aside her place cards and dress catalogs, but we still go on occasional romps through the orchards to collect exceptional apples.
"He looked busy," I say, straightening the tablecloth.
"Comely is more like it," says Diana. "And he came to a party with the Story Club?"
"Gil was here so we could go over our correspondence college courses together," I inform her.
"Invite him to stay," insists Diana.
"This is a sacred ritual, Diana," I whisper. "We must protect our creations at all costs until they're ready to be admired by the public. Why not aim for acclaim all the time?"
"Why not indeed?" adds Gil, returning to the room with a collection of colorful tarts.
I cross my arms. "We bid you adieu, interloper."
"Such hurtful words for someone who's helping you tackle chemistry," says Gil. "Have a productive evening, ladies."
After Gilbert's departure, the two other members are not far behind. Both Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis wore straw hats with garlands of cloth lilac flowers wrapped around the center. I made the suggestion to all three of my Story Club associates but I doubt Diana was able to leave her house without a lecture on the matter.
"Oh, Anne, I just read something positively silly," says Ruby with a gleeful laugh.
Ruby finds the idea of women walking home carrying their own parcels silly, but my curious side gets the better of me. I accept the newspaper she hands me and peruse the headlines.
"What a distinguished honor it must be to have a byline," I sigh, stroking the bold newsprint. "That's how Dickens started, you know. I'm glad you brought this."
"Never mind that," waves off Ruby.
I read further down. "A tribute to Jane Colden, the first female botanist in America, on the anniversary of her death."
"Can you believe they devoted a page to a woman who just drew plants all day?" remarks Ruby.
She sits primly on our couch cushions though her gaze wanders over to the Sowerberry Plum Pudding.
"That's how she classified plants," I share after examining the article. "She did it very well, I might add, and was a revered botanist."
Ruby straightens her lavender skirt. "This has nothing to do with religion, Anne."
Jane and I exchange subtle smirks. Since we were the most enthusiastic readers, we knew the difference between "revered" and "reverend", but we've humored Ruby during plenty of Club gatherings.
"It's not right for a woman to be out sketching in the sun for hours on end," says Ruby.
"Heaven forbid they get more frightful freckles," I remark, folding the newspaper.
"Don't take it so personal, Anne," says Ruby. "I adore your face."
"Ruby, eat a brownie," suggests Jane.
"I've misplaced the Grimwig Gingerbread," I sigh, moving away from the serving table.
Though it isn't comforting in the least to stand next to the pitcher where the greedy mouse drowned in a rather romantic way, I stand in the mournful corner. Diana senses my distressed spirit and joins me.
"This is about Minnie May, isn't it?" inquires Diana.
During the last summer days of September, Minnie May skipped through the schoolhouse's adjoining forest like a wood-nymph. I called her back but I noticed her skirts were much fuller. Jeremiah Sloane, perhaps as an ode to his humorous uncle Charlie, placed three grasshoppers into Minnie May's lunch pail. She didn't scream but many of the girls made up for the missing noise when she turned the pail over. I announced that Jeremiah was destined for an afternoon donning the dunce cap but Minnie May protested. She seldom spoke up though I was determined to follow through on the punishment. When I lifted the humiliating headpiece, out tumbled dozens of daffodils. Minnie May raced to retrieve the bulk of them and the whole class burst into laughter. I'll never forget the way she wept over the wilted blossoms. Everyone in Avonlea heard about the debacle, and the Barrys' curtains were drawn for the next two weeks.
"Your mother's convinced something is wrong with her," I say. "We've collected many a flower during childhood without any chastisement."
"We didn't horde them in a hat," says Diana, playing with her collar.
I feel the thickness of the newspaper between my hands. "You too, Diana?"
"She saw a doctor after that, Anne," says Diana. "One for special children. He's made repeated visits. Minnie May's always been a little odd."
"Everybody said the same of me when I came here," I remind her.
Diana shrugs. "Doctor Yarborough blames the books she's come across."
"She'll find similar books if she attends Redmond College," I say.
"Anne, if you didn't go to Redmond, she's not going there," says Diana. "You're the smartest person I've ever met."
"Dear Diana," I say. "That doesn't mean as much if I'm not a smart teacher."
***
Chalk is a luxury in our modest classroom, even if the dusty tool leaves marks all over my bodices. Generous parents provide coal and wood for the stove but I notice they swath their progeny in cumbersome coats anyway. Paul Irving no longer looks for his imaginary Rock People because ice obscures the school's brook. We were fighting the cold and poverty simultaneously but the students' never-ending enthusiasm stokes the fire I have to educate them.
I rearrange Paul's crimson scarf as he clambers up to the schoolhouse door.
"I'm on the look-out, Ms. Shirley," whispers Paul to me.
"Perhaps it's too wintry for the Rock People, Paul," I say. "But it's never too frigid for frost fairies. They're worth hunting for."
Paul beams widely and scurries to his desk near the front. While I'm elated to see the majority of my students arrive on time, Minnie May's absence unsettles me. She remained withdrawn after the exposure of her daffodils but her attendance record was spotless.
"Minnie May!" I call through the swirling wind.
"Miss Shirley!" yells Minnie May. "Can you come behind the schoolhouse?"
Given my history with Minnie May, my thoughts stray to a variety of dire situations. Did she fall from a tree or brave the brook and slip through the ice? My skirts dampen with dew as I run towards Minnie May's voice.
"There's Dwarf ginseng right under the window!" exclaims Minnie May.
All of her limbs intact, a healthy Minnie May touches the diminutive white flowers among the pointed leaves.
"We can eat the berries as a snack," continues Minnie May. "But too much can give you a headache. I think real dwarves grew them."
"Minnie May, while I'm all for flights of fancy, we're late for class," I say.
Instead of heeding me, she sits cross-legged in the grass.
"Nobody understands daffodils in there," murmurs Minnie May.
"We could've picked a fair few and put them in a vase," I say. "Washing out the dunce cap was an unwanted chore, I must confess."
"What does Mother put in those notes to you?" asks Minnie May.
I'm tempted to tell her, especially when her gentle features crease with concern, but I can't betray Mrs. Barry's trust. The content of her well-intentioned messages would only further divide them. Minnie May's far too delicate to have a full recess like the other children. I'd prefer it if she stayed in the schoolhouse with Diana's old sewing kit. You're a competent young woman, Ms. Shirley, and could surely instruct her on how to make buttonholes. I detest patchwork and only tolerate sewing for Marilla's sake, so I let Diana's kit collect dust on a stray desk. More importantly, Minnie May has the right to play in the great outdoors like any other adventurous soul.
"Doctor Yarborough says I'm a confused girl," confesses Minnie May. "That I shouldn't put starflowers on top of drawers or cattails in our horse's hair. But can't every place look like a greenhouse, Ms. Shirley? Can't our family live in a palace covered in color and living things?"
Miss Ames' disappointing observations spring to my mind. What if Minnie May was on the right track and us not supporting her halts her? I stroke Minnie May's cheek.
"I think dwarves grew the ginseng, too," I say. "Let's have a talk with your mother after school."
"That's fine, Miss Shirley!" says Minnie May. "We shouldn't mention I fetched an Indian pipe yesterday, though. It sounds rather naughty."
***
On normal visits, I pause on the spruce pathway up to Orchard Slope to appreciate the aroma of windblown apples and majestic lady slippers. There's no delay on this day because my convictions compel me to pass every example of fauna on their farm. The plants, the loves of Minnie May's young life, would have to wait to be noticed. I knock on the Barry's front door with my umbrella handle since my hands are shaking.
"Anne!" cries Mr. Barry upon opening the door.
"Good evening, Mr. Barry," I say as he escorts me into the parlor. "I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Barry?"
"Certainly," says Mr. Barry. "I can't stay unfortunately. Promised John Blythe I'd bring a few bagfuls of coal to Carmody School. We could drop off some for your school too."
I clap, resulting in an undignified echo that sounds over their floorboards. Mr. Barry laughs in spite of himself.
"You have the magnanimity of a heralded knight, Mr. Barry," I say.
"I'll be by Monday," says Mr. Barry, tipping his hat. "Dear? Ms. Shirley's in the parlor!"
Mrs. Barry walks out of the study, an emerald necklace dangling below her firm and painted mouth. Her hair rivals the smoothness of Diana's though she keeps hers in an unmoving ebony updo. I'm certain my red curls require a good brushing after demonstrating how to use the Vorpal Sword for my Lewis Carroll-loving students. I can picture Minnie May galumphing through the orchard, lady slippers affixed in her blonde braid, but what if Mrs. Barry was as ferocious as the untamed Jabberwocky after I spoke to her?
"Anne, I'm always delighted to see you," says Mrs. Barry, relaxing her lips a little.
"As I am….," I began to say.
"But I already have company," continues Mrs. Barry. "Actually, this may be providential."
I've learned to enjoy the word "providential" even after it was uttered to describe my meeting with Mrs. Blewett before Marilla took me back to Green Gables. In fact, it may be among my favorite words, but I have the strangest feeling I'm in for another unpleasant encounter.
"Doctor Yarborough, we have a third for tea!" calls Mrs. Barry, guiding me into the study.
When I view the gentleman stirring his tea, he stands upright. The black and white hairs in Doctor Yarborough's moustache resemble the backside of an unruly skunk. I don't mean to be cruel, to judge someone's appearance (a habit I've tried hard to alter), but he'd made quite a terrible first impression on me based on his criticisms of Minnie May.
"Ms. Shirley is Minnie May's instructor," shares Mrs. Barry. "We have a correspondence going to monitor my daughter's activities."
"Superb," says Doctor Yarborough.
"Her father sees no harm in her flitting about the field until sundown," says Mrs. Barry.
"So do these New Women," guffaws Doctor Yarborough. "No, females shouldn't overexert themselves. Minnie May was a rather sickly baby and letting her do more domestic tasks is for her best interest."
"I assisted Matthew on the fields occasionally," I say.
"Jerry Buote did most of the heavy labor," says Mrs. Barry. "You stayed in to write, correct? And look how wonderfully you're doing."
"Minnie May is not me, Mrs. Barry," I assure her.
Mrs. Barry raises her eyebrows but resumes pouring me a cup of tea.
"She has emotional fits, Miss Shirley," says Doctor Yarborough. "If we let her engage in deviant behavior now, then she'll be in an asylum, not a classroom."
"Deviant?" I cry. "She hides flowers."
Mrs. Barry taps her chest. "Anne, I'm hesitant to tell you this. Minnie May ventured out twice last summer, at midnight, to wade in our pond…in her underclothes."
"The Lake of Shining Waters?" I say.
"The what?" asks Mrs. Barry.
After hearing about Minnie May's nighttime excursions, I'd forgotten that nobody else, save the Cuthberts and Diana, knew about my private name for the Barry pond.
"Why was she out there?" I say.
"She was under the impression she had to collect specimens for an experiment," says Mrs. Barry, fanning herself briefly.
"Based off a drawing she saw in one of those books," adds Doctor Yarborough. "A Chinese man carrying chrysanthemums through a river. I ruled out hysteria after I saw the literature's influence, of course, but she's a troubled child."
I saw no evidence of a troubled child in Minnie May's actions. Were they really trying to limit her reading material based off of her playtime in the pond? Miss Stacey, my beloved teacher, encouraged us to read anything and everything we stumbled across and here I am not saying a word against it.
"You witnessed the nervous breakdown in your classroom, Miss Shirley," sighs Doctor Yarborough. "Over…flowers."
Mrs. Barry's morose expression forces me to think back on the similar face I observed when a drunken Diana showed up at their home. How was I to figure out I served her currant wine and not raspberry cordial? She found a way to part me from Diana, discrediting my reputation and tearing me from the single bosom friend I'd ever made. Despite my fear of Mrs. Barry, I have more fear for Minnie May who will be less happy than her mother if Mrs. Barry has her way again.
"I believe chrysanthemums have countless varieties," I say with a definitive nod. "Perhaps some bloom best at midnight in Canada."
The other two tea guests exchange annoyed glances.
"What's more, the moon must provide excellent lighting," I add.
"Anne, I appreciate all you've done for Minnie May, but you don't have to take her side in this instance," says Mrs. Barry, lifting her shoulders. "She's not well."
"No offense, Mrs. Barry," I say. "Nothing about this sits well."
"As a physician, why would I discourage a child who's interested in science?" asks Doctor Yarborough. "It's something else entirely."
I set my tea cup on the table with a clatter and startle him.
"Because you don't understand the value of imagination, or you're comfortable putting people in boxes," I reply. "I'm leaning toward the former."
"You forget your place, Miss Shirley!" shouts Doctor Yarborough, his skunk mustache twitching at rapid speed.
"My apologies, Mrs. Barry," I say as I turn away from the physician. "But neither of us has ever wanted to see Minnie May suffer. Flowers may be frivolous to you, but they fill her mind and heart."
Mrs. Barry wrings her hands for a brief moment. I shrink into myself when she collects my teacup.
"I trust you've ignored my requests in the letters," says Mrs. Barry. "The sewing kit?"
"I couldn't bring myself to dim her dreams," I admit.
"There will be a day when a decision costs you, Miss Shirley," says Mrs. Barry. "A decision that might compromise your post."
She starts pouring another cup for Doctor Yarborough, who pretends not to gaze at me as I glide past him. Mrs. Barry, though misinformed, is a wise woman. I don't doubt that decision will come, and I only pray I can triumph over the trial.
Orchard Slope overwhelms me as soon I reach the porch. The lady slippers were waving to me and I wonder if it's a courtly goodbye they've thought up after hearing the conversation. Beyond, under the scarlet fruit secured to the trees, I view Diana pulling a dress from the wash line. If this is to be my last outing here, I couldn't resist drinking in the sunset with her.
"Rachel Lynde spotted tart crumbs on my dress' waistline," laments Diana. "I still heard her taunting me in my sleep."
"I don't envy you," I say, helping her fold the dress.
"Why are you here?" asks Diana.
"It served no purpose," I say. "If only Doctor Yarborough weren't here. Then your mother…"
"She has her own ideas, Anne," interrupts Diana.
"It wounds me, Diana, that she won't even entertain the fact that Minnie May's different from you," I say.
Diana gives me a pained smile. Do I detect hurt feelings? The situation's gone from horrific to tragic.
"I meant….," I start.
"Mother told me I read too much as a child," recalls Diana. "And when she said I couldn't join the Queen's Academy class, I never protested."
"I could tell it bothered you immensely," I say.
"Running a home doesn't bother me," says Diana. "Getting married, maybe in this backyard, thrills me. Only I miss reading whenever I get the inkling, the little discoveries in paragraphs, the funny characters…"
Her voice fades and we keep our eyes locked on a loose lady-slipper that soars over the wash line.
"Do you ever wonder why I'm the first one to arrive for Story Club?" says Diana with red cheeks.
"Minnie May's the same when it comes to petals," I say. "Don't you see, Diana? Your love of discovery is just like hers. She's restless to find prizes in the Lake of Shining Waters."
"Plants grow and people grow up, Anne," sighs Diana.
We loop arms, a common gesture for us even when we skipped along the pond seven years ago. What a Jonah day but what a reliable friend. Diana's arm is stronger than mine, and I hold on.
***
"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaims Marilla, almost frightening our Jersey cow.
She feels around for Dolly's wet nose and comforts her with a couple pats. I contribute one as well.
"Mrs. Barry refuses to see reason," I groan. "Perhaps I was too harsh."
Marilla sets down a healthy supply of hay for Dolly before following me to the fence. She lets me lead a lot nowadays. I'm going to insist that Jerry Boute accompany her until she's left the fields.
"She wouldn't be so tough on Minnie May if she saw what I plucked up from the dirt," says Marilla.
"How are your eyes, Marilla?" I ask tentatively.
"Well enough to brush off grubs, which I'm sure would offend a certain mother more," answers Marilla.
Though her eyesight is worsening, Marilla rises at five in the morning and remembers where everything is mostly. The fields were the true hindrance. Sometimes I watch Marilla cross the wide countryside, her apron around her middle, and stumble for a short second. She's yet to fall, though, and her broad shoulders are the first thing I witness on her return to Green Gables.
With Dolly fed, we sit on the porch and stare at the start of twilight.
"Marilla, did you ever leave home at midnight?" I ask.
"Hold your tongue," instructs Marilla.
I hang my head.
"I could've though," says Marilla. "Matthew wouldn't have told anyone."
I shift my head and smile.
"It's good for girls to be outside," says Marilla.
"I took the liberty of reading that Jane Colden tribute more thoroughly," I say. "Her father was her biggest supporter. What if I spoke to the wrong parent?"
"That may be foolishness, Anne-girl," says Marilla, leaning back in her chair. "But I won't stop you."
"Because I'm eighteen?" I say.
Marilla leans back further. "Because I'm tired."
***
As a downpour thunders down the cracked schoolhouse window, I wipe tears from the slate I'm reading. Anthony Pye would observe the dried corpses of my live tears and relay the information to his sour-faced relation Josie.
Minnie May's name filled the mouths of many Avonlea residents, yet the residents were of the younger sort on this occasion. I beamed over the lively and well-defined chalk drawings of the Jabberwocky my students were fashioning until I came upon an empty seat. Though I realized she was absent on this particular Monday, I drew my own conclusion that she needed a few days' rest after my unsuccessful meeting with Mrs. Barry. Paul Irving put this idea to rest, though.
"Where's Minnie May?" I asked him.
"I promised to protect the dwarves for her," confessed Paul. "With the Rock People missing and all."
"Couldn't she do that when she's back in class, Paul?" I asked.
"She won't be back, Miss Shirley," said Paul, putting his chin on the edge of his slate.
I believe he stopped his artistic efforts to keep an eye on me for the remainder of class. Later, I found out Minnie May had asked him to do that as well.
I'm alone now, marking essays I can barely read, wishing Mrs. Barry cherished her daughters' paragraph discoveries and daffodils. She has her own ideas, Anne. Should I be punished for mine? Why does Doctor Yarborough's diagnosis outweigh my beliefs? I slam the slate on my otherwise orderly desk.
"Careful, Carrots," cautions a voice from the door. "Both of us don’t have the budget for new ones."
Gil adjusts his coat in the chilly classroom, depositing a bag of coal next to the stove.
"Mr. Barry asked if I could deliver this," says Gil.
I guess Mr. Barry couldn't be reasoned with either.
"Yet neither can deliver bad news," I moan. "I should've never insulted their doctor."
"You insult me all the time," says Gil, throwing a piece of chalk into the air.
I catch the chalk. "This isn't a laughing matter. He was so dismissive of her and Minnie May's starving for an education."
"My Queen's teachers tell me women get the same treatment at medical schools sometimes," says Gil. "I'm not looking forward to that."
A triangular object stands opposite me, the item that caused me to have a feeling that's more forlorn than the depths of despair. Marilla and Matthew encouraged me, Miss Stacey enlivened me, and I had let other people's thoughts ensnare me.
"This is not the world I want to send them out into, Gil," I say, picking up the dunce cap. "They can't fight the most important things with Varpol swords."
"With writing pens and scalpels then?" says Gil with a grin.
"Miss Ames favored the dunce cap," I tell Gil. "Me? I've always hated it."
"Why do you think I don't have one?" asks Gil.
I rip the large cap in half. Its folds fall to my desk.
"That made me feel slightly warm inside," I say, wiping my cheeks.
Gil comes around the desk and wraps me in an embrace. I'm not sure if it's the consolation from a fellow teacher, or his comfortable chest, but I don't want it to end too soon.
"Sometimes you just need to slam a slate down," affirms Gil.
***
As I shape new garlands for Story Club, I put great exertion into my handiwork. I gaze up at the dawn sun, salmon as a fresh rose, and hear Marilla open Dolly's pen. The lilies of the valley petals, my choice for the garlands, scatter on my skirt in the field. They're easily wiped off where they can sleep amid the other spring petals.
I miss seeing twenty full desks but the other nineteen desks, still housing my promising scholars, helped me survive the long winter. Minnie May and Paul have regular adventures together so I know she's perfectly fine, though it's like a dagger in my diaphragm when I hear about her private tutor.
"Hullo!" yells a voice across the fields.
"It's Mr. Barry!" I call over to Marilla.
"I know my neighbors' voices," says Marilla, avoiding a rowdy Dolly's friendly tongue. "Go see what he wants."
My feet cross the fields at an admirable pace. Since I hadn't heard from the Barry parents in weeks, and only saw Diana at Story Club, I'm curious as to why he'd stop by Green Gables.
"Is anything wrong?" I ask immediately.
"Why no," says Mr. Barry, a parcel tucked under his arm. "I was…I was just hoping for your opinion."
"Yes?" I say.
He unwraps the parcel. Inside, there's a copy of the Journal of Horticulture. Mr. Barry flips through the pages and reveals several illustrations of plants. I'm not sure I'm standing as I sift through the articles.
"Pardon me, sir, but why did you buy this?" I ask.
Mr. Barry stares at the fields, where Matthew walked with Dolly and where I strolled beside them.
"I've always wanted to go to Asia," says Mr. Barry. "Figure a chrysanthemum's a mighty fine flower if my baby's out at midnight searching for them."
"They're beautiful, Mr. Barry," I say, though I can only go by the few I've seen.
"Will Minnie May enjoy the journal?" says Mr. Barry. "Learn from this?"
"Of course, though some of the words are quite difficult," I reply.
Mr. Barry tips his hat. "I'll help her along."
"What made you come here, Mr. Barry?" I say.
While it seems like an inappropriate question, I couldn't get a peaceful night's sleep without the answer.
"You saved her life, Miss Shirley," replies Mr. Barry. "As her teacher, I wager you know what she wants to do with it."
When I'm alone, I return to the garlands, leaving a small amount of petals for a fifth one, a future horticulturalist.
***
Marilla's eyesight is much improved, dearest Matthew, and I see several things more clearly. I fed Miss Ames' notes to the fire in a private ceremony with Gil looking on, and wouldn't you believe that was the evening we found out the Board expanded our budgets. The useful things in our lives come right when the useless things are gone. It's providence indeed and Marilla agrees.
What's more, Paul's determined search to locate the Rock People proved successful. They revealed that they had tucked themselves away because they sensed that Minnie May needed him more than they did. Paul stated this with such conviction I could not doubt him. I don't doubt my instincts nearly as much, including the decision I've come to tell you.
When Mr. Barry's away on work-related trips, he doesn't want Minnie May to fall behind with her agricultural studies. Doctor Yarborough has accepted a position in New York, but Mrs. Barry is still here. We need a secret place for our studies. I remember all you've taught me, and there's plenty of room in front of the rosebush. Could you indulge me one last time and permit her to join me here?
I knew you were a kindred spirit, Matthew.
"Hello, Mr. Cuthbert!" says Minnie May to your headstone.
We've got your favorite copy of Farmer's Almanac. Show us where to start.
Many times you were the single individual who indulged my tastes. Minnie May doesn't seem to have that in her pristine homestead. I remember the discomfort on her red face when she took the ipecac. She shifted among the sheets, full of horror and heat-stricken, confused about the illness overtaking her. I was confident about how to handle the croup but now that she's bewitched by her father's crops, I'm at a loss about what to do for her. Mrs. Barry wants her to learn the alphabet and arithmetic as long as Minnie May's ambitious eyes remain on matrimony. With her fair locks and skin, Mrs. Barry's certain she'll find a lovely match someday. How is she going to be attractive with flecks of soil on her stockings and ruddy cheeks after being in the fields? I think of gorgeous Marilla, who stands like an erect warrior amongst worms in the Green Gables gardens, but it's always a difficult task to speak up to Mrs. Barry. I couldn't even ask her for an extra napkin at the Carmody Christmas Ball.
It gives me unspeakable pleasure to be useful here at the graveyard and tend to your rosebush. While the thorns poke like miniature scabbards, they're no worse than the worst paper cuts. They're far easier to endure than the eight story rejections I've received over the last three months. I dare not tell Marilla about my melancholy over the missives because she's got her own ship of sorrows.
However, I do see growth in the classroom at Avonlea School, especially when we're discussing current events. Formerly shy students chatter continually about Alexander Graham Bell's achievements in Ontario. Louis Pasteur's vaccine for anthrax amazed Moody Spurgeon's mischievous cousins. Of course Minnie May was entranced by the flowery offerings of the Crystal Palace. The site was thirty years old but no less thrilling after I revealed that Tennyson, Darwin, and Dickens had visited the glorious greenhouse. I hope I'm planting the seeds of dreams in a room I struggle to keep warm.
Miss Ames failed to fix the school's stove before her departure yet she left behind some rather cold compositions. The Board told me to check the drawers for her notes on the curriculum and her students. While I wasn't expecting tender-hearted commentaries about each of the young scholars, I was hopeful for a few sensitive sentences. Truth be told, I grit my teeth while reading them more than the sorrel mare you used to hitch to the buggy.
Minnie May displays an unhealthy appreciation for Asian literature and she may've recovered these texts from the church's donation box. I'm grateful she can only understand the pictures. I don't know what strange ideas she's picked up from them but now she's more inclined to dig in manure for samples than read fairy tales. With your tutelage, Miss Shirley, she can get back on track and fulfill her mother's wishes.
Gil says every teacher undergoes this particular test, when you have to choose whether to follow in your predecessor's footsteps or take a brave new road. I've yet to prove myself, however, even if I'm ecstatic about my progress over the last four months. My sword to battle laziness and listlessness is taken out every day but do I have enough mettle to challenge Miss Ames' methods and Mrs. Barry's mindset? Can I defend their imaginative minds against such old ideas? You told me it's not easy to knock a pole out of place, Matthew. Furthermore, you can't change everything, like the spelling of chrysanthemum, which Gil very well knows.
***
"How was your conference?" asks Gil, ladling cider into Marilla's old pink punch bowl.
I set a plate of Charley Bates Brownies on a doily and glance at the grandfather clock. While my habitual conference with Matthew is a necessity, it is near one in the afternoon.
"Soul-affirming," I reply. "Though regrettably short. I wish I'd chosen a different day for the Twist Tea Soiree. It's only right we toast to a celebrated novelist after completing our new works."
"How about rethinking the party's title?' suggests Gil.
"Never tell a wordsmith that, Mr. Blythe," I say. "Would you be so kind as to fetch the Fagin fruit tarts?"
"Yes, Ms. Shirley," says Gil, retreating into the kitchen.
Diana Barry passes him on her way back to our elegant presentation of Oliver Twist-themed sweets. Marilla assisted me with the cooking and she found some small enjoyment in helping me with the dishes' names.
"Gilbert Blythe looked awfully handsome hovering over the table," remarks Diana, twirling her raven-colored braid in her fingers.
If I ever doubted it before, now I was clear which daughter inherited Mrs. Barry's love of match-making. Diana was the epitome of savoir vivre at Orchard Slope's social events. I saw that term in a French novel, a language Diana didn't utter herself, but it described my bosom friend perfectly whenever she hosted those remarkable affairs. She mirrored her mother as she rearranged the furniture, then offered menu selections. It was not easy to convince her to push aside her place cards and dress catalogs, but we still go on occasional romps through the orchards to collect exceptional apples.
"He looked busy," I say, straightening the tablecloth.
"Comely is more like it," says Diana. "And he came to a party with the Story Club?"
"Gil was here so we could go over our correspondence college courses together," I inform her.
"Invite him to stay," insists Diana.
"This is a sacred ritual, Diana," I whisper. "We must protect our creations at all costs until they're ready to be admired by the public. Why not aim for acclaim all the time?"
"Why not indeed?" adds Gil, returning to the room with a collection of colorful tarts.
I cross my arms. "We bid you adieu, interloper."
"Such hurtful words for someone who's helping you tackle chemistry," says Gil. "Have a productive evening, ladies."
After Gilbert's departure, the two other members are not far behind. Both Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis wore straw hats with garlands of cloth lilac flowers wrapped around the center. I made the suggestion to all three of my Story Club associates but I doubt Diana was able to leave her house without a lecture on the matter.
"Oh, Anne, I just read something positively silly," says Ruby with a gleeful laugh.
Ruby finds the idea of women walking home carrying their own parcels silly, but my curious side gets the better of me. I accept the newspaper she hands me and peruse the headlines.
"What a distinguished honor it must be to have a byline," I sigh, stroking the bold newsprint. "That's how Dickens started, you know. I'm glad you brought this."
"Never mind that," waves off Ruby.
I read further down. "A tribute to Jane Colden, the first female botanist in America, on the anniversary of her death."
"Can you believe they devoted a page to a woman who just drew plants all day?" remarks Ruby.
She sits primly on our couch cushions though her gaze wanders over to the Sowerberry Plum Pudding.
"That's how she classified plants," I share after examining the article. "She did it very well, I might add, and was a revered botanist."
Ruby straightens her lavender skirt. "This has nothing to do with religion, Anne."
Jane and I exchange subtle smirks. Since we were the most enthusiastic readers, we knew the difference between "revered" and "reverend", but we've humored Ruby during plenty of Club gatherings.
"It's not right for a woman to be out sketching in the sun for hours on end," says Ruby.
"Heaven forbid they get more frightful freckles," I remark, folding the newspaper.
"Don't take it so personal, Anne," says Ruby. "I adore your face."
"Ruby, eat a brownie," suggests Jane.
"I've misplaced the Grimwig Gingerbread," I sigh, moving away from the serving table.
Though it isn't comforting in the least to stand next to the pitcher where the greedy mouse drowned in a rather romantic way, I stand in the mournful corner. Diana senses my distressed spirit and joins me.
"This is about Minnie May, isn't it?" inquires Diana.
During the last summer days of September, Minnie May skipped through the schoolhouse's adjoining forest like a wood-nymph. I called her back but I noticed her skirts were much fuller. Jeremiah Sloane, perhaps as an ode to his humorous uncle Charlie, placed three grasshoppers into Minnie May's lunch pail. She didn't scream but many of the girls made up for the missing noise when she turned the pail over. I announced that Jeremiah was destined for an afternoon donning the dunce cap but Minnie May protested. She seldom spoke up though I was determined to follow through on the punishment. When I lifted the humiliating headpiece, out tumbled dozens of daffodils. Minnie May raced to retrieve the bulk of them and the whole class burst into laughter. I'll never forget the way she wept over the wilted blossoms. Everyone in Avonlea heard about the debacle, and the Barrys' curtains were drawn for the next two weeks.
"Your mother's convinced something is wrong with her," I say. "We've collected many a flower during childhood without any chastisement."
"We didn't horde them in a hat," says Diana, playing with her collar.
I feel the thickness of the newspaper between my hands. "You too, Diana?"
"She saw a doctor after that, Anne," says Diana. "One for special children. He's made repeated visits. Minnie May's always been a little odd."
"Everybody said the same of me when I came here," I remind her.
Diana shrugs. "Doctor Yarborough blames the books she's come across."
"She'll find similar books if she attends Redmond College," I say.
"Anne, if you didn't go to Redmond, she's not going there," says Diana. "You're the smartest person I've ever met."
"Dear Diana," I say. "That doesn't mean as much if I'm not a smart teacher."
***
Chalk is a luxury in our modest classroom, even if the dusty tool leaves marks all over my bodices. Generous parents provide coal and wood for the stove but I notice they swath their progeny in cumbersome coats anyway. Paul Irving no longer looks for his imaginary Rock People because ice obscures the school's brook. We were fighting the cold and poverty simultaneously but the students' never-ending enthusiasm stokes the fire I have to educate them.
I rearrange Paul's crimson scarf as he clambers up to the schoolhouse door.
"I'm on the look-out, Ms. Shirley," whispers Paul to me.
"Perhaps it's too wintry for the Rock People, Paul," I say. "But it's never too frigid for frost fairies. They're worth hunting for."
Paul beams widely and scurries to his desk near the front. While I'm elated to see the majority of my students arrive on time, Minnie May's absence unsettles me. She remained withdrawn after the exposure of her daffodils but her attendance record was spotless.
"Minnie May!" I call through the swirling wind.
"Miss Shirley!" yells Minnie May. "Can you come behind the schoolhouse?"
Given my history with Minnie May, my thoughts stray to a variety of dire situations. Did she fall from a tree or brave the brook and slip through the ice? My skirts dampen with dew as I run towards Minnie May's voice.
"There's Dwarf ginseng right under the window!" exclaims Minnie May.
All of her limbs intact, a healthy Minnie May touches the diminutive white flowers among the pointed leaves.
"We can eat the berries as a snack," continues Minnie May. "But too much can give you a headache. I think real dwarves grew them."
"Minnie May, while I'm all for flights of fancy, we're late for class," I say.
Instead of heeding me, she sits cross-legged in the grass.
"Nobody understands daffodils in there," murmurs Minnie May.
"We could've picked a fair few and put them in a vase," I say. "Washing out the dunce cap was an unwanted chore, I must confess."
"What does Mother put in those notes to you?" asks Minnie May.
I'm tempted to tell her, especially when her gentle features crease with concern, but I can't betray Mrs. Barry's trust. The content of her well-intentioned messages would only further divide them. Minnie May's far too delicate to have a full recess like the other children. I'd prefer it if she stayed in the schoolhouse with Diana's old sewing kit. You're a competent young woman, Ms. Shirley, and could surely instruct her on how to make buttonholes. I detest patchwork and only tolerate sewing for Marilla's sake, so I let Diana's kit collect dust on a stray desk. More importantly, Minnie May has the right to play in the great outdoors like any other adventurous soul.
"Doctor Yarborough says I'm a confused girl," confesses Minnie May. "That I shouldn't put starflowers on top of drawers or cattails in our horse's hair. But can't every place look like a greenhouse, Ms. Shirley? Can't our family live in a palace covered in color and living things?"
Miss Ames' disappointing observations spring to my mind. What if Minnie May was on the right track and us not supporting her halts her? I stroke Minnie May's cheek.
"I think dwarves grew the ginseng, too," I say. "Let's have a talk with your mother after school."
"That's fine, Miss Shirley!" says Minnie May. "We shouldn't mention I fetched an Indian pipe yesterday, though. It sounds rather naughty."
***
On normal visits, I pause on the spruce pathway up to Orchard Slope to appreciate the aroma of windblown apples and majestic lady slippers. There's no delay on this day because my convictions compel me to pass every example of fauna on their farm. The plants, the loves of Minnie May's young life, would have to wait to be noticed. I knock on the Barry's front door with my umbrella handle since my hands are shaking.
"Anne!" cries Mr. Barry upon opening the door.
"Good evening, Mr. Barry," I say as he escorts me into the parlor. "I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Barry?"
"Certainly," says Mr. Barry. "I can't stay unfortunately. Promised John Blythe I'd bring a few bagfuls of coal to Carmody School. We could drop off some for your school too."
I clap, resulting in an undignified echo that sounds over their floorboards. Mr. Barry laughs in spite of himself.
"You have the magnanimity of a heralded knight, Mr. Barry," I say.
"I'll be by Monday," says Mr. Barry, tipping his hat. "Dear? Ms. Shirley's in the parlor!"
Mrs. Barry walks out of the study, an emerald necklace dangling below her firm and painted mouth. Her hair rivals the smoothness of Diana's though she keeps hers in an unmoving ebony updo. I'm certain my red curls require a good brushing after demonstrating how to use the Vorpal Sword for my Lewis Carroll-loving students. I can picture Minnie May galumphing through the orchard, lady slippers affixed in her blonde braid, but what if Mrs. Barry was as ferocious as the untamed Jabberwocky after I spoke to her?
"Anne, I'm always delighted to see you," says Mrs. Barry, relaxing her lips a little.
"As I am….," I began to say.
"But I already have company," continues Mrs. Barry. "Actually, this may be providential."
I've learned to enjoy the word "providential" even after it was uttered to describe my meeting with Mrs. Blewett before Marilla took me back to Green Gables. In fact, it may be among my favorite words, but I have the strangest feeling I'm in for another unpleasant encounter.
"Doctor Yarborough, we have a third for tea!" calls Mrs. Barry, guiding me into the study.
When I view the gentleman stirring his tea, he stands upright. The black and white hairs in Doctor Yarborough's moustache resemble the backside of an unruly skunk. I don't mean to be cruel, to judge someone's appearance (a habit I've tried hard to alter), but he'd made quite a terrible first impression on me based on his criticisms of Minnie May.
"Ms. Shirley is Minnie May's instructor," shares Mrs. Barry. "We have a correspondence going to monitor my daughter's activities."
"Superb," says Doctor Yarborough.
"Her father sees no harm in her flitting about the field until sundown," says Mrs. Barry.
"So do these New Women," guffaws Doctor Yarborough. "No, females shouldn't overexert themselves. Minnie May was a rather sickly baby and letting her do more domestic tasks is for her best interest."
"I assisted Matthew on the fields occasionally," I say.
"Jerry Buote did most of the heavy labor," says Mrs. Barry. "You stayed in to write, correct? And look how wonderfully you're doing."
"Minnie May is not me, Mrs. Barry," I assure her.
Mrs. Barry raises her eyebrows but resumes pouring me a cup of tea.
"She has emotional fits, Miss Shirley," says Doctor Yarborough. "If we let her engage in deviant behavior now, then she'll be in an asylum, not a classroom."
"Deviant?" I cry. "She hides flowers."
Mrs. Barry taps her chest. "Anne, I'm hesitant to tell you this. Minnie May ventured out twice last summer, at midnight, to wade in our pond…in her underclothes."
"The Lake of Shining Waters?" I say.
"The what?" asks Mrs. Barry.
After hearing about Minnie May's nighttime excursions, I'd forgotten that nobody else, save the Cuthberts and Diana, knew about my private name for the Barry pond.
"Why was she out there?" I say.
"She was under the impression she had to collect specimens for an experiment," says Mrs. Barry, fanning herself briefly.
"Based off a drawing she saw in one of those books," adds Doctor Yarborough. "A Chinese man carrying chrysanthemums through a river. I ruled out hysteria after I saw the literature's influence, of course, but she's a troubled child."
I saw no evidence of a troubled child in Minnie May's actions. Were they really trying to limit her reading material based off of her playtime in the pond? Miss Stacey, my beloved teacher, encouraged us to read anything and everything we stumbled across and here I am not saying a word against it.
"You witnessed the nervous breakdown in your classroom, Miss Shirley," sighs Doctor Yarborough. "Over…flowers."
Mrs. Barry's morose expression forces me to think back on the similar face I observed when a drunken Diana showed up at their home. How was I to figure out I served her currant wine and not raspberry cordial? She found a way to part me from Diana, discrediting my reputation and tearing me from the single bosom friend I'd ever made. Despite my fear of Mrs. Barry, I have more fear for Minnie May who will be less happy than her mother if Mrs. Barry has her way again.
"I believe chrysanthemums have countless varieties," I say with a definitive nod. "Perhaps some bloom best at midnight in Canada."
The other two tea guests exchange annoyed glances.
"What's more, the moon must provide excellent lighting," I add.
"Anne, I appreciate all you've done for Minnie May, but you don't have to take her side in this instance," says Mrs. Barry, lifting her shoulders. "She's not well."
"No offense, Mrs. Barry," I say. "Nothing about this sits well."
"As a physician, why would I discourage a child who's interested in science?" asks Doctor Yarborough. "It's something else entirely."
I set my tea cup on the table with a clatter and startle him.
"Because you don't understand the value of imagination, or you're comfortable putting people in boxes," I reply. "I'm leaning toward the former."
"You forget your place, Miss Shirley!" shouts Doctor Yarborough, his skunk mustache twitching at rapid speed.
"My apologies, Mrs. Barry," I say as I turn away from the physician. "But neither of us has ever wanted to see Minnie May suffer. Flowers may be frivolous to you, but they fill her mind and heart."
Mrs. Barry wrings her hands for a brief moment. I shrink into myself when she collects my teacup.
"I trust you've ignored my requests in the letters," says Mrs. Barry. "The sewing kit?"
"I couldn't bring myself to dim her dreams," I admit.
"There will be a day when a decision costs you, Miss Shirley," says Mrs. Barry. "A decision that might compromise your post."
She starts pouring another cup for Doctor Yarborough, who pretends not to gaze at me as I glide past him. Mrs. Barry, though misinformed, is a wise woman. I don't doubt that decision will come, and I only pray I can triumph over the trial.
Orchard Slope overwhelms me as soon I reach the porch. The lady slippers were waving to me and I wonder if it's a courtly goodbye they've thought up after hearing the conversation. Beyond, under the scarlet fruit secured to the trees, I view Diana pulling a dress from the wash line. If this is to be my last outing here, I couldn't resist drinking in the sunset with her.
"Rachel Lynde spotted tart crumbs on my dress' waistline," laments Diana. "I still heard her taunting me in my sleep."
"I don't envy you," I say, helping her fold the dress.
"Why are you here?" asks Diana.
"It served no purpose," I say. "If only Doctor Yarborough weren't here. Then your mother…"
"She has her own ideas, Anne," interrupts Diana.
"It wounds me, Diana, that she won't even entertain the fact that Minnie May's different from you," I say.
Diana gives me a pained smile. Do I detect hurt feelings? The situation's gone from horrific to tragic.
"I meant….," I start.
"Mother told me I read too much as a child," recalls Diana. "And when she said I couldn't join the Queen's Academy class, I never protested."
"I could tell it bothered you immensely," I say.
"Running a home doesn't bother me," says Diana. "Getting married, maybe in this backyard, thrills me. Only I miss reading whenever I get the inkling, the little discoveries in paragraphs, the funny characters…"
Her voice fades and we keep our eyes locked on a loose lady-slipper that soars over the wash line.
"Do you ever wonder why I'm the first one to arrive for Story Club?" says Diana with red cheeks.
"Minnie May's the same when it comes to petals," I say. "Don't you see, Diana? Your love of discovery is just like hers. She's restless to find prizes in the Lake of Shining Waters."
"Plants grow and people grow up, Anne," sighs Diana.
We loop arms, a common gesture for us even when we skipped along the pond seven years ago. What a Jonah day but what a reliable friend. Diana's arm is stronger than mine, and I hold on.
***
"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaims Marilla, almost frightening our Jersey cow.
She feels around for Dolly's wet nose and comforts her with a couple pats. I contribute one as well.
"Mrs. Barry refuses to see reason," I groan. "Perhaps I was too harsh."
Marilla sets down a healthy supply of hay for Dolly before following me to the fence. She lets me lead a lot nowadays. I'm going to insist that Jerry Boute accompany her until she's left the fields.
"She wouldn't be so tough on Minnie May if she saw what I plucked up from the dirt," says Marilla.
"How are your eyes, Marilla?" I ask tentatively.
"Well enough to brush off grubs, which I'm sure would offend a certain mother more," answers Marilla.
Though her eyesight is worsening, Marilla rises at five in the morning and remembers where everything is mostly. The fields were the true hindrance. Sometimes I watch Marilla cross the wide countryside, her apron around her middle, and stumble for a short second. She's yet to fall, though, and her broad shoulders are the first thing I witness on her return to Green Gables.
With Dolly fed, we sit on the porch and stare at the start of twilight.
"Marilla, did you ever leave home at midnight?" I ask.
"Hold your tongue," instructs Marilla.
I hang my head.
"I could've though," says Marilla. "Matthew wouldn't have told anyone."
I shift my head and smile.
"It's good for girls to be outside," says Marilla.
"I took the liberty of reading that Jane Colden tribute more thoroughly," I say. "Her father was her biggest supporter. What if I spoke to the wrong parent?"
"That may be foolishness, Anne-girl," says Marilla, leaning back in her chair. "But I won't stop you."
"Because I'm eighteen?" I say.
Marilla leans back further. "Because I'm tired."
***
As a downpour thunders down the cracked schoolhouse window, I wipe tears from the slate I'm reading. Anthony Pye would observe the dried corpses of my live tears and relay the information to his sour-faced relation Josie.
Minnie May's name filled the mouths of many Avonlea residents, yet the residents were of the younger sort on this occasion. I beamed over the lively and well-defined chalk drawings of the Jabberwocky my students were fashioning until I came upon an empty seat. Though I realized she was absent on this particular Monday, I drew my own conclusion that she needed a few days' rest after my unsuccessful meeting with Mrs. Barry. Paul Irving put this idea to rest, though.
"Where's Minnie May?" I asked him.
"I promised to protect the dwarves for her," confessed Paul. "With the Rock People missing and all."
"Couldn't she do that when she's back in class, Paul?" I asked.
"She won't be back, Miss Shirley," said Paul, putting his chin on the edge of his slate.
I believe he stopped his artistic efforts to keep an eye on me for the remainder of class. Later, I found out Minnie May had asked him to do that as well.
I'm alone now, marking essays I can barely read, wishing Mrs. Barry cherished her daughters' paragraph discoveries and daffodils. She has her own ideas, Anne. Should I be punished for mine? Why does Doctor Yarborough's diagnosis outweigh my beliefs? I slam the slate on my otherwise orderly desk.
"Careful, Carrots," cautions a voice from the door. "Both of us don’t have the budget for new ones."
Gil adjusts his coat in the chilly classroom, depositing a bag of coal next to the stove.
"Mr. Barry asked if I could deliver this," says Gil.
I guess Mr. Barry couldn't be reasoned with either.
"Yet neither can deliver bad news," I moan. "I should've never insulted their doctor."
"You insult me all the time," says Gil, throwing a piece of chalk into the air.
I catch the chalk. "This isn't a laughing matter. He was so dismissive of her and Minnie May's starving for an education."
"My Queen's teachers tell me women get the same treatment at medical schools sometimes," says Gil. "I'm not looking forward to that."
A triangular object stands opposite me, the item that caused me to have a feeling that's more forlorn than the depths of despair. Marilla and Matthew encouraged me, Miss Stacey enlivened me, and I had let other people's thoughts ensnare me.
"This is not the world I want to send them out into, Gil," I say, picking up the dunce cap. "They can't fight the most important things with Varpol swords."
"With writing pens and scalpels then?" says Gil with a grin.
"Miss Ames favored the dunce cap," I tell Gil. "Me? I've always hated it."
"Why do you think I don't have one?" asks Gil.
I rip the large cap in half. Its folds fall to my desk.
"That made me feel slightly warm inside," I say, wiping my cheeks.
Gil comes around the desk and wraps me in an embrace. I'm not sure if it's the consolation from a fellow teacher, or his comfortable chest, but I don't want it to end too soon.
"Sometimes you just need to slam a slate down," affirms Gil.
***
As I shape new garlands for Story Club, I put great exertion into my handiwork. I gaze up at the dawn sun, salmon as a fresh rose, and hear Marilla open Dolly's pen. The lilies of the valley petals, my choice for the garlands, scatter on my skirt in the field. They're easily wiped off where they can sleep amid the other spring petals.
I miss seeing twenty full desks but the other nineteen desks, still housing my promising scholars, helped me survive the long winter. Minnie May and Paul have regular adventures together so I know she's perfectly fine, though it's like a dagger in my diaphragm when I hear about her private tutor.
"Hullo!" yells a voice across the fields.
"It's Mr. Barry!" I call over to Marilla.
"I know my neighbors' voices," says Marilla, avoiding a rowdy Dolly's friendly tongue. "Go see what he wants."
My feet cross the fields at an admirable pace. Since I hadn't heard from the Barry parents in weeks, and only saw Diana at Story Club, I'm curious as to why he'd stop by Green Gables.
"Is anything wrong?" I ask immediately.
"Why no," says Mr. Barry, a parcel tucked under his arm. "I was…I was just hoping for your opinion."
"Yes?" I say.
He unwraps the parcel. Inside, there's a copy of the Journal of Horticulture. Mr. Barry flips through the pages and reveals several illustrations of plants. I'm not sure I'm standing as I sift through the articles.
"Pardon me, sir, but why did you buy this?" I ask.
Mr. Barry stares at the fields, where Matthew walked with Dolly and where I strolled beside them.
"I've always wanted to go to Asia," says Mr. Barry. "Figure a chrysanthemum's a mighty fine flower if my baby's out at midnight searching for them."
"They're beautiful, Mr. Barry," I say, though I can only go by the few I've seen.
"Will Minnie May enjoy the journal?" says Mr. Barry. "Learn from this?"
"Of course, though some of the words are quite difficult," I reply.
Mr. Barry tips his hat. "I'll help her along."
"What made you come here, Mr. Barry?" I say.
While it seems like an inappropriate question, I couldn't get a peaceful night's sleep without the answer.
"You saved her life, Miss Shirley," replies Mr. Barry. "As her teacher, I wager you know what she wants to do with it."
When I'm alone, I return to the garlands, leaving a small amount of petals for a fifth one, a future horticulturalist.
***
Marilla's eyesight is much improved, dearest Matthew, and I see several things more clearly. I fed Miss Ames' notes to the fire in a private ceremony with Gil looking on, and wouldn't you believe that was the evening we found out the Board expanded our budgets. The useful things in our lives come right when the useless things are gone. It's providence indeed and Marilla agrees.
What's more, Paul's determined search to locate the Rock People proved successful. They revealed that they had tucked themselves away because they sensed that Minnie May needed him more than they did. Paul stated this with such conviction I could not doubt him. I don't doubt my instincts nearly as much, including the decision I've come to tell you.
When Mr. Barry's away on work-related trips, he doesn't want Minnie May to fall behind with her agricultural studies. Doctor Yarborough has accepted a position in New York, but Mrs. Barry is still here. We need a secret place for our studies. I remember all you've taught me, and there's plenty of room in front of the rosebush. Could you indulge me one last time and permit her to join me here?
I knew you were a kindred spirit, Matthew.
"Hello, Mr. Cuthbert!" says Minnie May to your headstone.
We've got your favorite copy of Farmer's Almanac. Show us where to start.
Monique Hayes received her MFA from University of Maryland College Park. Her work has recently appeared in Literary Mama, Revise the Psalm, The Forum, District Lines, among others. She took second place in her school spelling bee like Gilbert Blythe but she knows the value of a good pen like Anne.
Author's statement: Like many others, I first saw the world of Avonlea when I viewed Kevin Sullivan's exquisite productions, but I was blown away when I encountered the majestic prose in L.M. Montgomery's books a few years later. Anne Shirley's strength, confidence, and love of the written word were all qualities I admired as a young female writer. Anne exemplifies women empowerment in any age and I was blessed to find her amongst the bookshelves. Gilbert and Anne remain my favorite couple in all of literature, but if there were no Gil, I'd still enjoy the other love story in Anne of Green Gables. Anne learns to love herself as a woman and an author, and the fact that she does after her many obstacles, makes me want to hold my head up high too. After all, tomorrow is fresh with no mistakes in it...yet.
Author's statement: Like many others, I first saw the world of Avonlea when I viewed Kevin Sullivan's exquisite productions, but I was blown away when I encountered the majestic prose in L.M. Montgomery's books a few years later. Anne Shirley's strength, confidence, and love of the written word were all qualities I admired as a young female writer. Anne exemplifies women empowerment in any age and I was blessed to find her amongst the bookshelves. Gilbert and Anne remain my favorite couple in all of literature, but if there were no Gil, I'd still enjoy the other love story in Anne of Green Gables. Anne learns to love herself as a woman and an author, and the fact that she does after her many obstacles, makes me want to hold my head up high too. After all, tomorrow is fresh with no mistakes in it...yet.