A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Prince Edward Island was every bit as pretty as Lottie had told them it would be. Michael had wondered, a little put off by her over-enthusiastic gushings, if perhaps her point of view were colored by her Favorite Author's accolades, but as they tacked into Cavendish it did indeed resemble a bright green jewel, suspended upon a sparkling sapphire sea. How disappointing – he had been hoping for some reason to dislike the place, but it didn't appear the Landscape Aesthetics Gods were going to cooperate.

Michael stood on the dock looking back at the White Lady and the Evenstar – he wasn't alone; it seemed everyone was admiring the two boats – while he and Doris waited for Lottie, Arwen, and Éowyn to join them. The day was cool and breezy, and Michael was wearing crisply pressed khaki shorts, a powder-blue polo shirt, and a white cardigan. He looked – and felt – very Preppie. But Éowyn had put the kibosh on his roll-hem denim shorts and pink tee shirt, and, looking around at the predominantly old-fashioned, girly tourists that seemed to abound there, he decided perhaps she had been right to make him look more Straight. "This is a damn Victorian farmhouse," she'd said, taking him by the collar and marching him back to the stateroom, weakly protesting; she was stronger than she looked. "I don't want any Rainbow Coalition types along. We're supposed to blend in."

So they blended – as much as Éowyn could blend, that is. Michael privately wondered, as she strode down the gangplank, if she were physiologically and philosophically incapable of Blending. Arwen had eclipsed her glossy black hair with a low, curl-brimmed hat and wore a shapeless flowered smock that gave her the guise of a mislaid Hopeless Romantic; Doris looked Cute (how she'd glared at Michael when he'd said that! And how he'd grinned impudently at her indignation!) in a pair of overall-shorts and a lace tee shirt, and Lottie bounded down the plank in a tight pink tank top, tight pink jeans with pink rhinestone accents, and pink Converse tennis shoes; none of them so far – not even Michael – appeared too terribly out of place. But Éowyn, despite her white capris and neat blue oxford, displayed her charms with such a blatant poke in the ribs to any other woman that it was almost a backhanded compliment to call her Brazen. No one, looking at that brilliant golden head, or the opulent curve of tanned skin between the edge of her loose trousers and tied shirt, or the swell of breasts peeping over the edge of her collar, or the sultry bow of her lush red lips, could have possibly mistaken Éowyn for an L.M. Montgomery fan. Danielle Steel, possibly – or Anne Rice.

"Well, I guess you'll just be the reluctant sister-in-law along for the ride," sighed Lottie, looking her up and down. "Try not to look TOO bored, hon." Éowyn just rolled her eyes and followed Lottie to the main road.

They managed to find a bus that sported the legend, "SILVER BUSH-AOGG MUSEUM" and Lottie hustled them on board. As they squeezed down the already crowded aisle Lottie called over her shoulder, "Are we going on the Potato Tour?"

"The WHAT?" exclaimed Doris; Michael and Arwen exchanged horrified glances, and Éowyn rolled her eyes again and said, "No, Lottie, I think this will be enough intellectual torture for one day." Michael noticed this elicited a few Dirty Looks from some of the tourists on board the bus that had overheard her, and he had to stifle a giggle.

"Is it far?" he asked Lottie after they sat down. He had to lean across the aisle to speak to her, as the bus was very noisy and crowded. There was a woman sitting in front of him wearing an enormous straw hat decorated with plastic roses. In fact, he noticed most of the passengers were female, and in varying states of old-fashioned and/or pink-flowered garb. There were only a couple of men, some hiding behind newspapers, others looking out the window with ill-disguised boredom. He wondered whether he should try to act Interested or not.

"No," said Lottie brightly, looking out the window. "We're at Cavendish, which is close – OOOO! There's New London Bay!" Michael thought Éowyn's resigned sigh was very Artistic, almost as Artistic as the Eye-Rolls. He exchanged amused looks with Doris, who merely looked peevish, and gazed out the bus window.

It was beautiful there – very green, very bucolic, very immaculate. There were even horse-drawn carriages dotting the roads, and prosperous farms with quaint, old-fashioned farmhouses on them. Michael noted the rusty red cuts in the earth, and the broad white expanses of sand stretching out into the blue of the St. Lawrence Gulf. Not, he ruminated, the sort of venue in which you would find a normal, predominantly urban homosexual man, but then, considering the past couple of months, he didn't think he qualified as "predominantly urban" any longer, and the "normal" adjective had of course been discarded along the way. He deeply regretted admitting to Legolas that he'd read the book (it wasn't his fault; he'd had to read it to his sister twice while she was recovering from pneumonia at the age of twelve) and was relatively familiar with the characters; that had instantly added him to the List of Operatives being sent to the Museum, where – Michael still couldn't believe this – Dr. Ahn had last been spotted. The sympathetic look on Gandalf's face had been the only comforting thing he'd seen when he left; Frances, Gimli, and Éomer had already vanished into the crowds at Cavendish, pockets heavy and faces bland and incurious. Michael gave an inward shudder. One week ago, they had divided themselves up cheerfully enough between the two boats – Aragorn and Arwen, obviously, in the Evenstar, joined by Gandalf, Gimli, and Doris (Michael's only consolation was that the radio was always on, and he and Doris could chat whenever they wanted to), and the rest of them on the White Lady. It had been pleasant, beating up the coast of Maine, crossing over toward Nova Scotia, circling that and rounding the point of Cabot Strait (Michael sighed appreciatively, remembering the delicious crab cakes they'd eaten at Chéticamp) and approaching Prince Edward Island from the North, finding harbor at Cavendish at sunset (to be sure, very small harbor, but harbor nonetheless). They had slept on board, finding all hotels too expensive at the tag end of the high season – and surely no hotel bed could rival the mattresses and Egyptian percale sheets in the White Lady – the following morning bringing News from Legolas and Arwen's prying eyes and ears (they had been out all night, snooping around) and the hastily assembled groups split up around Cavendish and Malpeque. Michael wondered what they'd do if they DID spot Dr. Ahn. Point dramatically and cry, "Ah-HAH!" while the Evil Villain gasped, shook his fist, and ran? Gun him down in full sight in the middle of the street? Shadow him stealthily and slit his throat in a quiet corner? He shuddered again. He hoped any Cloak-and-Dagger Work would be done by more Qualified persons than himself. He'd have to attach himself to Doris to be sure. Despite his excellent aim and decent sailing skills, he knew he was far from being competent – or cold-blooded – enough to kill a man, no matter who the man was, or what he had done.

Silver Bush Farm was a complex of large white buildings set in a verdant green lawn, surrounded by huge trees softened by the late summer haze. The bus pulled up and disgorged its passengers, the ladies in their wide straw hats and flowered dresses chattering excitedly; Michael and Éowyn exchanged a Look that Meant Something, and they both smiled a little. Neither of them, it appeared, were expecting to enjoy themselves; they were both a little braced for what Michael was sure would be overwhelming romanticism, idealism, and saccharine-sweet ideology. He sighed resignedly. Even for a gay man with a Positive Outlook On Life, the prospect was daunting. He looked around, wondering where, in this crush of pink dresses and puffed sleeves, a Korean geneticist could be hiding. He edged up to Doris and whispered, "What are we supposed to do?"

"No idea," she muttered back, glancing around herself nervously. "One thing's for damn sure, I'm not plugging any oriental megalomaniacs, so Éowyn can go to hell."

Michael looked at her in surprise at both her biting tone and bitter words. Considering Doris and Éowyn's relationship, it was disturbing they should be at odds about anything, but that had definitely been anger and resentment hidden there. Michael wondered where it had come from. Not having had the close contact with Doris that had characterized their earlier sailing days meant that he sometimes missed things that were happening to her; he had not heard a word about that awful argument she'd had with Gimli last week until they had already kissed and made up. He felt a little pang as he realized it had been five days since they'd just sat and chatted. She looked a little thinner, and her normally ruddy face was a little pale; there was also a tightness around her eyes that seemed to indicate some inner struggle. He put his hand on her elbow and slowed her down, unnoticed by the other three, who were walking ahead on the meandering path up to the main gate, which was festooned with late roses and ivy. "Doris," he hissed, "what's wrong? You don't look right."

Doris gave him a strange look. "What do you mean?" she asked suspiciously, her hand going to her hair. "Do I look weird?"

"No, not THAT," said Michael, rolling his eyes with just as much aplomb as Éowyn had used. "You look – here, sweetie, over here." He pulled her aside beneath an ancient apple tree; the rich pungent scent of the overripe apples heavy on the warm thick air. "You look worried – angry. What's wrong, honey?" When she hesitated, glancing away and running her short stubby fingers through her brown curls, Michael grasped her hand and brought it to his cheek. "It STINKS, us not being on the same boat; I'm just HATING it. Please, PLEASE tell me what's wrong, sweetie; you just look SO upset!"

"Oh …. " Doris closed her eyes; Michael could see her jaw was clenched tight. He planted a quick kiss on her knuckle (he could hear a passing gaggle of girls titter, "Oh, isn't that SWEET?" and felt irrationally like mooning them) and gazed at his friend with an expression of Helpful Devotion, guaranteed to make even the most callous Girlfriend spill her guts. Sure enough, when Doris opened her eyes and saw him, limpid-eyed, pouty-lipped, sympathy practically oozing out of his pores, she gave a helpless, frustrated laugh and pulled him into a quick hug.

"It's my Mom," she said shortly, giving her eyes a surreptitious brush. "I wrote to her when we were in Kennebunkport and told her about Grim. I got a letter at Chéticamp – " There went the Jaw Clench again; Michael braced himself – it appeared he was not the only one to have received One Of Those Letters from the maternal parent. "She says if I marry him the family will disown me." She blurted out this last sentence in a monotone mutter, her eyes averted. Michael started disbelievingly at her. Disown? For marrying a man who loved her? What the hell was up with that?

"Why?" he asked in astonishment.

Doris ran her fingers through her hair again, but this time they got stuck halfway, and she just stood there, staring at the tree trunk, her hand on her head. A few wasps buzzed by, hovering over the wrinkled brown fruit, and the golden air hummed with dancing specks of dust. And still people filed past, in and out, chattering happily, carrying gift bags and pamphlets; still the grass shimmered acid-green and sharply fragrant; still the leaves rustled faintly and the wasps droned and trilled. Over their heads a blackbird gave a sleepy warble. Doris heaved a deep sigh, closed her eyes, and the fingers continued their journey through her hair, eventually ending up hanging limply by her side.

"Because he's a Gentile," she said. She looked up at Michael, her brown eyes glazed with angry tears, and bit her lip. "They didn't care – " her voice wobbled, and she steadied it impatiently " – that Ira was a jerk and a schmuck and a cheat because he was fucking Jewish. But they won't let me marry Grim because he's a goy. It doesn't matter that he's rich and funny and nice and faithful because he's a damn Gentile, and that's why – " her voice broke, and one tear traced the outline of her cheek. " – Why they're going to disown me." She gulped and closed her eyes, and Michael, his heart wrung and his tongue limp, pulled her into a tight embrace; he heard her murmur against his throat: "It'll be like I was never born – they won't talk to me, won't even look at me – "

It was Horrible, even worse than Growing Up Gay. At least his father HAD spoken to him – not nicely at times, certainly, but he had been THERE. There had never been any talk, ever, of casting Michael out of the Morris clan (though on occasion he had been tempted to do a little self-casting); they might not accept his "choice of lifestyle," but there was never any question of accepting HIM. Michael felt his own eyes burning, and his throat went tight. What could he say? Was there anything that COULD be said? What on earth did you do when one of your friends had this happen? He cast quickly about in his rather disorganized memories for a parallel event and remembered his friend Louis, who had Come Out in his junior year of college – THAT had been a horrible semester – poor Louis had cried so much he'd completely spoiled his eyelashes (one of his better qualities, as Michael remembered) and he had failed Statistics. Not surprising, really; everyone Michael knew had failed Statistics at least once or twice. But this had been a spectacular failure, because really Louis HAD been good at math, and he WOULD have passed had his family not been so cruel to him – sending him his birth certificate back, with his torn-up baptismal certificate in the same envelope; mailing him a Change of Name form, changing the locks on their house so he couldn't even go in and get his old keepsakes from high school. And what had eventually happened? Well – Michael hoped against hope that Doris wouldn't end up in the same place as his parallel memory; Louis had turned his back on his family, gone on a sex-rampage lasting two years, contracted AIDS, and died, bitter and alone. His mother and father hadn't even come to the funeral.

Somehow, though, that didn't sound much like Doris. And Michael was positive this wasn't quite so insurmountable a thing. He was fairly certain Louis' family would have accepted him again, had he gone back to being Straight. How could he compare that to Doris' problem? Well – there was not much to be done about Doris being Jewish. You were either born Jewish or you were –

He jumped a little when the idea occurred to him. Ideas didn't often pop into Michael's head – at least, not practical ones – so it was a little startling to have received such a sensible revelation. "Have you told Gimli this?" he asked into Doris' hair.

"No," said Doris tiredly against his neck. "He knows something's wrong but I don't want to tell him. I don't want him to feel bad."

So like her, he thought; so like me, too. Hide the internal problems from the Loved One in order to protect him, but try as you might, enough leaked out so that said Loved One KNEW something was wrong and couldn't do anything about it. Then it would start – the Loved One pressing for information, the Injured Party struggling to keep it inside; neither wanting to hurt the other, both frustrated by the sudden emotional fog bank. Silly, too, when two brains working in tandem could come up with a solution, whereas one just chased itself around in circles. "He could convert. Couldn't he?" asked Michael, giving her a little squeeze. Doris withdrew from his embrace, staring up at him in surprise. "Couldn't he?" repeated Michael earnestly, cupping Doris' chin with his hands. Another gaggle of girls drifted by and one chirped, "Oh, how ROMANTIC!" Michael had never flipped anyone off in his life before, but he was sorely tempted to now. "Romantic," indeed! This was SERIOUS!!! "I mean, it's purely ceremonial, isn't it? I'm sure there's some sort of religious thingy he'll have to do and some oaths and stuff, and – " he paused, cringing a little inwardly " – is he circumcised?"

That made Doris snort; at Michael's hurt expression she burst out laughing and flung her arms around his neck. "Not telling," she giggled into his shirt. Michael put his arms around her back and hugged her tight; she was soft and giving in his arms, and he wished he could fix everything for her so she wouldn't be upset any more. "It's an idea," Doris admitted tiredly, heaving another big sigh. "I don't know if Mom and Dad would change their minds, but they might. At least it's something. But I'm not sure if Grim would do it."

"Oh, I'm sure he would," said Michael confidently, stroking her hair. "He loves you SO much, I'm sure he'd do ANYTHING for you." He could feel Doris smile against his chest. "You do realize how lucky you are, don't you?" he asked.

Doris looked up at him and tightened her grip. "Why?" she asked playfully. "Because I have Grim, or because I have you?"

"Well," said Michael, immensely flattered but trying to hide it behind a Cool and Polished exterior, "I MEANT Grim, but thank you very much."

"Thank YOU, Michael," said Doris comfortably. "I'll talk to Grim tonight."

"Good." Michael released her, carefully wiping the tears off her cheeks. "There. See? That wasn't so bad. You just needed to have a Good Cry, that's all."

"And listen to the voice of reason," added Doris dryly, patting her hair. A concerned expression flitted across her face. "Do I look all right? I don't want people to know I've been crying."

"Oh, you'll fit in anyway," said Michael, waving his hand dismissively. "You can just tell everyone you're overwhelmed to be in such a Romantic and Idyllic Place and you never DREAMED you'd ever make it to the home of your favorite author, blah blah blah." Doris gave a genuine laugh at that, and Michael tucked his hand in the crook of her elbow. "Then you can go on about how Montgomery – " He stopped with a gulp; Éowyn was standing in front of them under the apple tree. Her grey eyes were cool and very sharp, and the expression on her face was one of keen awareness; her whole body was tensed, whip-like, tight.

"Two operatives inside," she said curtly, gesturing with an abrupt jerk of her head. "Get in. Doris, you're with Arwen. Michael, go to Lottie." She turned away, back to the doorway and the sandstone step; it was as though a sleepy, indolent cat had spied an inattentive bird and was instantly alert. She looked back over her shoulder at them, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt.

"Showtime," she purred, and giving them a feral smile threaded her way through the crowd inside.