Only one article had given her hope. It was an article published in 1891, written by Albert Moll, a young German. According to him, homosexuality was not learned like a bad habit but appeared in early childhood, perhaps even at birth. It was not a disease, and therefore searching for a cure was futile. The reason homosexuals suffered was society, not their homosexuality. He even went as far as claiming that homosexuality was natural.
Emilie kept reading, hoping she’d find more articles that might support Moll’s theory and extrapolate on it, but nothing else made sense to her. The more she read about these other doctors’ theories, the more she thought that even if there had been a pill or a drop she could have taken to be cured from homosexuality, she wouldn’t have taken it. She didn’t want to forget the way she’d felt every time she saw Angeline, the way her body roused when she touched her in the most innocent way, the way all of her senses had melted into liquid desire the night she’d kissed her.
Emilie closed the medical journal with a sigh. She blew out the candle and slipped under the covers to do what she allowed herself to do every night: thinking of Angeline. Trying not to think of her was useless. When she was alone at night in the darkness of her small room, Emilie couldn’t fall asleep until she let her mind draw a perfect portrait of Angeline and she imagined her own hands caressing that heavy curly hair or cupping those wide hips. Until she kissed those full lips…
She hadn’t seen Angeline again after the kiss. When her father and Joseph went to work the next morning, she left a note for them on the kitchen table. Packed her clothes in a small suitcase Helen had bought for her and the few books she owned in her precious leather mailbag. She stayed with the Banvilles for a few days before she took the train to Boston to start her new life. Since then she wrote her father every week. He had apparently forgiven her; he wrote back about once a month and she knew from him that Joseph and Angeline had made their way to Rimouski. They were married and Angeline was expecting their first child.
But those were not the thoughts Emilie let enter her mind at night. She preferred the Angeline who’d kissed her back, just for a few unforgettable seconds, and in her musings she didn’t let Angeline push her away. She didn’t let the kiss end. It continued and she let her lips and her hands explore other parts of Angeline’s body. She heard over and over again the small whimper that had escaped Angeline in response to her own moan, transformed it into louder or softer sounds as she willed.
Lying on her back, Emilie moved her hand up and down her own thigh before wandering to the wetness between her legs. She often touched herself in that particular spot when thoughts of Angeline escalated. She couldn’t resist the throbbing of her own sex and didn’t see why she should. According to the doctors she read, too much masturbation might be the cause of homosexuality, but since she was already an incurable Sapphist, it couldn’t do much harm, could it?
Chapter Fifteen
Rimouski, January 1899
Angeline had a hard time putting the baby down, even when he slept peacefully as he did now, comfortably wrapped in a soft blanket and held closely to his mother’s bosom. She kept the movement of the rocking chair slow and steady. She knew she should put him in the crib Joseph had built and placed in their bedroom. She had to go take care of the chickens among other numerous chores that were waiting for her in and outside the house. But she couldn’t move, her eyes fixed on the beautiful boy in her arms.
She still had trouble believing she was a mother; yet felt deeply inside like she was meant to be nothing else. Her son briefly opened his eyes and closed them again with an adorable yawn. He was six weeks old today. The day he was born was the day Angeline had finally been able to feel comfortable in Rimouski, in this house Joseph and her father had built for them on Tessier Road. Before then, she’d been restless, often sad. She’d even lost her usual sense of humor. Joseph and her parents were worried but kept hope that becoming a mother would change everything. They were right.
When Joseph and Angeline first arrived in Rimouski, they lived with her father and mother. They shared the Fourniers’ modest home for a few months while Joseph and her father built an even smaller home for the young couple just next door. The first floor of the house had a small bedroom for Joseph and Angeline and a larger room for the kitchen and parlor where she’d placed the old rocking chair her parents had offered her when she became pregnant. The woodstove was at the center of the house, keeping them warm. It was set against a central wall that separated the kitchen from the narrow wooden stairs leading to the attic where livable space was limited but could eventually fit a couple of beds for their children. She’d liked her home right away. It was small but it was hers. She liked its simple wood board exterior walls, its crisp white door and window trim, its front porch, and its single dorm popping out of the high-pitched metal sheet roof. It had charm and character.
Angeline wasn’t so sure about Rimouski. It didn’t fit the image she’d dreamed of in her childhood. The Saint-Laurent River was as magnificent as she’d imagined but they’d only been to its shore once, soon after they’d moved, and they couldn’t see it from their house. Instead they lived by the Rimouski River, which didn’t look much better than the Quequechan River, in Angeline’s opinion.
She was also surprised at how rural Rimouski truly was. She’d laughed when Joseph had told her he couldn’t believe how much the town had grown in the ten years he’d been gone. With less than two thousand people, Rimouski was still far short of the population of Fall River, which counted more than eighty thousand people. In Angeline’s eyes, Rimouski was not a town at all. It was as country as country could get. As country as she’d ever experienced. She missed the city more than she ever thought she would. She missed sidewalks, eateries, shops of all kinds she didn’t frequent often but at least knew existed. Rimouski had a church, a train station, a general store, and that was about it. She knew that was all they really needed but she couldn’t help but feel limited in her options.
She was lonely. The Price Company hadn’t expanded yet as her father had hoped, but he’d still managed to find Joseph work at the mill. He didn’t have a proper position or salary yet, but he did have a foot in the door doing whatever odd jobs they had to give him. He did all he could to make a good impression so he could earn the first stable job that opened up, which meant he worked at all hours of the day or night doing whatever they needed done, whenever they needed it. Angeline spent a lot of time alone and if it hadn’t been for her mother, her state of mind would have been even worse.
Her mother kept her company and also kept her busy with the farm animals she and her father kept in a small barn and chicken coop just behind their house. They didn’t have many, just a few chickens for eggs and a couple of cows for milk and butter. They also had cats to keep the rodents away, and a large garden in the summer. It was not a real farm, but it was close enough. Their life was quiet, peaceful, the kind of life Angeline had always thought she wanted. But something was inexplicably missing. Until she gave birth to her son.
Angeline watched him sleep in her arms. He was almost smiling. His skin was pale and he had the thickest hair she’d ever seen on a baby. Fluffy black hair she couldn’t stop caressing. She delicately moved her little finger inside his tiny hand and he immediately took hold of it. She enjoyed feeling his grip as she watched his fragile yet perfectly shaped hand. “You’re just as strong as your papa, aren’t you, Paul-Emile?”
Joseph and Angeline had determined while she was pregnant that if they had a girl, they would name her Mathilde in honor of Joseph’s mother. They hadn’t decided on a name for a baby boy until the day Paul-Emile was born. Joseph had suggested Paul-Emile without referring to his sister Emilie, but Angeline knew how much he really missed her and that the name was his way to make room for her in their own, new family. Angeline agreed with her husband and their son was baptized Paul-Emile Joseph Levesque.
Angeline breathed in her son’s hair and thought that even with a different name, Paul-Emile
would have reminded her of Emilie. His hair, his dark eyes, that serious expression he had sometimes, everything about him reminded her of Emilie. Angeline sighed heavily. Since the birth of her son, she was able to think of Emilie in a new, positive light. She was nostalgic for their friendship, for the laughter and the discussions they’d shared. She rarely thought of the kiss that had made her rush to move to Rimouski and get married. The kiss that had made her question her own nature and was at least partially responsible for her pre-motherhood melancholy when they’d moved here.
Things were different now. She didn’t question her nature anymore. How could she? Her nature was sleeping in her arms. It was being a mother to this little boy and the brothers and sisters he would have soon. What had happened with Emilie was just a brief lapse of judgment. Emilie was nothing more than the best friend she’d lost. She would miss her, yes, but the loss of Emilie couldn’t keep her from her own happiness. Not anymore.
Later that night, Angeline laid Paul-Emile in his crib and joined Joseph in their bed. The wood frame Joseph had built was rustic but the mattress was comfortable. Angeline thought Joseph was already sleeping so she slipped into bed quietly and snuffed the flame of the oil lamp that had been slowly burning on her nightstand.
When she finally lay down, Joseph turned to face her. The room was dark and the faint moonlight from the window behind Joseph to light up her face only allowed her to see his strong silhouette. He touched her face with his callused hand and whispered, “You’re so beautiful.”
Angeline smiled. She didn’t need light to know what was on his face. There was not one single brief moment since they’d been married that she hadn’t seen love in Joseph’s eyes. Even in her darkest times, when he could easily have shown frustration, he’d been patient, loving and hopeful for their future. Joseph loved her unconditionally and she was touched by his devotion. She couldn’t imagine a better husband or a better father for Paul-Emile and the children that were still to come. “Do you think we waited long enough?” he asked nervously.
Angeline knew he wanted to make love. He loved touching her, moving inside her, taking her. Angeline didn’t find making love as pleasurable as he did, but she liked giving him pleasure. She knew it was her duty as his wife, but she didn’t see it as a chore. She also knew she hadn’t been bleeding in over a week and the six weeks the doctor had asked them to wait after their son’s birth had passed. “I think it’s safe, yes,” she said as she turned on her back and let him settle between her legs.
As he began moving into her and kissed her neck tenderly, she focused on the smell of sawdust that permeated his skin. She loved that scent, found it comforting. She inhaled it loudly knowing the sound of her breathing excited him. She listened to his increasingly ragged respiration and felt the rhythm of his hips gain momentum. She whimpered then, softly, knowing it would send him over the edge, knowing she would soon hear the familiar grunt of satisfaction and feel the intimate sticky liquid between her legs. And then he collapsed next to her on the bed and laid his head on her breast, still covered by the light fabric of her nightgown. She caressed the blond hair on the back of his neck. It was always so soft. Angeline sighed with contentment and smiled.
The first night they were married, Angeline had feared making love with Joseph. She didn’t know what to expect and she was afraid she’d disappoint him. Of course he’d taken his time and had been tender. She hadn’t expected anything less from him, but his gentleness had helped her get through their first night as man and wife even more than she’d thought. She hadn’t felt much pain that first time, and she’d never felt pain at all since then. Joseph would never hurt her. She’d quickly realized she would never take as much gratification as he did in the conjugal act. She would never crave it as she’d once hoped. She also knew that she would never refuse her husband.
Angeline caressed Joseph’s hair even after his breathing deepened and she knew he was asleep. She would never refuse him this satisfaction because it made him happy and because it alleviated some of her guilt. Giving him her body, her core, temporarily made up, she hoped, for the fact that Joseph would never see in her own eyes the same kind of love she saw in his eyes every day. He would see gratitude, friendship, respect, admiration and trust. Of course, that was a given. He might even see glimpses of love. But the deep, unconditional love that he truly deserved would never be there in her eyes because it would never be in her heart. But she would gladly keep offering anything else she had to give. Letting her husband make love to her was not a chore, it was a temporary relief from her endless culpability.
Joseph soon left her breast and turned his back to Angeline as he slept. Angeline turned onto her side and fixed her gaze on the crib that held the only person who had her unconditional love, the tiny person who was named after another one Angeline had loved in a way she would never love again. She didn’t need that kind of love, she thought as she drifted to sleep. That love had been unhealthy and much too dangerous. The love she had for her son, pure and boundless, was the only kind of love any woman truly needed. It certainly met all of her needs.
Chapter Sixteen
Boston, December 1899
Emilie didn’t mind working on New Year’s Eve. She often worked on holidays at the cotton mill. She took a deep breath and revelled as she always did in the air that filled the bookstore. The smell of ink and paper infused her lungs and she found it exhilarating, such a deep contrast from the stifling wet air of the mill. She didn’t think she’d ever lose that complete gratitude and satisfaction she felt when she was in Mr. Flaherty’s bookstore, in her bookstore as she liked to think of it. New Year’s Eve was quiet and she’d already dusted the bookshelves with care. She was sitting behind the counter that held a massive cast-iron cash register, reading her favorite Jane Austen novel, Sense and Sensibility. She couldn’t believe she was being paid to sit and read. She felt guilty.
She glanced at the front door, then looked down at the dress Margaret had made for her and felt sorry no one would see her beautiful new outfit and her particularly successful bouffant hairstyle. Although sleeves had gotten narrower in the past couple of years, a small round puff was still common at the shoulder and Margaret had argued with Emilie that her deep purple dress would be much more fashionable with the addition of such a puff, but Emilie had insisted on bishop sleeves. The argument was solved when Emilie stated she would sew the sleeves herself and Margaret refused, reluctantly mumbling that she would give Emilie her same boring old bishop sleeves if she had to, but she wouldn’t let Emilie touch the dress that was meant as a Christmas present. Emilie giggled as she remembered Margaret’s expression when she’d finally tried on the dress. “Exquisite,” she’d said, “even without proper sleeves.” They’d laughed about their silly dispute over sleeves, but Emilie knew she could never have worn the dress if it had been ruined with those ridiculous puffs.
Emilie’s thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected customer entering the store. Unexpected in more than one way, Emilie noted as she greeted the customer with a timid “Hello, welcome to Flaherty Books.”
Not only was it surprising that anyone would shop for books on New Year’s Eve, but it was rare for women to enter the bookstore, and this particular woman was not a type of woman Emilie had ever seen before. Her wavy brown hair had as much volume as any hairstyle popularized by the Gibson Girl, but it wasn’t pulled up in any particular style. It was cut above the shoulders and seemed to naturally, freely create the fullness she herself spent so much time trying to re-create every morning.
Emilie already had trouble not staring at this strange woman who had dared cutting her hair, but when she took off her coat Emilie found the way she was dressed even more fascinating than her hairstyle. She wore a simple enough black skirt, but the man’s shirt and the silk plaid waistcoat she wore with it gave her a style Emilie had never seen. She was already thinking of the descriptions of female inverts she’d read in medical journals when the woman did the unthinkable. She reached into t
he breast pocket of her waistcoat and took out a cigarette and a matchbox. She shamelessly lit her cigarette and started walking toward the back of the store, but not before she glanced at Emilie and nodded.
That brief eye contact before the woman disappeared behind a bookshelf left Emilie breathless. Who was this woman? No, what was she? When she started feeling pain in her fingertips Emilie realized she’d been digging her nails into the wood of the counter. She moved directly behind the cash register, hoping to disappear.
She held her breath as the woman reappeared and started walking toward her, looking straight into her eyes as she kept smoking. “Hello,” she said when she finally stopped on the other side of the counter. Emilie stupidly looked behind her, which made the woman laugh with a deep, throaty laughter. “Yes, you, with the French accent. I was hoping you could help me.”
“Of course,” Emilie finally managed. From the way she talked the woman might be British, Emilie thought. She guessed she was probably in her early thirties. Her hazel eyes were almond-shaped, giving her an air of mystery, and her pointy nose made her look mischievous. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
The woman smiled and took another puff of her cigarette before she spoke again. “Your accent really is lovely. Yes, I was hoping you might carry French books. I’m looking for something very specific. A book by Emile Zola called Nana.”
Emilie’s heart fluttered as the woman carefully observed her reaction. She knew she was blushing. How could she not be? This strange woman was standing just on the other side of the counter, looking like no other woman she’d ever met yet so familiar at the same time, asking for the book that had completely changed Emilie’s life. Sapphist, she couldn’t help thinking. This woman could very well be an actual Sapphist. In the flesh. A kindred spirit. Emilie had to clear her throat before she could answer the customer in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “We don’t sell French books, unfortunately.”
Water's Edge Page 12