On the Curious Matter of Arches in Belle Perdue
As overheard between Fran and Fanny Fern while preparing the Easter gazebo
Fran was standing on a step stool tying a ribbon of wisteria around the corner beam of the gazebo when she said it.
“You know our archivist, Denise, is building arches now.”
Fanny Fern paused with a basket of azaleas in her arms and looked up slow, the way people do when they suspect the sentence has gone sideways.
“Lord, I didn’t know she knew stone work too. That woman.”
Fran snorted and kept twisting the ribbon.
“No, Fanny, not quite like that. Little wooden arches.”
Fanny set the basket down on the bench and leaned her elbows on the railing, thinking about it the way she thought about most things in Belle Perdue, which was longer than necessary but usually correct in the end.
“Well now,” she said finally, “what in the world for? Who needs a little wooden arch?”
Fran stepped down from the stool and looked out toward Poulette Pond where the late afternoon sun was slipping low enough to make the water look like a piece of old brass.
“Same reason people build big ones, I reckon.”
Fanny folded her arms.
“And that would be?”
Fran shrugged.
“To mark the crossing.”
Fanny looked puzzled, so Fran gestured with the ribbon in her hand.
“City gates. Church doors. Garden trellises. Wedding arches. Even rainbows. Folks have always liked a good arch because it means you’re going from one place into another.”
Fanny nodded slowly.
“Hmm.”
Then her eyes brightened the way they did when a thought found its feet.
“Well of course,” she said, picking up the azalea basket again. “Come to think of it, that does sound lovely.”
Fran smiled.
“Does it now?”
“Yes it does,” Fanny said firmly. “And I’ll tell you something else.”
“What’s that?”
“If someone is going to make a little arch, it stands to reason it could use a few flowers.”
Fran sighed the long sigh of a woman who had just accidentally created more work for herself.
“I should’ve known you’d say that.”
“Well naturally,” Fanny said, already sorting blooms in her basket. “You can’t have a proper arch without something growing on it. That would just look unfinished.”
She paused, then added thoughtfully,
“Besides… a little arch sounds like the sort of thing that might lead somewhere.”
And in Belle Perdue, as everyone knew, the most interesting places were usually the ones that began with a small doorway you almost didn’t notice.
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