They walked past the pen. The Tecoskys’ swans were worked up, a number of them with bills pressed to the fence. Their abbreviated wings and confinement seemed cruel. The whistlings continued to converge. The wild swans were on high alert; they formed a loose-knit gather, the biggest ones in a kind of half circle, facing outward.
“Let’s move back a little,” William said, “even though they’re unlikely to scare off.” Still, they had a fine view, and each in his own fashion felt it was an exhilarating sight. “Looking at them, you can get fooled into thinking the whole world’s working right.” Behind them the Tecoskys’ swans were moving loudly about their pen, yet the whistlings now all appeared to be sleeping. “I can’t imagine how bone-tired they must get. I saw swans out of an airplane once.”
“Where was that?” David asked.
“Right here over Nova Scotia. I went up in a small airplane with John Pallismore. He was a skywriting expert. Now that’s a story.”
“I imagine I’m going to hear it.”
“Keep looking at these wild swans. It’ll get you through.”
“Go ahead, William. Really, I’m all ears.”
“This was in 1972. I remember, because we’d hired someone, just for a few weeks, to clear brush and paint both porches. This fellow Sam shows up. No automobile. No money to speak of. Samuel Oliver—dodging the American draft, didn’t want the Vietnam conflict to murder him or otherwise postpone his life, was morally opposed, which he and I agreed on one hundred percent. Not everyone in Parrsboro did.
“Anyway, back to seeing swans from a plane. The thing is, you needed a special license to skywrite with an airplane. There was just John and one other fellow with skywriting licenses in the entire province. John was also our local mail carrier, all up and down Route 2. He supplemented his income with skywriting, though not much. The mainstay of his skywriting work came out of Halifax, where the money was. He’d be hired to help launch some business or other. The time in question, I flew from Truro to Halifax with him. His job that day was to spell out the name of a new hotel above Halifax Harbor. The plane was specially fitted for this purpose, and I joked it was like flying a big cigar, smoking all on its own, a cigar that could spell and write. Anyway, flying back to the airstrip near Truro was when we saw the wild swans high up, pretty close by.”
“That’s the story?”
“No, that’s just when I saw the swans. The story is, John Pallismore had a high school sweetheart named Ellen Tanning. And John had been smitten without decline after high school as well. It was unrequited, though. Ellen simply could not return John’s affection, eh? And as if that wasn’t problem enough for him, when Ellen married locally, she and her husband—Eammon—set up house in Upper Economy right along John’s mail route.
“That meant John had to stop by Ellen’s house every day but Sunday. This was torture for John. He delivered mail to the life he wanted, but he himself wasn’t living it.
“Ellen and Eammon had a daughter, Elsa-Louise, plus they’d adopted Ellen’s niece at age five, Mildred, who’d been orphaned. She came to live with them and fit right in. They weathered things well. The four of them attended church together and such.
“Then, when it was approaching Ellen’s thirty-fifth birthday, Eammon hired John Pallismore to skywrite a birthday message out over the Bay of Fundy. They worked out terms. John always got half up front, half when the job was done, if every word was readable. On Ellen’s birthday there was a social going on in Parrsboro, lots of people on the church lawn, which was how Eammon planned it—you want people to see your matrimonial devotion at work. And when all those people looked up, there’s the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY ELLEN, loud and clear and so beautifully written, like the heavens themselves were communicating.
“Except. Except—it was signed, LOVE, comma, JOHN. Not LOVE, EAMMON, but LOVE, JOHN.
“No big secret, really. I mean everybody in Parrsboro already knew John was madly in love with Ellen and always had been. But his declaration of it was kind of new. Well, first thing, the church social breaks up—people went right home. Secondly, the next day Eammon petitioned through official lines to get John’s skywriting license revoked. Next, thirdly, and this everyone agreed was a good decision, John Pallismore had to switch mail routes with a man named Sander Malachy. That was smart of the postal system, wasn’t it, to avoid all sorts of problems. You don’t want a murder—not that Eammon was capable of such a thing. He must’ve felt murderous, though. Family embarrassment displayed on the world’s biggest billboard like that.
“The minister of the church offered that John might consider skywriting an apology of sorts. Well, John picked right up on that advice. He got the skywriting apparatus shipshape and up he went, same part of the sky, whereupon he wrote: ELLEN I HAVE LOVED YOU FOREVER, comma, JOHN.
“Oh, my goodness, a skywritten sentence can stay intact floating out there quite a long time, let me tell you, depending on wind conditions. And this time John had done it on his own nickel, so he could write whatever he pleased. Of course, he’d written what he’d pleased the first time too, hadn’t he?
“Next, Eammon drove the family down to visit cousins in Port Medway for a week. Took the girls right out of school. And when they got back to Upper Economy, John drove up to their mailbox and delivered—and this is the amount rumored—two thousand love letters he’d written to Ellen since high school but had never sent. Stacked them neatly bundled.
“At this point, and without special encouragement, John committed himself to Nova Scotia Hospital, there in Dartmouth, for observation. Much to his credit. He just sized his mind up, drove to Halifax, parked his car, took the ferry over and got a room there, he said, like he’d checked into a hotel. Thirty days worked. Now he’s living in Yarmouth. Needless to say, he’s no longer delivering mail. He’s employed, last I heard, at the ferry terminal in some capacity.”
“He landed on his feet, then, John Pallismore,” David said.
“Basically,” William said.
They watched the wild swans for a few more minutes and then William said, “Just out of curiosity, David. Which person in that true story do you consider most wronged by life?”
“The children, I suppose,” David said. “Is there a reason you told me that story, William?”
“Margaret always loved it. She thought somebody should write an opera. The first opera set in Nova Scotia.”
They stayed with the wild swans till dark, then returned to opposite porch swings. Sitting down, William said, “I can’t stand it another minute.” He went inside, brought out a can of 3-in-One oil, thoroughly oiled then tested both swings, returned the oil to the house and joined David back on the porch.
“I said I was going to get to it,” David said.
“Now you don’t have to.”
They didn’t want to leave the wild swans. Managing only small talk, they mainly looked toward the pond until late into dusk. Then William said, “I’ve got a directive from Margaret and she hopes you’ll follow it.”
“Directive?”
“My word, not my daughter’s.”
“What is this directive, then?”
“You can look at her through the window,” William said. “But she doesn’t want you to come out and speak to her or anything. You just keep to the house.”
“Pretty much the status quo, isn’t it?”
“Status quo, except for the baby rounding out, as the saying goes. What’s changed is that you don’t have to leave the estate and drive around through two tanks of gas till Margaret leaves anymore. Actually, the directive’s her way of asking you not to leave, is my interpretation.”
“And should she happen to saunter past the guesthouse? To go swimming, say?”
“It’s the common-most way to get there, isn’t it? She and I might walk by. Or she alone. Maybe to swim. With this ungodly heat, and what with pregnancy being uncomfortable enough as it is. I remember Janice practically lived in that pond the summer Maggie was born.”
�
��I don’t get it. Maggie’s not cruel. I don’t recognize her in this so-called directive.”
“Start recognizing her in it, is my advice, take it or leave it. Consider it a way she keeps control, buys herself a little time to figure things out. A camera works through a window—take the opportunity to start your family album.”
“Will she take me back, William? I am asking directly. Once the baby’s born?”
“In my opinion, based on nothing but my opinion, she’s considering it. If I were you—God help me—if I were you, I’d comply. Don’t comply, well, I’m fit as a fiddle now, almost. I can drive the truck again. I can visit my daughter in Halifax. She doesn’t have to travel up here. But consider things on her behalf: the estate’s peaceful for her, with the possible exception of your presence.”
“I see.”
“The word ‘directive’ now fits like a glove, doesn’t it?”
“When’s Maggie visiting next?”
“Not until two days from now. Saturday. It’s a work week. She still works for a living.”
“If I write out a list, will you pick up some film for me? I’m not supposed to drive on these painkillers.”
“I’ll do it first thing tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“Margaret is quite capable of raising a daughter on her own. Don’t think for a minute she isn’t. And don’t think for a minute she won’t. Patience, I’m sure, will be useful in this situation, David, but don’t count on patience alone to provide results you think are fair, or any other such goddamn nonsense like fairness. Jesus, man, what’s wrong with you? You’ve got everything to lose. You’ve got to act on your feelings for Margaret best you can. Do something besides thinking.” William got up from his porch swing; it squeaked a little and both men laughed. “Anyway, just put the list on the front seat of the truck. You’ll fend for breakfast yourself, eh? I guess orange juice and toast won’t challenge you beyond your present abilities.”
The wild swans left on Saturday morning at dawn. During their occupation of the pond, the Tecoskys’ swans were confined to the pen. David had sprayed them with a hose four times a day. Maggie arrived to the estate at 10:15 A.M. David had stayed up the entire night before, nervous about seeing his own wife. Since 7:30 A.M., after freeing the swans from the pen, he had stood at the window. He ate breakfast standing there. Drank coffee. Cleaned his telephoto lens. Now, looking through the kitchen window as she slowly emerged from her car, David saw that Maggie was wearing a loose-knit pair of slacks, a white blouse and black flats. She stopped halfway to the porch, turned toward the guesthouse, placed her hands, fingers splayed, on her considerable belly and gazed at them. Then she went into the main house.
David took up his Nikon from the table. The kitchen window looked out on a wider stretch of lawn than any other in the guesthouse, and therefore allowed the longest duration of time he might view Maggie, should she walk to the pond and back. At 11:50 William and Maggie did walk to the pond. William carried a picnic basket. David attached the telephoto lens. Maggie wore a skirted one-piece swimsuit obviously designed for pregnant women, and David thought she looked wonderful. He noticed that she appeared a touch weary around the eyes. Their pace was leisurely and they didn’t hesitate in the least while passing the guesthouse. Nor did Maggie look over. David snapped six photographs, the final one capturing Maggie and William entirely from the back.
When they reached the pond, Maggie pointed at the swans; two were on the water, the rest on the far bank, sleeping, preening, the usual repertoire. William removed the loafer from his left foot, dipped his toes in, testing the water. He said something to Maggie. She carefully waded in. David could hear her laughter through the screen door. Submerged up to her waist, she stretched out across the surface and performed a few sidestrokes, drifted, stroked out to the middle and back. David took photographs all along from the porch. Maggie got out of the water. David photographed their picnic, a few swans paddling close for handouts, receiving none.
William walked back to the main house. David went into his kitchen. Replacing the telephoto lens with a shorter one, David photographed Maggie as she walked past half an hour later. She combed her fingers through her hair, twisted the ends, ringing out pond water. When she was directly in front of the kitchen window, she stopped. Maggie allowed David to chronicle her braiding her hair into two pigtails, and then, without once meeting his eyes, she continued on.
This tableau—David behind a window, Maggie just outside—constituted part of the same choreography of punishment and encouragement that defined each of Maggie’s visits over the next few weeks, and raised in William’s mind questions about what inventive stupidities people were capable of when wounded and confused, no matter their native intelligence. No matter their love for each other.
He’d come to some new knowledge about his daughter, always a useful thing, he knew. He thought about her situation most often at night while listening to opera. On the one hand, he admired her having built such a forbidding moat around herself. Why should she let David easily cross it? They had not even had time to set up house, and then that London hotel room. Dunce. On the other hand, William worried that her visits—this directive, et cetera—had a recklessness about them. That Maggie’s appearances and exhibitions, these opportunities for David to begin their family album under house arrest, contained a taunting vindictiveness he previously had no idea was part of his daughter’s nature, and whether justified or not, such displays might erode the situation beyond repair. Though nothing could be concluded with certainty, he figured that obsessing like this partly defined being a father, in that he was obliged to think these thoughts but could not—except when asked, and even then he’d expect his opinions to be ignored—give advice to Maggie. Besides, what could he do about any of this? He tried not to lose sleep over it. But a person doesn’t get to choose what to lose sleep over.
When Maggie disappeared into the house, David went straight to the darkroom, spending hours developing the photographs. To his great relief they all were in focus. He hung the prints on a clothesline in the bathroom to dry, and later fitted each one in the album William had purchased in Parrsboro. Under each photograph, along with the date, he provided a simple caption: “Maggie opening a picnic basket,” “Maggie looking at swans,” “Maggie asleep on a blanket,” and so on. The captions served no purpose other than to describe the obvious. As for the photographs themselves, they qualified more as snapshots than anything. In this respect, they defied all influence of Josef Sudek, but were hardly original. Too bad: clichés often have some ring of truth; these were scenes he embraced. David’s photographs were constructions of memory, the album meant to preserve them, and he considered it a decent beginning.
Late Sunday morning, after taking photographs of Maggie walking to her car as she left for Halifax, David didn’t submit to any pain medication and drove the truck into Parrsboro for an early lunch at Minas Bakery. He’d telephoned William first, asking to use the truck, and William’s reply was “It’s low on gas, you’ll notice.”
The bakery was empty of customers. Dory Elliot was washing the pastry window, which she once referred to as “the best view in Parrsboro.” The window was full of lemon tarts, baked that morning. She got to the bakery at 4 A.M., as everyone knew.
“How’s life so far this morning?” she said to David when he sat down at a table.
“Coffee, please, Dory. And a tuna sandwich—and I know it’s a bit early for lunch, but I was up early.”
“You look like you were up all night.”
“And a glass of water, please.” Dory put a cup of coffee and a glass of water on the table, then set about preparing the sandwich. “Dory, I don’t think I’m up to answering your ‘How’s life?’ question. Sorry.”
“Well, your face no longer resembles a Halloween mask. That’s optimistic.”
David noticed a paperback face-down on the counter. “What are you reading there?”
“Mr. Earl Stanley Gardner. A Perry
Mason mystery. The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom. He wrote hundreds, and I’ve read dozens to date.”
“I remember the American TV program.”
“Nothing like the books,” Dory said. “The TV show, I watched it religiously. But it was always the same. They got to the trial as soon as possible, and then, five minutes before the end, some man or woman—and sometimes you hadn’t even seen this person before!—they’d stand up in the courtroom and cry out, ‘I did it!’ And Perry would turn those big dark owl eyes on that person and get an expression on his face, and there was only one possible way to interpret his expression: ‘I knew it was you all along!’ But like I said, I watched it religiously. And what do I mean by that? I mean had Perry Mason been broadcast on Sunday mornings, I would have chosen it over church.”
“Since I’ve known you,” David said, “you’ve always chosen not going to church, without any TV show conflicting.”
“That’s true too. But also I have my bakery open Sunday mornings. In case you hadn’t noticed. I provide for people after church. I’ve been told more than once it’s appreciated.”
Dory lived over the bakery. She once said to David, “I’m the only one in Parrsboro travels vertically to work.” He watched her make the sandwich, then looked out the window. The old-fashioned crank-down green-and-white-striped awning cast a shadow on the sidewalk. Dory brought over the sandwich, went back behind the counter. After taking a few bites, David noticed Dory staring at him. “What is it, Dory?” he said.
“Would you please tell me how William’s doing?”
“Sit down with me a minute.”
Dory stepped around the counter and sat across from David. “Thanks for the invitation,” she said.
“William is much improved,” David said. “Last doctor’s report was excellent. He’s singing along with his opera records.”
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