What Is Left the Daughter

by Howard Norman

  On September 15, my aunt and uncle and I took a walk down to the harbor. We each held a paper cup of coffee and stood looking at the ferries, tugs, freighters and ocean liners. The steamer Victoria was boarding. We were close enough to see the passengers walking up the gangway, and suddenly I thought I saw Reese Mac Isaac. It was unseasonably cold, and she was wearing a camelhair coat and black scarf, holding a suitcase, though I imagine her wardrobe trunk was already on board ship. At one point she turned as if to gaze back at Halifax, and I saw her face in full. It was Reese all right. I must've let out a gasp or made some other involuntary sound, because my aunt said, "What's the matter, dear?"

  "Nothing," I said. "Nothing at all. Except I was just thinking how grateful I am for all you've done. I haven't been much of a nephew to you. I hardly ever visit."

  "That's all right, dear," my aunt said. "When you have visited, we always had a lovely time."

  "Wyatt," my uncle said, "the way you've been looking at those passengers makes me think you'd like to be on that steamer to New York. I've noticed some handsome women getting on board."

  "Donald, it sounds like it's you wishes that for yourself," my aunt said.

  Small laughter all around. "I've really only traveled anywhere with my fencing team," I said. "I'd like to see New York someday, though."

  "You're going to need a trade, Nephew," my uncle said. "Constance and I talked this over. Would you consider sleds and toboggans? I can use an apprentice. Someday I might leave the business to you, say it's still thriving as it's been lately. In fact, I've got orders backed up from three provinces, plus Maine and Vermont in the States."

  "Don't forget that family from Sweden who stopped to ask directions and admired your handiwork," my aunt said.

  "They spent a good hour with us," he said.

  "Well, people from those countries—Sweden, Denmark, Norway and the like—appreciate snow toboggans, even in summer," my aunt said.

  "Lord help us, I've just had a sorry thought," my uncle said. "What if that Swedish family wants to pay me in Swedish money?"

  "I'd deal with the problem right away," my aunt said. "Discuss it in a letter ahead of time. Then just hope the war lets a letter get to Sweden."

  "Sound advice, Constance," he said. "I'll want to set their minds at ease that our provincial banks know how to handle such a transaction."

  The Victoria pulled in its gangway. "Should I sell the house, do you think?" I said. "I mean, if I take you up on your generous offer."

  "I wouldn't sell just yet," my aunt said.

  "No—ask rent," my uncle said. "What with the view of the park, it shouldn't be difficult. No, I'd hang on to the house, Wyatt. Hang on to your mother's radios, too. If you decide yes, drive on out to Middle Economy when you're ready. Or you could leave the house unoccupied. You might want to stay in it now and then. You're a young man. There's far more entertainment in the city. Movie houses, pubs, young ladies and so forth."

  "That's not saying much," my aunt said, "considering our entertainment at home's watching gulls bicker on the trawlers."

  "Anyway, Wyatt, you're resourceful," my uncle said. "And besides, you'll have Joe's car, right? You can drive into Halifax any time you like."

  I slept on it, and the next morning I accepted the apprenticeship. The fact was, I didn't want to spend another minute alone in the house, deploring my circumstances. I decided to leave 58 Robie empty. My aunt and uncle went home. Several days later I stopped by my high school and filled out an official form that declared I wasn't intending to graduate. "Good luck to you, then, Wyatt," Mrs. Cornish, the assistant principal, said. "Have you said goodbye to your friends yet?"

  "I've told who I wanted to tell," I said.

  "I hear it's nice along the Bay of Fundy," she said. "Fifty-three years in Nova Scotia and I've never been."

  Directly from the school, I drove my father's black DeSoto four-door—badly in need of repairs, but they could wait—to Middle Economy, smoking Chesterfield cigarettes one after the next. Nowadays it's paralleled by Highway 102, but in 1941 you could only take Route 2 north to Truro, at the center of the province. Between the roadside villages of Beaver Bank, Home Settlement, Shubenacadie, Alton, Stewiacke, Hilden and Millbrook were long stretches of woods and fields. In Truro I stopped for a sandwich at Canaan's Restaurant and took considerable time in a shop choosing a box of chocolates for my aunt. From Truro I traveled west on Route 2, the blue-gray expanse of the Minas Basin on my left, rain clouds building on the horizon. Through the villages of Central Onslow, Glenholme, Great Village, Portapique, Bass River, Upper Economy, then into Middle Economy. Because of the condition of the DeSoto I had to drive slowly. The entire trip took about four and a half hours.

  My aunt and uncle's house was half a mile inland from the Minas Basin, along Cove Road. I moved into the spare bedroom. That first year I went back to visit Halifax five or six weekends, but never once slept at 58 Robie, didn't even drive past. Instead I stayed at the Baptist Spa, on Morris and Barrington, $1.25 a night. Shared washroom down the hall. Breakfast served in a small dining room on the street level.

  But the evening before I'd left Halifax, my next-door neighbor on the side opposite Reese Mac Isaac's house, elderly Mr. Lessard, said he'd be willing to look after things, mow the lawn, clip the shrubbery, forward any mail—there was little mail—leave a few lights on at night, that sort of thing. "Part of the booming nightlife of Halifax of late's been break-ins," he said.

  "I'm not too worried," I said.

  "Well, I liked Katherine and Joe," he said. "Besides, it's hardly putting me out, now, is it? I don't take my morning constitutional to the harbor and back anymore. But I'm still capable of walking next door."

  "I appreciate it."

  "One thing, and I'd need your permission," he said. "I'd like to have all your mother's radios on at the same time, just during Classical Hour out of Buffalo, as it might be the closest I'll ever get to hearing a full orchestra in person. Reese Mac Isaac's gone to New York City, anyone's guess for how long. So the radios won't disturb her. I haven't figured out yet how to plug them all in and not blow every fuse in the house, but somebody at Metcalf's Electric will advise."

  "It's all fine with me," I said.

  "I'll do this only once," Mr. Lessard said. "It'd be a Sunday night, since that's when Classical Hour comes on. I'll make my decision which Sunday by checking the programming schedule in the newspaper. I won't stand for any godforsaken Vivaldi. You don't have to worry about that. Beethoven, Johann Sebastian Bach and a bunch of others—they're allowed. Would you care to be told on which Sunday I had all the radios on at once?"

  "Not necessary," I said.

  "All right, then, Wyatt," he said. "Good luck to you. I'll look after your house. Vivaldi won't break in. Not on my watch."

  Are You Sure You Took Down What the Radio Said Word for Word?

  MIDDLE ECONOMY SITS between Upper Economy and Lower Economy. Upper Economy is farthest west. Locally the joke was, if you were traveling west to east along the Minas Basin, your financial prospects got worse by the mile, until finally you ended up in Lower Economy. I never once heard the logic of that joke reversed: if you traveled from east to west, you'd get rich. I suppose it just wasn't the disposition of people born and raised in that part of Nova Scotia to tell it that way.

  I hadn't set eyes on Tilda in close to four years, since the summer of 1937, when she would have been going into ninth form. On that occasion, Tilda had come to Halifax with my aunt and uncle because Constance needed to have a tooth pulled, and they all spent the night at my family's house. Despite my aunt's being in pain, we had a nice family reunion. Though I do recall my father and uncle sitting in the parlor after supper discussing in somber tones Hitler and Germany, commenting on radio broadcasts made by Winston Churchill. My mother sat on the porch, providing my aunt with powdered aspirin and commiserating with her over her throbbing tooth. At one point Tilda and I were playing a spirited game of checkers at the dining room table when
we heard my aunt call out the word "Groan!" which extended into an actual groan. That made us laugh, though sympathetically. Also, we couldn't help but eavesdrop on my father and uncle. "My dad's got more opinions about current events than the Smith Brothers have cough drops," Tilda said.

  I think I was five or six when I first met Tilda. I remember how my mother put it: "You're about to have a very special surprise, darling. Aunt Constance and Uncle Donald couldn't have children of their own. God saw to that—no, no, I mean God has graced their lives with a new little girl. They've named her Tilda. They're all coming to visit this afternoon."

  Tilda's real parents had lived in Glenholme, which is fairly close to the Economys. There was no immediate family, or none willing to take Tilda, age two, when her parents died within three months of each other. The only word about that I ever heard was "wasting disease."

  Anyway, my aunt's dentist appointment was at nine the next morning. While Tilda sat in the waiting room, my uncle took the opportunity to ship out two sleds directly from the train station. I'd gone along. "My very first customers from British Columbia," he said. "You just can't get any further away in Canada than that, can you? Excepting Eskimo territories, and I'd be God's biggest fool to think Eskimos would need one of my sleds." By one o'clock they were back on the road. I can still see them driving off. My aunt sat in the middle, her face swollen, still groggy from laughing gas. She leaned against Tilda's shoulder. When my uncle's truck got five or six houses down the block, Tilda, without turning to look back, stretched her arm out the window and waved goodbye. It's my self-generated theory that Tilda assumed I'd be watching from the porch, not wanting her to leave—that she somehow knew, far in advance of me, that I already loved her, even though we'd spent virtually no time alone and had made only small talk.

  Two habits were set early on in my life in Middle Economy. One was set by my uncle, the other was set by me. Starting the first day of my apprenticeship, my uncle insisted that I join him every workday morning for breakfast in the kitchen at six A.M., allowing us to be in the work shed by six-forty-five sharp. Then, with his permission, at ten I'd drive my DeSoto over to the bakery owned and operated by Mrs. Cornelia Tell and spend my half-hour break over a coffee.

  The bakery was in the center of town. On one side was MAUD'S SEWING (Maud Dunne sat in the window working her sewing machine), on the other BAIT AND TACKLE. Early on, I'd got a sample of how Cornelia Tell questioned all motives for politeness. I'd sat down and said, "Would it be too much trouble if I got a scone with my coffee?" Cornelia Tell shot back, "Even if it does cause me trouble, do you still want a scone?" I never put it that way again, believe me. I just said, "I'd like a scone." That same morning, while I sat eating a cranberry scone and drinking my coffee, Cornelia Tell was behind the counter, swirling frosting on cupcakes. "Today being Tuesday," she said, "do you know who you're going to meet back home at lunch?"

  "I have no idea," I said.

  "You'll be sitting down for lunch with Lenore Teachout. She's originally from Great Village, not too far down the road. Her parents still live there."

  "And why would Lenore Teachout be at our house today?"

  "Because every Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday—except earlier this week she had a cold—Lenore carries a box of pencils, a pencil sharpener, a notebook and an exercise book called Shorthand Self-Taught over to your house. She knocks on your door and your aunt lets her inside and serves tea. Then Lenore listens to your radio. She writes down what people on the radio say. She practices stenography—do you know what stenography is, Wyatt?"

  "There's a stenographer in Magistrate's Court, right?"

  "Right as rain. And that's the employment Lenore Teachout aspires to. And it's very sensible of her. Because Lenore potentially could find work in any Canadian city where there's a busy courthouse."

  "Why does she practice stenography in our house, though?"

  "Because she doesn't own a radio."

  "You seem to know a lot about her."

  "Your aunt Constance and I are dear, dear friends, Wyatt. True, even the dearest of friends keep things from each other, but they don't keep everything from each other. Your aunt keeps very little about Lenore Teachout from me."

  "Does Lenore know that?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, you'll notice how tall Lenore is. She was always tall for her age. Wait here, I'll show you something."

  Cornelia Tell went out the door onto the street, then back in an adjacent door that led up a flight of stairs to her rooms. She'd lived above her bakery since her husband, Llewyn, a fisherman, had drowned at sea twenty-three years earlier. When she returned to the bakery she set down a copy of the Great Village Elementary School yearbook for 1914 and paged through the grainy individual portraits of administrators, the school nurse, teachers and students, and a photograph of all the students taken near the flagpole. "Aha!" she said, "found it!" She placed her finger on a quarter-page photograph of a Christmas pageant. "This girl, right here, is Lenore Teachout, age ten. Your aunt Constance brought this to my attention." I bent close and saw that Lenore was costumed up as a camel, on all fours, men's shoes for hooves, a bale of hay on her back, posed next to the Magi and a crèche. "They made her a camel," Mrs. Tell said, "because she was tall for her age, eh?"

  "She doesn't look too happy there," I said.

  "Unhappiness followed Lenore all the way up to her adult life," Cornelia Tell said, "though lately she seems less unhappy, which bodes well. Anyway, who in their right mind would ever say a person was supposed to be happy? In your life happiness is either cut to your length or isn't."

  "Thanks, Cornelia, for all the this-and-that about Lenore Teachout, whom I'm about to share lunch with," I said.

  "You're very welcome." She noticed that I had a few bites of scone and half a cup of coffee left. "Let's see, what else?" she said. "Well, Lenore had a year at Dalhousie University. The first in her family to go to college. Too bad Halifax proved to be all distractions. Lenore made a whirlwind marriage to a fellow student, then just as whirlwind a divorce. Have to hand it to her, though, she fit a lot into that month of February! I remember Lenore saying, 'True, I failed my academic course work. But I kept my ears open and got highly educated in the thoughts of men and women.' According to rumor—I suspect a rumor started by Lenore herself—during her time in Halifax she kept over a thousand pages of a journal full of conversations. I don't know where she got the moxie, but she didn't merely eavesdrop, she actually wrote down what she'd overheard!"

  "A thousand pages," I said. "That's impressive."

  "I once asked her, 'Lenore, don't you annoy people, writing down their every word like that?' And do you know, she got all huffy and said, 'Well, Cornelia, aren't you grateful someone took down all those actual conversations found in the Bible? What if nobody had bothered? Where would we all be then?'"

  "I'll have to think about that one," I said.

  "You do that," Cornelia Tell said.

  I paid for my scone and coffee, stepped outside the bakery, smoked a Chesterfield and then drove back to the house. In the shed, while my uncle measured and cut crosspieces, I sanded planks for an hour or so, trying not to respond to his sidelong glances or deep sighs, which were judgments of my work. It didn't much bother me. Finally, he said, "You go on in, Wyatt. I'm skipping lunch today, I'm pretty sure. Aggravated stomach. Maybe bring out a thermos of tea when you come back, okay?"

  "Sure thing, Uncle Donald."

  "You're doing fine, by the way. Honestly, better than I expected."

  "Damning with faint praise, but thanks."

  When I entered the house through the back door, I heard Tilda talking to someone in the kitchen. Taking off my work shoes, I listened in.

  "—what with Wyatt sleeping in the room next to mine, I don't feel nearly as comfortable walking around in my birthday suit, eh? Not that he can see through walls or anything. It's just that I like to be—how's Mom say it? 'Elegant in my dailiness.' It just wouldn't feel right somehow. From n
ow on I'll have to change directly from clothes to nightshirt, no lingering in between. Hardly a sacrifice, is it, considering how grateful Wyatt must be to have a home with relatives, employment, not having to go it alone in Halifax. Wouldn't you agree, Lenore?"

  "Fully agree with everything," Lenore said.

  "Did you catch every last word?" Tilda asked.

  "I think so," Lenore said.

  "Read it back to me, then."

  Lenore began, "'You know, Lenore, what with Wyatt sleeping in the room next to mine—'" But I shuffled loudly, on purpose, into the kitchen. Tilda turned toward me, holding a tray, which held two cups of tea, a porcelain hippopotamus full of sugar, two cloth napkins and a spoon. "Oh, Wyatt!" she said. "Speak of the devil."

  I looked away. Tilda must've thought it was out of embarrassment.

  Then I glanced at Lenore. Factoring in her ten-year-old self from the yearbook, I thought, Yes, she appears to be about thirty-seven or thirty-eight. She had a lovely face, including deep worry lines, cascading brown hair. She was wearing the same sorts of clothes that Tilda wore, dungarees, sensible shoes, flannel shirt. But Lenore wore eyeglasses. Tilda set the tray on the table. "Wyatt," she said, "I'd like you to meet our friend and neighbor Lenore Teachout. She's here quite often to practice her stenography. Or the stenographic art. Didn't you once call it that, Lenore, the stenographic art?"