What Is Left the Daughter

by Howard Norman

  We sat without talking for a few minutes. "Wyatt, I'll need you to give me away at my wedding," Tilda said then. "Considering recent events. Considering everything. I can't ask my father, now, can I? He'd refuse me."

  "Tilda, have you just told me you've set a wedding date?"

  "October tenth," she said.

  "That's just four days from now."

  "Coming up quick, I know. Reverend Plumly over in Advocate Harbor agreed to perform the rites. I thought five or so villages down the road wasn't too close or too far. When I told him Hans is a German citizen, all Reverend Plumly said was 'I won't charge additional money for that.'"

  "Reverend Witt turn you down?"

  "I try not to go where I know I'm going to get my feelings hurt," Tilda said. "No, I didn't approach him."

  "I take it you've told Aunt Constance."

  "Hans made the announcement in private to Mother, on her last visit, which was two mornings back. He asked her for my hand in marriage. Mother hugged us both, but then, she would, wouldn't she? No matter what she thought."

  "I wonder if she's told Uncle Donald."

  "Probably she's got to decide, would the news be worse for Dad now or later?"

  "Promise me you'll never tell me how Hans proposed marriage," I said.

  "He said he felt like he'd known me his whole life already, so why not continue that."

  "Funny, since you've never been to Germany."

  "You know how he meant it, Wyatt."

  "Did Hans get that letter off to his professor?"

  "Went out in yesterday's post."

  Tilda looked out the window at the Minas Basin. Fairly close to shore, the usual cormorants barely preceded their wing-flapping shadows, low to the water. "I wish cormorants never got on Noah's Ark," she said. "I've always despised that ugly bird." No matter what the subject, no matter how glum the circumstances, Tilda never failed to make me laugh. "But they've got God's equal rights to the sea, I suppose."

  "I suppose."

  "Mom, when she's puzzled why something in nature's downright ugly, she makes holy excuses. Says on that day of Creation, God had a headache. Then I usually say, well, why didn't he correct his mistake once he invented headache powder?"

  "Were you awake all night again?" I asked.

  "I look a wreck, don't I? Plus, I'm just going on about nothing, aren't I?"

  "No, you're going on, true, but it's got substance. I wish I could listen through another coffee, but I've got a sled to work on. It's my wages. Besides, Hans comes downstairs, sees us, I don't want him to get jealous."

  "Would it do any good to say he likes you, Wyatt?"

  "Tilda, get some sleep."

  "Look in the mirror, eh?" she said. "The pot's just called the kettle black."

  I finished my coffee and left the bakery. At home, I started for the shed, but when I got near and heard Donald yelling at the radio, I decided to go into the house instead. "Aunt Constance?" I said.

  I found her standing in the dining room, her new wardrobe trunk open on the table, clothes stacked on three chairs nearby. "I leave tomorrow morning, you know," she said.

  "I'd forgotten it was so soon," I said.

  "My, my, my, look at these three pull-out drawers," she said. "There's so much room. Still, I want to be careful in my choices. Proper preparation helps make for proper travel—"

  "'—and proper travel makes for peace of mind at one's destination,'" I said, quoting what she'd said many times before.

  I kissed my aunt on the forehead and sat down in a chair opposite her clothes. "You know, whenever I pack a trunk," she said, "I think of Meticulous Spelling, who used to live in Upper Economy. Maiden name, Meticulous Bartlett. Married George Spelling. Anyway, she certainly contained opposites, Meticulous Spelling did, in that her housekeeping was sloppy as a drunk sparrow making a nest, and she couldn't spell worth a tiddly damn, and I know personally, because she used to drop by and ask how you'd spell this or that word, because she was writing a letter to her aunt Nadelle in Vancouver. Some people can't spell, some can, I suppose, but Meticulous Spelling was one who couldn't. And on the subject of not being meticulous, I witnessed that woman, in her own home, pack a trunk once. She was setting out to see the sights in Quebec City. I don't know why she bothered to iron her clothes in advance. The inside of that wardrobe trunk looked ransacked."

  I smiled and said, "Oh, Aunt Constance, you're the cat's pajamas."

  "Even those I'd fold nicely."

  "I bet you would."

  "Everything neat and clean and in its place."

  My aunt concentrated on which dresses to pack, which blouses, which socks, which shoes, which everything. She'd neatly fill one drawer, remove the contents, replace them with a different combination. At one point, not looking up from the sweater she was folding, she said, "Donald's moved to the shed. Outwardly, I'm trying to be poised about it."

  "How do you mean, moved to the shed?"

  "I mean he's built a cot and has bedclothes out there. He's got the woodstove for heat."

  "At least now you'll be able to turn off the radio when you want, Aunt Constance."

  "I don't find that response in the least appropriate."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Apology only half accepted," she said. "You two may be on the outs, but don't forget he took you in and gave you a paying job, Wyatt."

  "You yourself said he's not himself lately."

  "Donald asked Leonard Marquette and a few other lobstermen, could he use their trawlers to try and ram a U-boat."

  "Where would this take place?"

  "Right, well, Leonard told Donald there's no U-boats in the Bay of Fundy. And apparently Donald said, 'Where you don't see any U-boats, that may be exactly where they're the thickest.'"

  "In the shed two days ago, he accused me, right to my face, of being a coward because I hadn't signed up for the RCN. I didn't say I'd been thinking about doing just that. He wasn't in the mood to hear it."

  "So you have been thinking of it, then," she said.

  "Yes."

  "Wyatt, don't sign up to prove you're not a coward. Sign up because of the deepest conviction of what you're fighting against. War's old as the Old Testament. However, there's an unusual amount of madness at work in this war. Though, as far as I know, you've never befriended a Jew, have you? Maybe you had a Jewish friend growing up in Halifax and you never mentioned it. Anyway, like Reverend Witt says, if there's even near the equivalent of a Christian hell on earth, the Hebrew race over in Europe is in it. They could use some help, eh? Zoe Fielding wrote in a letter that she'd seen a newsreel, made her sick. What the Nazis are doing to the Hebrew race. And she meant sick, right there in her seat. There's reasons to sign up. Those U-boats have gone to such great effort, haven't they? Come all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to bring war to Canada. Let alone marauding around inside Donald's head of late, eh? Who's to make those U-boats regret their efforts if not our Navy?"

  "Maybe our government's about to conscript me anyway," I said. "That'd make my mind up."

  "It's best to make up your own mind." She set the sweater in the wardrobe trunk.

  I never made it out to the shed. The morning meandered to afternoon. I pretty much just sat with Constance, watching her pack, talking about this and that. She added a National Geographic and a Reader's Digest to the trunk. For some reason, I remember how she absent-mindedly ran her fingers over the ruffled silk pocket that spanned the side of the trunk that held the hangers and dowels. A silk pocket "thoughtfully secluded in back for underthings," as she put it. It struck me that my aunt was a little giddy about that pocket.

  Close to eleven o'clock, Constance said, "Probably there's no perfect time to mention this, Wyatt, dear, but as I'm leaving tomorrow, let me get something off my chest. Tilda and Hans Mohring have set a wedding date."

  "October tenth."

  "Goodness."

  "I met Tilda this morning at the bakery," I said. "She told me."

  "My own mother used to sa
y, anything other than in the local church or in your family house is eloping."

  "You gave them your blessing, Tilda said."

  "But I begged her, change the date. Because I can't postpone my visit to Zoe Fielding. It's her granddaughter's christening. It can't be helped. But it breaks my heart, really. I'll miss my own daughter's wedding. I'd already paid for my ferry tickets. You have to reserve rooms, since they get filled up with military and civilians alike. These days it's nearly impossible to book passage."

  "It was a sudden announcement, Aunt Constance. Not your fault."

  "Fine, but couldn't Tilda and Hans please, please put off the date? I asked, but no. Everything feels so urgent lately. And where will they live, I wonder. If Hans Mohring even hints at taking Tilda away from Nova Scotia, I'll speak up. Mark my words, I'll speak up."

  "I'd like to take the bus to Halifax with you," I said.

  "Thank you just the same," my aunt said. "Besides, knowing my wardrobe's packed so well, I'll probably sleep like a baby."

  "No, I mean for my own reasons," I said. "I've made the decision to speak with the RCN recruiting office."

  "Don't tell me my little speech already's had an effect."

  "Like I said, I've been seriously considering it for some time now. I'm in good health. Of military age. When it comes down to it, what's my excuse not to sign up?"

  "On the bus, once I've dozed off, you can find an empty seat and think things over," she said. "A bus ride's good for thinking, I've always found."

  "There's always a vacancy at the Baptist Spa, so I'm not worried where to spend the night. I'll be back in plenty of time for the wedding. I'll represent the family. Tilda asked me to give her away."

  "Did she?" My aunt looked momentarily flushed and stricken. "Did she, now?"

  "In so many words."

  "Donald won't, probably, be capable of attending. I understand that," she said. "This evening I'll stop by above the bakery and tell her I understand it."

  "I'm sure she'll appreciate it, Aunt Constance."

  "Of course, I wouldn't not stop by anyway. To say good-bye."

  She placed an umbrella on top of her folded raincoat.

  "There," she said, "it's done."

  "It's a work of art, your packing," I said.

  "I've left a little extra room," she said. "One should always leave a little room for a new purchase. I don't count on making a new purchase, but just in case."

  My aunt closed the trunk, locked it, fastened the key to a piece of string she'd previously cut to length, then slid this bracelet onto her left wrist. "Do you mind, Wyatt, dear, setting this trunk near the front door?"

  Yet before I even laid hands on the trunk, my uncle, standing outside the house, lifted a dining room window and said, "I've officially docked you a full day's wages." He hadn't shaved in at least a week. He looked exhausted, sallow, thinner in the face.

  "I'll work this afternoon and tonight," I said.

  "Don't bother," he said, and shut the window.

  "Well, now," my aunt said, "not much effort at conversation, was there?"

  "Not much, no," I said.

  "Well, lately he talks with himself. Mainly."

  "You know, Aunt Constance," I said, "given his seesaw moods of late, there's a chance that Uncle Donald might disrupt the wedding ceremony."

  "Don't worry. He won't attend," my aunt said. "He might want to, but he won't. Donald won't go where he's not invited."

  "I'd better get out my own suitcase," I said.

  "It's two dollars fifty cents for the bus."

  I lifted the trunk and placed it near the front door. My aunt went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. "I'd better bring Donald out some tea," she said. "Some tea for my husband of thirty-seven years, now sleeping in a shed."

  Picnic on the Bus

  CONSTANCE AND I BOARDED the Acadian Line at 10:05 on the morning of October 7. We took seats together, third row back, driver's side. She wore dark brown slacks, a white blouse, a sweater, a jacket. Comfortable shoes rounded out her travel attire. She had a scarf folded neatly in her handbag. Between Great Village and Truro we were the only passengers. Then, in Truro, two women boarded and sat together midway back of the bus, and immediately each took out a book to read. We had a thirty-five-minute layover in Truro. My aunt and I remained seated. She took out the thermos of tea she'd packed. Soon a vendor, a rough-hewn boy of fifteen or sixteen, walked down the aisle. He offered fried halibut sandwiches or ham-and-cheese. We both got the halibut.

  The vendor went back into the depot. "Picnic on the bus," Constance said. "Life could be worse."

  "You didn't have to pay for my sandwich," I said. "I have my own travel funds. Except for this past week, Uncle Donald's never been late with my wages."

  "'Except' means an exception, and there shouldn't have been one."

  "I won't press him on it."

  "Pack your suitcase carefully?"

  "You'll never know."

  "When we get to Halifax, may I carry out a quick inspection?"

  "No, you may not, Aunt Constance."

  As the bus idled, the driver, Mr. Harrison (he and Mr. Standhope worked this route), went out to lean against the bus and smoke a cigarette. My aunt saved half of her sandwich, wrapping it back up and placing it in her handbag. In about twenty minutes the driver returned, followed by two young men, Canadian soldiers in uniform, who sat in the back row, smoked cigarettes, talked and laughed. The driver steered us out of Truro, southbound on the two-lane. Passenger stops included, this leg was scheduled at three hours fifteen minutes, which would deliver us to Halifax at five-fifteen.

  "You might want to take your nap now," I said.

  "Not yet."

  "Then I'd like to ask you something. Do you mind?"

  "I didn't say yes to you as a travel companion if I wasn't going to be companionable," my aunt said.

  "Here's what, then. Rack my brains as I might, I can't figure out why Uncle Donald—I mean, considering his feelings about the U-boats—why—"

  "Why in God's name would he allow me to travel on the ferry in the first place. Take the Caribou up to Sydney, then across to St. John's. Treacherous waters, what with the U-boats and all. Is that your question?"

  "Yes."

  Constance opened her handbag, reconsidered the remaining half of the sandwich. Finally, she ate it as if she were famished. In fact, for the first time in my experience, a completely unheard-of phenomenon, she spoke with food in her mouth: "—slept in the shed."

  "I didn't quite get that," I said.

  I waited while she finished the sandwich. "I slept in the shed last night," she said. "I wouldn't be seeing Donald till after the christening, so I went out to be with him. In marriage you have to adapt, eh? I adapted out to the shed. And we talked, husband and wife. Though I admit it's not comfortable out there. Those newspaper headlines on the wall are unpleasant. Anyway, to his credit Donald did desperately try to talk me out of leaving home. But I said it's a christening. It's Zoe's grandchild—my oldest friend's grandchild. Friendship is provisional, Wyatt—you have to keep earning it. Back and forth, give the gift that's only each other's to give, as the hymn says. How long have I been friends with Zoe Fielding? Since we were five years old! I reminded Donald of all that. We had tea in the shed. I turned the radio off. I said, 'I simply won't miss the christening.' And that's when Donald used strong language. God's name—in vain. Language I don't approve of, but it was heartfelt."

  "Then what happened?"

  "My husband and I called a truce and neither slept."

  "You didn't sleep at all last night?"

  "Though Donald had offered me the cot. But, yes, soon I'll need that nap."

  "Everyone I love most can't sleep well lately."

  "Somewhere in Tilda's book, it says, 'Plead, cajole and foist your opinion as you must, yet it does not necessarily change another's mind.' Donald tried and failed with me. The christening won out, and that's all there is to it. I've said to Tilda more tha
n once: those platitudes aren't much good for predicting life, but they often manage to sum up what's just happened pretty well."

  "I've never cracked the cover of that book. It's by Tilda's bed."

  "Formerly her bed, eh?"

  We were silent a few moments, then Constance said, "My husband asked why didn't I think ahead to go the first stretch by automobile. That'd limit it to only one, much shorter ferry ride, just across to St. John's. But drive all the way up to Sydney Mines in Cape Breton to catch that ferry? Those roads? At my age, with these old creaky bones?"

  "By going out to the shed, you're saying what? That it's not just friendship that's provisional."

  "Marriage is, too. Correct."

  "Thirty-seven years, it's still—"

  "More painfully than ever, provisional. Haven't you noticed?"

  My aunt shut her eyes then. But she didn't sleep. Apparently she just wanted to talk with her eyes closed. "Reach into my handbag, there, Wyatt. I'm giving you permission. There's a folded-up sheet."

  I found the piece of paper and read what was on it, a poem neatly printed in ink:

  CASABIANCA

  Love's the boy stood on the burning deck

  trying to recite "The boy stood on

  the burning deck." Love's the son

  stood stammering elocution

  while the poor ship in flames went down.

  Love's the obstinate boy, the ship,

  even the swimming sailors, who

  would like a schoolroom platform, too,

  or an excuse to stay

  on deck. And love's the burning boy.

  In a few minutes, my aunt opened her eyes and said, "Mrs. Oleander, the librarian, brought this poem to Tilda's attention. Tilda then copied it out for me. What Mrs. Oleander found thrilling, and so do I, is that it was composed by a woman who had some of her upbringing in Great Village. Practically a neighbor! This very poem was actually published. The magazine's called New Democracy. Granted, it was published in 1936, but the poet, Miss Elizabeth Bishop, has published many others. According to Mrs. Oleander, Miss Elizabeth Bishop's something of a world traveler. But she visits our province now and again. And do you know what? Where you and I got on the bus this morning, the house across from the Esso station, is the very house in which the poet spent several years. She went to the Great Village school. Her mother—and this is actual fact, not merely gossip—the mother's in Nova Scotia Hospital. Across Halifax Harbor to Dartmouth. Some sort of nervous collapse or other. Nobody's business, really, but the family's. Poor thing, eh? Elizabeth was only a little girl when they sent her mother there."