Devotion (11 page)

In something of a panic now, David chased the swans with a broom like a cartoon witch, shouting, “Get out! Get out!” Which sounded stupid even to him. Besides, when you invite guests in, you should show them a good time. In the sitting room, yet another swan knocked over a tall vase containing dried cattail rushes, which smashed against the cobble fireplace. It then got a leg caught in the cord connecting the phonograph to the wall socket; immediately the Van Morrison tune “Tupelo Honey” became a horrible scratch as the turntable was yanked to the floor. At which point the swan started biting the vinyl record. The phonograph's arm was twisted upward, the swan stepped on the needle and lurched, snapping at its own foot as if bitten by a serpent.

David hurried to the pantry, took up the .22 rifle, shoved in a few rounds, fired three shots into the sitting room over the heads of the swans wreaking havoc. One bullet webbed a crack in a window, another splintered the headrest of a rocking chair, a third neatly entered the wall near the fireplace. The swans sat down. David set the rifle on the kitchen table, said, “I've done some real damage here,” a statement that stood for so much. He picked up a peach from the bowl, took a bite of it, spit it out, the most familiar and pleasurable taste in the world to him somehow rancid, though it was a perfectly good peach. He glared at the swans. Half of them squatted there in the sitting room, the rest were in the kitchen. They were mute and some had actually begun preening. One swan sauntered over to the fireplace and sat on the empty grate like an iron nest. “You have ugly natures,” David said.

He stood up, put his mouth to the spigot in the kitchen sink, turned on the faucet and drank with loud gulping. It was as if the well water was laced with adrenaline, because David began shouting, “I have got to get out of here! I have got to get out of here!” about thirty times in a row, in a repetitive tone like a skipping record.

David now turned to the novels of Anatole France. He slid the stack from the counter, clutching the books against his chest. Securing them at the base with his belt buckle, at the top with his chin, he kicked open the screen door. Leaving the guesthouse to the swans, he carried the books down and dropped them near the pond. Then he flung each one in the manner of skipping stones. Water immediately saturated
Patroologica
(it was the book most in disrepair, frayed spine, pages taped, though probably it was the angle at which it hit the water that caused it to sink so quickly). The rest landed and floated, covers facing up or down, like illustrated lily pads. A few soon sank, others drifted, indicating a slight current or breeze.

David choked back three or four sobs in quick succession, countering with a kind of hyena laugh, shouted over the pond, “So fucking
hot
out!” as if that was the cause of all this madness. Easiest to blame what could least be helped. He again slipped out of his shorts and T-shirt, both of which he balled up and tossed aside. Lying naked on the grass, he
closed his eyes. Sounds drifted down from the guesthouse. “Oh, Jesus, I think they've got into the cupboard,” he said. “Daring nighttime robbery. Perpetrated by swans.”

He dozed off in the sticky heat, but in half an hour woke to music from a car radio approaching down the drive. Toby Knox's Buick stopped at the main house. Toby switched off the ignition. He and William were talking, but David couldn't make out the words. And then William suddenly raised his voice: “Holy Mother, Jesus and Mary!” Searching frantically for thirty seconds or so, David found his shorts and shirt, put them on and walked up the slope. William and Toby were already heading to the guesthouse to investigate. They all met up on the porch.

William looked through the open screen door. He turned and said, “Toby, it appears that the Tecoskys' swans are inside a house.”

“That's not good, Mr. Field,” Toby said.

“I can explain,” David said.

“Did you invite them in for tea?” William asked. He stepped forward and clocked David a solid right to the jaw. David careened back onto his butt and sat there, too stunned to reach for his jaw or try to utter a word. The arc of the punch had thrown William off balance too, and Toby had to catch him. “Whoa, there, Mr. Field,” Toby said, helping William regain his footing.

“I felt something crack, and it wasn't in my hand, either,” William said. “David, you might want Toby here to drive you to the hospital for an x-ray.”

David shook his head no. His jaw throbbed; without touching it, he felt it swelling.

“Okay, then, I've finally knocked my son-in-law's lights out, like I've been promising for over a year. So it can't come as a surprise to him. I'm going in and put some ice on my hand and go to bed. Toby, don't fashion yourself after that lowlife played by Dustin Hoffman, eh? It's your life, Tobias. But you break into my house again, I'll shoot out the windows of your car with my shotgun and only half hope you're not in the driver's seat.”

“I've figured that all out already, Mr. Field,” Toby said. “You ever want to go to the Starlight again, just ask me. I'll personally drive you there.”

“Don't forget you owe for the window.”

David wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. He made a sucking sound, felt pain travel up to his left ear. Oddly, his neck and shoulders hurt too, as if he'd been completely realigned. He slurred, “Hope you're happy now, William. You broke my jaw, I think.” It had been like trying to talk after the dentist shot you up with Novocain, your mouth stuffed with cotton and clamps, except the pain was still there.

“I'll expect the swans to be out of this house promptly,”
William said. “You can get them out, broken jaw or no. Rise to the occasion, David. I'll probably be docking your paycheck to cover getting the rug cleaned. I noticed a broken vase, too, and that was just from a quick glance. First thing in the morning I'll call Stefania and Izzy over in Scotland and tell them there's been a change of guard, that I'm back as caretaker of their estate. I bet they might let you stay on as my hired hand, though. In fact, I'll make that recommendation, gentleman that I am. A man needs employment.”

David merely stared at William. He heard the swans marauding through the kitchen. Looking at David, Toby said, “I'm officially offering to help you clean up in there. Five dollars an hour sound all right?”

“Don't ask him,” William said, “ask me. You're hired.”

William walked back to the main house. David grasped the porch railing and tried hoisting himself up, but fell back. He was dizzy, his eyesight blurred. “The hospital in Truro's just over half an hour. You get me driving at my best,” Toby said. “Anyway, you look like shit.”

Toby offered his hand. David swept it away violently. Toby said, “Come on, David, don't act like you haven't just been knocked on your ass by an old man.”

“He was an amateur boxer in Edinburgh,” David said, the word “Edinburgh” sounding like “Essdingburk” through his lacerated tongue and swollen jaw. He suddenly felt parched. Toby again offered a hand up; this time David accepted.
Toby pulled him to his feet. “Need a minute,” David said, leaning against the house.

It took about forty-five minutes to get the swans gathered on the porch. “They're bigger than I thought, close up like that,” Toby said. Jaw pulsing the whole left side of his face, David went into the bathroom, opened the cabinet, took out a bottle of aspirin and swallowed three tablets, cupping water to his mouth from the spigot after each one. He examined his face in the mirror—a bit of a shock there. He dabbed Mercurochrome on the knuckle-gash near his mouth. When he returned to the porch, he saw that Toby had already herded the swans into their pen. Toby latched the gate and walked back, and when he stepped onto the porch, David said, “Hospital.”

 

At nine o'clock the following morning, William visited David in room 311 of Truro General Hospital. Visiting hours hadn't officially begun, but William presented himself as “family” at the information desk. David shared a room with a telephone worker who'd had an emergency appendectomy. There was a curtain drawn between their beds. David sat up straighter against the pillows when William entered. His jaw was wired shut, the left side of his face bruised predictably black-and-blue, plus his chin had summoned up a yellow splotch with a black outline, like a watercolor painting. First thing, William said, “I called Maggie and told her you're in the hospital. She asked how bad it was, and I told her my opinion. She said she's not going to visit, but that I should say get well soon. To my mind, that's somewhere between nothing and something, which you might consider an improvement in your relations, I don't know.”

David nodded, smiling wanly, but remained silent.

“My daughter doesn't need me to fight her battles. This was my own battle, between me and you, for the taxi hitting me. Just so we get that straight. Margaret didn't approve of my actions.”

David touched the bruised side of his face, pressed the buzzer at the end of a white cord, hoping the nurse would release more morphine into the IV. In a moment a nurse poked her head around the curtain. “Nurses' station said you had a visitor,” she said. “How nice.”

“Painkiller,” David said, but it came out “fain kiffper.” The nurse had heard it pronounced any number of ways. She was in her early fifties. Her name was Kristin Fournier.

“I understand you're related,” she said to William.

“Father-in-law,” William said.

“Your son-in-law here's asking for an anodyne.”

David didn't know what the word meant, but William said, “Who doesn't need that, eh?”

“There's all sorts, of course,” nurse Fournier said. “I get
mine from church. But Mr. Kozol needs one through the drip. I've been a nurse half my life. I can read his expression.”

She studied the chart on a clipboard tied with string to the bed frame. She fluffed up David's pillows, gently inspected his mouth and jaw, refilled the plastic water cup on the adjustable tray, replaced the straw. “Be brave, Mr. Kozol,” she said. “You have an hour's wait. It's a good hospital that keeps track of such things.”

When the nurse left, David looked at William, and only then did he notice that William was somewhat formally dressed, herringbone sports jacket, corduroy trousers, dark shirt and tie, clothes far too heavy for summer, especially this one. David took up a pad of paper and wrote on it, tore off the sheet and handed it to William:
Can you sneak a whiskey in here for me?

“Oh, I don't think that particular anodyne's allowed.”

David closed his eyes.

“The estate's back in good hands now,” William said. “Don't fret over the swans, for example. Don't concern yourself one bit.”

David mumbled something incoherently.

“Hard to understand you,” William said. “I know what that's like, don't I, having to speak through all that pain and pills. I'm scarcely just past it myself.”

David—for the first time—said, “I'm sorry.”

“By the way, feel free to stay on in the guest cottage. I've spoken with Izzy and Stefania. I'll nurse you back to health. The doctor will no doubt recommend soups. I'm an expert at soups, don't know if Maggie mentioned. I made soup for her every winter day, elementary school.” William pulled up a chair and sat. “I've got an idea. What if tomorrow I bring in the photograph albums from Maggie's upbringing? Janice was absolutely devoted to those albums, my lord. I keep them in a fireproof safe. Anyway, it might be a useful education. You might get to know better who you're married to.”

 

“I'll provide the commentary,” William said at ten the next morning. He'd brought three photograph albums. He was dressed in exactly the same clothes as the day before, no tie this time. He set the albums on the bed. He took off his sports jacket and put it on the back of the chair, which he pulled close to the bed. He opened the first album across David's lap. “This one takes Margaret up to age twelve.”

David wanted to say, “I'm going to take a lot of photographs of our daughter,” but held back. First, it was difficult for him to speak at all, though he could've written it out. Also, it wasn't the right time to reveal that he knew Maggie was to give birth in November. William was keeping the news to himself; he'd brought the albums to bring David up to speed on Maggie's childhood—things should go in the proper order.

Each photograph was held to its page with black adhesive triangles at its corners.
(My mother's company manufactured these,
David thought.) “Going left to right,” William said, “this is Maggie's first bath. In the kitchen sink, believe it or not. This next one's me holding her, then there's Janice holding her.”

David pointed to a photograph of another woman bathing Maggie and got a quizzical expression on his face. According to the date written underneath, Maggie was three. “Oh, boy,” William said, “that's a much younger Dory Elliot. She was Janice's dearest friend. For a while there. Back then the word ‘pretty' wouldn't've done her justice, believe me. A lot of men drove great distances just to order a scone at her bakery. You won't find Dory in any history book, but she's got a history. She's done a lot more than make thousands of lemon tarts and her famous coffee cake in her sixty-one years. For instance, did you ever look at those framed newspaper articles behind her counter? I know you go into the bakery a lot. Next time, look at them. It's Dory, late teenage years and early into her twenties. She entered a number of Canada-wide beauty pageants and sometimes won. I mean first place. What's more, Dory was a gifted lifeguard. Saved a boy's life in front of his family, that was near Peggy's Cove. She was married and divorced twice, started the bakery and stayed that course. Her hair, you've noticed, is completely white, but that happened at around forty, not later. Happened almost overnight; she was in the hospital with a heart infection. As I mentioned, she was Janice's dearest friend for many years. But that's another story altogether.”