Devotion (12 page)

After the nurse replenished the morphine, David ate a few bites of Jell-O, sipped some ice water, chewed on ice chips as William finished with the album, all black-and-whites: Maggie's first day of school; Maggie putting on lipstick, Janice putting on lipstick beside her; Maggie and William in a rowboat on the pond; Maggie in pajamas, a thermometer in her mouth, Janice worriedly looking on, but so exaggeratedly that David could tell she wasn't truly worried.

On the next-to-last page was a photograph that showed Maggie sitting with Isador and Stefania on the porch steps. “Now, this was an unusual conversation they were having,” William said. “About as unusual as can be imagined. Maggie's ten there. ‘Why do you have those numbers on your arms?'—that's what she asked. She started crying before she heard the answer; must've felt bad news in advance. Stefania didn't go into the details. Too painful to tell, too painful to hear told. But she did introduce the words ‘concentration camp,' didn't hold back there. Believe me, Maggie could be very direct, very curious. ‘There were people called Nazis. They tried to kill all the people of our religion, Jewish people, but we're here, aren't we?' That was the history lesson that morning, except Maggie didn't let it go, even when Izzy added, ‘That was over in Europe before
you were born.' I can't put the full psychological whys and wherefores to it, but they sat there a good two hours. And if you think I'm being sentimental, guess again, because Maggie had nightmares, oh, I'd say six, seven nights running. Into Janice's and my bed, hopped right in between us, pulled the blanket over her head. One night she said, ‘I looked in on Izzy and Stefania, and they're fine. You check on them later.'”

William put on his sports jacket and went to the hospital cafeteria for lunch; David slept an hour. When he woke, William was sitting in the chair, staring at a page of photographs in the second album. David chewed on some more ice chips. William set the open album on the bed, leaned close and said, “Now here's 1968 to 1972—the Vietnam War raging, huh?”

But David had written a note, which he handed to William:
You really went on about Dory Elliot, I must say. I've been wondering why she hasn't once been to visit you. Not once.

William tightened his mouth, closed his eyes a moment, opened them, moved the chair back a little, absent-mindedly buttoned his sports jacket. “I did go on about her, didn't I,” he said. “Look, David—now that you're a captive audience. Now that things have come around like they have. We keep getting thrown together, eh?”

David wrote another note:
There's no taxi in here. You aren't going to punch me again. Just say it.

“There's nineteen swans on the estate now, correct?” William said. “Well, when Maggie was seventeen, there were twenty-eight. It was a regular lying-in hospital for swans that year. Anyway, and these lines are wide enough to read between, David. Very wide. For a short while I took up with Dory Elliot. Then it ended. And this was Janice's dearest friend—though how could she have been, to partake of something like that? Maggie'd be in the bakery practically every day after school. I think she confided more in Dory than in Janice, for a stretch, but that's the way it goes, mother-daughter, sometimes. Just normal. In any event, Maggie and Janice ended up very, very close. I was always grateful for that.

“But Dory—it was a cruel thing to do, though she's not cruel. Told Maggie the whole sordid thing. Maggie drove home and confronted me. Then she told Janice. Then she packed a suitcase for herself and one for Janice. They drove to Halifax and stayed for five nights. Janice continued on to visit her sister in Edinburgh for a month. When she came back it was the ice age in my house for a long time. Eventually things were workable. But once trust gets dropped—and I dropped Janice's like an anvil from—what floor was your London hotel room on? From the fourth floor of a hotel. And I never entirely got it back. Mostly, but not completely.”

They sat awhile; David fell asleep without meaning to,
just nodded off despite the moment; William thought it was a reprieve. Finally William woke him up. “Lately I've given things a lot of thought. Take it or leave it. It's not meant as advice, just observation. But it occurred to me, in reliving what I put Maggie through with my dallying, that it might just be one reason Maggie's so—
unforgiving.
Mind you, I said
one
reason. I mean, connect the dots, David. Whatever you did or didn't do in that hotel room wasn't the same stupidity, but it had certain approximations.”

David wrote another note:
That couldn't have been easy to say. But you've worn me out.

Without another word, William took up the albums and left the room. But he telephoned David from the lobby. David managed, “William,” because who else would it be?

“I don't feel I'm wasting my loose change here,” William said. “The thing is, young couples, when they're courting, they have to feel like they're inventing happiness, eh? Inventing it. Because they're supposed to feel that. They can't help it. Nothing new in this.

“As far as I could tell, you and Margaret had what I'd call a whirlwind courtship. All through she kept calling me, keeping me apprised, to the extent she chose to. I mean, how you flew back and forth, Halifax-London, London-Halifax. Maggie almost used up her savings, did you know that? ‘I'm spending the weekend in London, Pop,' was not the prudent Margaret I knew. Prudent of heart and prudent
of purse is a world of difference. Even a protective father understands that fact of life. I was following her the way that dotted line in the old wartime movies showed a ship or airplane crossing the Atlantic Ocean. I knew Margaret was head over heels. And how that boosted my spirits on her behalf.

“I'm not going to predict the future. Whoever's in the prediction business is a damned fool. But as for the past, I like to think of you and my daughter inventing happiness. But then along comes that London hotel room. What was I supposed to do, David,
not
tell my own daughter what I saw? Did you think it was a separate moral universe or something, a hotel room? Anyway, for your information, with Margaret I didn't speculate past sheer description, just that I saw a woman standing in her bathrobe. Obviously that was enough to set things in motion. I knew it. No matter what the whole truth was. The day after your honeymoon, lord in heaven.”

William listened a moment; with every possible effort, David managed, “I know our daughter's due on November ninth.” They both hung up.

In his hospital bed, David wondered if pain might sharpen his comprehension of what William had said. To that effect, he considered refusing the next round of morphine. Besides, if he felt competent at anything, it was sleepless nights. He was an expert, one might say.

O
N JULY
27, Maggie arrived at the estate at 7:30 in the morning. She sat with William at the kitchen table. He'd prepared hot cocoa. William wore his pajamas, robe, slippers. Maggie had on gym shorts, a sepia T-shirt under a white cotton blouse, no shoes. “You didn't drive without shoes on, did you?” William said.

“I often do, in the summer.”

They spoke about things in general. Then Maggie said, “David's proposed marriage.”

“No fool, is he? Have you decided when's the wedding?”

“We were thinking in ten days.”

“Ten days?”

“I've already called everyone we want invited. They're all available. That's good luck from the get-go, I'd say. David has no family. I've told you, his mother and father are gone. Buried in Vancouver. He's got no family but you and me.”

“Who's going to stand up for him?”

“He is.”

“And for you?”

“Frannie Dunsmore.”

“Your closest friend since when, sixth form or so? It'll be good to see her again. In ten days.”

“I know it's short notice. But it'll be an informal wedding. I asked Dory to make the wedding cake. Just so you know.”

“Of course she's not invited to the ceremony.”

“Would I do that?”

“All right, then, a lot can get done in ten days.”

“Some of the ensemble's agreed to play.”

“How about that?”

“Anne Stevenson at the Glooskap said she'd arrange for food.”

“You can't go wrong with Anne Stevenson and food. She'll provide a feast. Possibly some surprises, too. Like the time she put cherry vodka in a summer soup. You might request that.”

“Wait here, Pop. I'll be back in a minute.”

Maggie went upstairs, and when she returned she was wearing a Victorian-era white dress with a lace collar and hem.

“Your mother's wedding dress seems to fit,” William said.

“Dad, you forgot to take the dry-cleaning tag off. Maybe you forgot on purpose, huh? Interesting, after all this time you suddenly get it in your head to have this dress cleaned in Truro.”

“I had an inkling.”

“An inkling to you is absolute fact for anyone else.”

“Who's performing the ceremony?”

“I thought Robert Teachout.”

“Reverend Teachout? I thought he was long retired.”

“He's not retired. People just don't give him work anymore. He moved to Advocate Harbor.”

“You've done all your homework already. A bit skulking under the dark of night, though, don't you think? Why couldn't I know this big secret till now?”

“David proposed to me night before last.”

“Margaret, you've done things your own way since I can remember.” He took a sip of cocoa. “He didn't get down on his knees, did he? He's not a dramatic personage, is he?”

“As a matter of fact, no. He asked like a gentleman, not copied out of a book or movie. It was a genuine marriage proposal carried out in a thoughtful manner.”

“So I'm finally going to meet your David.”

“He's at the pond.”

“I'll go down there.”

“Let him come here, Pop. I'll get him.”

“We'll have ten days to get to know each other, then. That's one hundred percent longer than no time at all.”

“Did you hope he'd ask for my hand in marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Please don't start by testing his good breeding. He didn't have a father at home much at all. He came to a lot of his knowledge of how to act on his own.”

“You asked, I answered, that's all. He doesn't need defending. Bring him up to the house. I'll put on some more cocoa.”

They had every meal together after that. Maggie attended to wedding arrangements. She took David around to meet Dory Elliot when the cake was discussed. Midmorning on August i, William went to the guesthouse to get David. On the way, he saw David looking at the swans. They both stood there a moment, then William said, “Our veterinarian says these wing-clipped swans keep forgetting they can't fly. The urge to fly is a million years older than their wound, so they forget. Now, that's a sight—a swan who can't fly. It's as comical and heartbreaking as Buster Keaton trying to catch a bus.”

David laughed hard, trying to picture it. “Come on up to the house,” William said. “I've got something to show you.”

Maggie, David and William sat at the table. Letters were stacked up, all handwritten on official-looking stationery. “These are letters I've received from a very admirable man,” William said. He was addressing David. Maggie knew all about the letters. “His name is Reginald Aston. Mr. Aston is no less than the Queen of England's official swankeeper. In the greater London area alone—and I might have these statistics wrong—Mr. Aston has over two thousand swans under his jurisdiction. Naturally the population shifts—boating accidents, natural deaths.”

“Tell David about the kidnapping, Pop.”

“Two thugs kidnapped a swan along the Thames. It was witnessed by passersby, yet the crime remained unsolved. Why someone would do that beats me. You lived in London, David. Any swan you saw was in Mr. Aston's keep.”

“My dad has something to ask us,” Maggie said, knowing if she didn't get to the point, William might read Mr. Aston's letters out loud and David would be too polite to say anything.

“Right. Well, I've got an appointment with Mr. Aston, long-sought. It's on August nineteenth at noon. Maggie tells me you're flying Halifax to Boston, then on to London, on August sixth. I thought I might get a seat on the same airplane, see London as a tourist while you two go off to Islay. I'd visit the sights. I'd meet my August nineteenth meeting with Mr. Aston. I might even stay on another week.”

“What was the concern, William?” David asked.

“You might not want a father-in-law along, the start of a honeymoon.”

“Maggie has to fly back to work in Halifax when our ten days on Islay are over,” David said. “I have loose ends to take care of. I've already closed down my flat, but I have to close my bank account. Things like that. So, if you are staying in London, maybe we could have dinner. Or just take a walk in one of the parks. I might suggest Regent's Park.”

“From the look on your face, Margaret, I see you're in agreement.”

“There, now that's over with,” Maggie said. “Let's take a swim.”

“You two go on,” William said. “I swam at five this morning.”

 

The wedding took place on the lawn at 4
P.M.
There was a merciful breeze. The swans were on the pond. The ceremony was brief. Three musicians from the Dalhousie Ensemble, including Marianne Brockman, played pieces Maggie had chosen: selections from Bach, Haydn, Antonio Caldara. There were twenty-three people in all. Toby Knox represented Parrsboro. Frannie Dunsmore came down from
St. John's, Newfoundland, with her husband, Duncan McGary, and their daughters, Mary and Ileene. The lemon wedding cake was a three-tiered architectural wonder. Dory had asked Ezra Murry, a mechanic and woodcarver, to whittle a bride and groom; he could expertly paint on a gown and tuxedo, plus the faces. Ezra replied that he could easily carve a likeness of Maggie as a bride, but declined the request, since he'd never met David. Dory got this message to Maggie, who drove David to Ezra's house in Lower Economy, where Ezra got a good look at him. Maggie and David stayed fifteen minutes. The wooden bride and groom turned out splendidly. David had picked up the cake; he and William carried it in from Maggie's car as if delivering high explosives, set it on the kitchen counter.