What Is Left the Daughter (14 page)

Scowling and cursing, my uncle adjusted the dial, but the static prevailed. He turned to the other men at the table, offered a downward smile and said, "You probably didn't know, but my Constance couldn't swim."

Then he saw me and right away turned down the volume on the radio. He looked to have a week or more stubble of beard. He was wearing the same clothes he'd worn to Steven Parish's shop the day before. There was a bottle of whiskey on the table. "We're bivouacked here with the radio," he said. "Where's your manners, Wyatt? Shake hands with our guests."

Simon Perkins, whose lobster boat was named
Sprightly,
stood up and we shook hands. I shook hands with Warren Heddon, who was the proprietor and cook at the Glooskap Restaurant in Parrsboro, and as my uncle once put it, "Me and Warren have shared thirty-some years of Sunday breakfast, and not once late to pick up our wives and children at church and spend the rest of Sunday with them." I shook hands with Miller Shiers, a house painter, who had famously painted Reverend Witt's church in three days' time, including two nights without sleep, using lanterns hung on his ladder to work by. There had been no particular rush or reason for him to paint the church like that, except, as Shiers said, he'd simply decided to. I shook hands with Gus Breel, who was the constable serving eleven neighboring villages. He'd been born in Upper Economy, and had, in his fifty-six years, lived only in Upper Economy, Middle Economy and Lower Economy, and had been married and divorced in each place. Cornelia had said, "You know, they should name a new village after Gus Breel. There'd be Upper Economy, Middle Economy, Lower Economy—and then for Gus's sake they could add Just Plain Broke."

Looking at these men at our kitchen table, I said, "I don't ever remember this many people in the house since Tilda's eighteenth birthday."

"So much for pleasant conversation," Donald said. "Because as the situation now stands, our concern's not who's
here
as much as who
isn't.
"

The room fell silent. Then Warren stood and said, "Well, Donald, we just wanted to sit here with you." The others nodded in agreement. Warren, Miller, Simon and Gus filed out of the kitchen. I heard their car and trucks start up in quick succession.

"Our last night together, Constance slept in the shed with me," my uncle said. "If that isn't something, nothing is."

And it was at that precise moment the telephone rang. My uncle stood and answered it on the third ring. He did not say hello. I could hear a voice at the other end inquire, "Is this the residence of a Mrs. Constance Bates-Hillyer, please?" Stretching the cord to its full length, my uncle stood at the counter and faced the cupboard. I sat down at the table.

"Yes, this is her husband, Donald Hillyer," he said into the receiver.

Marlais, I can tell you that my mind was a whirligig. The room was spinning. I didn't want to hear, I didn't want to hear, and then I heard: "Well, now, Secretary Macdonald, just because my Constance's wardrobe trunk was recovered, doesn't necessarily mean—" My uncle listened a moment, then moaned from deep in his gut and more or less reeled backward against the kitchen table, finally crumpling to the floor. He looked up at me. "Nephew, Secretary of the Navy Macdonald has personally called just now, and he's informed me that Constance Bates-Hillyer is officially numbered among the missing."

Quickly, then, my uncle was alerted to a different voice on the telephone, and he pressed his ear close to the receiver. "Not the slightest room for doubt," he said. "I understand." He stood up, leaned against the table for balance and handed me the telephone, which I hung up.

My uncle sat at the table. "We never went to a walk-in cinema together," he said. "And last time we were in Halifax—when was that? —1939, I believe. March 1939, two nights at the Hotel Dumont, breakfast included free of charge and no limit to how long a patron could sit in the lobby. Constance snuck out during my nap and took a dance lesson from the in-house instructor—the
foxtrot
at her age! Now, I know that might not sound like something your aunt Constance would sneak out to do. But she knew I wouldn't have taken any dance lesson. Besides, I had my nap to take. I asked her how much of the foxtrot you can really learn in one lesson. 'As it turns out, quite a bit,' she said. Showed some temper, too. We ate supper at the hotel, and we were finished with time to spare. The cinema was just three blocks from the hotel. I really don't know why we didn't walk over and take in a picture."

My sense was, all this sadness and regret provided a calm interlude. I knew it couldn't last long.

"Uncle Donald, might they return Aunt Constance's wardrobe trunk?" Honestly, this question served no good purpose, but it was all I could think to ask.

"Now, right there, Wyatt, is a true blessing," he said. "That is a true spot of grace in all this. Because Navy Secretary Macdonald's assistant said the wardrobe trunk will arrive here by bus. They promised."

"A keepsake," I said. "For Tilda."

"What's best for me now, Nephew, is to go out to my shed. I can do some sanding. I can sand for an hour or two and think. Plus, I have my own radio out there, as you know."

"I'd like to work out there with you, Uncle Donald."

"You know what I think? It's possible my Constance isn't going to be found in all of eternity," he said. "We should cobble together a family this evening, is what I think. Will you invite Tilda and her husband for me?"

"Listen," I said, "do you know what Hans Mohring did? Out of his own pocket, he bought new copies of just about every one of the gramophone records you smashed to pieces, Uncle Donald. He bought them at Ballade and Fugue."

"German-owned record shop?"

"No, sir, the owner's name—you go back and read the newspaper article, Uncle Donald. The shop owner who those RCN beat up—Randall Webb is not German."

"Consorted with them, though."

"You like Beethoven, Randall likes Beethoven," I said. "Uncle Donald, please listen to what I'm saying. The important thing: Hans glued the pieces together and figured out which they were. Maybe it was as much to please Aunt Constance as anything. But he specifically said he did it to make amends with you."

"Where are these gramophone records?"

"His and Tilda's rooms."

"Well, I'm seeing things in a different light now. All right, how about this? To make amends, Hans should bring those gramophone records to the house. And Tilda should be here, too. Her mother's gone, Wyatt."

"Tilda doesn't know that yet. She's been waiting for news just like you. She doesn't know Secretary Macdonald telephoned."

"You know the best thing I can do for Tilda, so recently in wedlock? I should try and knock some sense into my son-in-law's head. Maybe he and Tilda should go to Montreal. Or to
someplace.
Sit out the war, and he could tell people his accent's Swedish or from Denmark. See,
considering what heroic measures should be taken,
like the radio said. I think it's my father-in-law responsibility to point out it's dangerous times for a German in Nova Scotia. See, that'll be the give-and-take, right there. He'll give me the gramophone records—'Thanks, thanks'—and I'll give him solid advice."

I drove to the bakery and went directly upstairs, where I found Hans and Tilda each packing a suitcase.

"Navy Secretary Macdonald just now telephoned Uncle Donald," I said. "Aunt Constance isn't coming home."

"I knew it was true," Tilda said. "In my heart of hearts, I knew." She and Hans embraced, but Tilda got a bit frantic and suddenly held him at arm's length. "I have to go see my father."

"Yes, he's a widow now," Hans said.

"I know he wants to see you, Tilda," I said. "In fact, he wants us all, you, me and Hans, over tonight. He said Hans should bring the gramophone records."

"You told him about that?" Hans said.

"I was speaking on your behalf, Hans."

"We're taking the morning bus out," Tilda said. "It's for the best."

"How's that?" I asked. "How for the best?"

"The people in Middle Economy, they're good, gentle people for the most part. But they don't know Hans."

"There's not been enough time to know him."

"It all adds up to the same thing, Wyatt," she said. "No body's fault. They just don't know him. They don't yet know us as a married couple. And now look what's happened. The U-boat that killed my mother will be in Reverend Witt's sermon on Sunday, mark my words."

"I don't wish to make anyone here uncomfortable," Hans said.

"Have you listened to the radio, Hans? The whole goddamn world's uncomfortable!" I said. "What's
uncomfortable
got to do with anything?"

"Shut up, Wyatt. Just shut up," Tilda said. "Listen, Hans has a university friend in Vancouver, graduated last year. Hans telephoned him, and he'll take us in."

"Vancouver—all the way to the west coast of Canada," I said.

"Yes, Wyatt, that's where Vancouver's located," she said.

"All right, all right, all right, I can see your thinking. Still—"

"We counted our pennies," Tilda said, "and it's just enough, or almost."

"All right. I'll drive you to the bus personally," I said. "But you have to promise to come to the house tonight. Jesus Christ on the cross, just now I don't know any of what's what anymore."

"The world's a shithole," Tilda said. "That's what."

"About leaving tomorrow—your mind's completely made up?"

Tilda sighed deeply and said, "It's two weeks and five days by bus to Vancouver. There's a number of transfers. Off one bus, onto another. I won't promise you a postcard along the way, but I promise one once we've arrived, Wyatt." She went into their bedroom, and I could see her scrutinize each item of clothing in the bureau, rejecting, accepting. Either way, everything got neatly folded and put back in a drawer or into her suitcase. And I thought, Like mother, like daughter.

I went downstairs first and told Cornelia that Constance was gone. We all shared a supper of sandwiches and tea, the talk smaller than small, all life-and-death subjects avoided. Cornelia cleared the dishes. Then Hans said, "Tilda, I'd like to have a short time with your father alone, please."

"You sit with me awhile, then, Tilda," Cornelia said. "We'll talk things over."

"One hour at the most, Hans," Tilda said. "I mean that as much as I've ever meant anything. In one hour I'll be at my house."

"Why not let's walk there together, Hans," I said. "I'll leave my car for Tilda."

"Good," Hans said. "Good, good, good. Let me get the gramophone records and we'll go."

I took a flashlight from the glove compartment of my car. When Hans returned carrying the records, wrapped in a couple of shirts, we set out along the road. The weather was typical for October, cold rain. Hans tucked the records inside his overcoat. Our hair was immediately soaked, and I said, "Oh, well, it's not that far." The flashlight beam made almost a solid tunnel out ahead, and rain could be seen etching across it slantwise. We bent into the wind and walked at as steady a pace as we could. Finally, still out on the road but directly across from the house, Hans threw his arm over my shoulder and said something, but I couldn't make it out. "What?" I shouted.

Hans cupped his hands over my ear and said, "This is the same kind of night our child was conceived. Tilda is quite certain of which night it is on the calendar. We were out on the road and we saw the library. Tilda had a key, so we escaped inside. We didn't leave till morning."

Hans then crossed the road, so there was no chance for me to reply, let alone take in his news. I hurried to catch up. There were a number of lights on. Thick gray smoke was torn to rags as it rose from the chimney, gone into the darkness. Hans waited on the porch, and when I joined him I opened the front door, heard the radio, stepped in and said, "Uncle Donald?"

From behind me I heard, "You're not sleepwalking, are you, Hans?"

"No, sir, I'm not," Hans said, laughing a little. "Why would you think so?"

I turned to see my uncle. He'd arrived unnoticed around the side of the house. Hans hadn't seen him yet; he half smiled and began to unbutton his overcoat, no doubt reaching for the gramophone records. That was when my uncle brought a toboggan runner down on Hans's head. The sound was sickening. I can't compare it to anything.

It took that one blow, is all. Hans collapsed on the porch. The gash was deep, and blood matted with the rain in his hair, and as my uncle stood there, almost transfixed by his deed, I punched him in the forehead, then punched him again near his left eye, and this caused him to drop the runner. I picked it up and struck my uncle with it across his knees, and he buckled but didn't fall. He stumbled back a few steps. Barely able to keep his balance, he said, "Blindsiding the man wasn't what I'd intended."

"You wanted to look him in the face, is that it, Uncle Donald? What'd Hans Mohring ever do to harm you?"

I went unsteadily down the porch steps. Then I vomited, violently, and dropped the runner. Neither my uncle nor I picked it up again. I leaned against the house and retched my guts up, and the only thought I had was, Tilda might've seen this.

I stepped back up to the porch. Hans lay on his back, his face ghostly in the porch light. He loosed a kind of gurgling moan, blood frothed on his tongue and dribbled down his chin, his right arm twitched, his mouth opened and closed with a popping smack of his lips, twice, three times, like he was attempting to catch raindrops. My uncle reached into his back trouser pocket, removed his World War I revolver, pressed it against Hans's chest, said "Mercy on his soul," and pulled the trigger. The shot was muffled by Hans's overcoat and the gramophone records inside. Hans jolted, arching his back, then fell flat to the porch again. Even I, who'd never seen a dead person close up, outside a coffin, knew that Hans Mohring was dead.

My uncle tossed aside the revolver. He slapped my face hard and said, "Pull yourself together, Nephew!"

Things then seemed to happen in a dream—I mean, in the way a dream can tamper with all common sense, make you feel you're both participating in something and watching at some remove.