What Is Left the Daughter (2 page)

"What are you saying, Oliver?" Mrs. Tapper said. "You want fairness? You want her punished for sordid immoralities? Well, those were
shared,
don't forget. And besides, we're at a funeral. Please mind your language."

Oh, I almost forgot, the most peculiar newspaper headline was accompanied by a photograph of me, the one taken for the high school yearbook:
LOCAL BOY ORPHANED BY BRIDGES
. As if I weren't already seventeen, hardly a boy. As if it were the bridges' fault, not human nature's.

You only live the life right in front of you. All day at school on August 27, which was just the fifth day of classes in the autumn 1941 term, I had no idea how my parents' fates were being determined. We'd all had breakfast together. My father had been chatty; my mother wasn't sullen. Later, though, I pieced a few things together from the newspaper accounts and from conversations — call them that—I had with the police officers who'd been sent out to the bridges.

Officer Dhomnaill, who was born in Ireland and still retained the accent, told me about my mother. "I tried talking her down," he said. "You try and make the person in distress confide what makes them happy in life. You try and work with that if at all possible. See what I mean? And I'm sorry I failed. Very sorry in the end I failed." I could see that Officer Dhomnaill was honestly shaken.

"Didn't she at least say goodbye to me?" I asked. "Because she didn't leave a note."

"Being so fraught as your mother was," he said, "and what with the wind high on that bridge making it so difficult to catch every last word. But I think she said, 'I suppose this will be all over the radio. No matter. I have nothing to be ashamed about.'"

"Okay. All right, then. Thank you."

"My job's hardly all peaches and cream," Dhomnaill said. "Your mother was my first jumper. Some police never get one. Don't please let that word offend you. It's just a police word."

"I understand."

"I'm sorry for what happened."

I'm afraid I shut the door in his face.

When it came to my father, an Officer Padgett delivered the report. He knocked, and I stepped out on the porch again. We shook hands and he said, "I know Officer Dhomnaill stopped by earlier."

"Yes, he did."

"So I am speaking to Mr. Wyatt Hillyer, then. Correct?"

"Correct."

"Wyatt, just let me say my piece. Officially say it. So I can get back to the station house, and say I said it, and do my paperwork. Leave you with your private thoughts, eh?"

"Fine."

He consulted his notebook. "I arrived to the bridge at six-fifteen
P.M.
," he said. "I climbed up close as possible to your father. He looked tired. To me he looked tired. He said, 'For a long time I've had this private joke. So private I never told my wife. It's what I want on my gravestone. What I want on my gravestone is:
I just knew this would happen!
" He checked his notes again. "And your father said, 'Both women were damn interesting, each in their own way. There it is. Tell my son, Wyatt, to forgive me, please. Ask him to at least try.' I asked him what's his name, and he said Joseph Hillyer. So I said, 'Joseph, do you like the steaks at Halloran's?' Since in our training we're taught to try and persuade a person back into normal daily life. You mention a popular restaurant. Or you ask which church they attend. But your father let go of the bridge."

I stepped back inside and shut the door and watched through the window as Officer Padgett got into his car. There seemed no apparent reason, but he kept his siren on the whole way down the block.

Naturally, my aunt Constance Bates-Hillyer and my uncle Donald Hillyer drove in from Middle Economy to attend the funerals. They also stayed on to help me get things in order, settle my parents' estate, so called. It consisted of 58 Robie Street, completely paid for, a modest life insurance settlement, $1,334 in a savings account, and my mother's collection of radios. "I have absolutely no idea of the worth of these radios or how to find out," my uncle said. "We can look into that later."

All told, my mother had fifty-eight radios. The sound of radio voices or music had almost nightly drifted into my bedroom, the volume turned up when my parents wanted to deafen me to their quarreling. Among her collection was a 1938 International Kadette, a white Silvertone, four different Bakelite models, and a Philco Transitone. She had two Fada radios, a 1939 RCA from the Golden Gate International Exposition in San Francisco (she didn't attend), a Zenith Model 835 and other wood-frame sets. She had a Crosley chrome radio, an RCA Victor La Siesta, which featured a colorful painting of a man in a sombrero sitting near a tall saguaro cactus with mountains and clouds in the distance. She had a Kadette Topper, an Emerson Snow White model that had an inlaid design of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (they were creepy), and three Detrola Pee Wee models, red and white, black, and blue and white. There were three small molded-plastic radios made by the F.A.D. Andrea Corporation, RCA and Crosley. She had a Bendix with a fake mottled mahogany casing, and that one had standard broadcast and shortwave bands and could operate on both AC and DC power. In the last three years of her life, my mother preferred novelty sets adorned with popular celebrities. For instance, there was a Stewart Warner set with a decal of the famous Dionne quintuplets, who'd been taken away from their parents but kept together in a foster home. My mother followed that story religiously. "Heartbreaking," she said. "It's really too much to bear." On the decal, the Dionne quints appeared to be about three years old. They were standing together, all hope and smiles.

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."

M
IDDLE 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.