What Is Left the Daughter (7 page)

Supper was pleasant enough, all "Please pass the bread" and "What is life like at university, Hans?" But I could see that Hans thought Tilda was the cat's pajamas—also, they'd been seen together in public, at Cornelia's bakery, Parrsboro Wharf, walking hand in hand along the horseshoe-shaped beach. Apparently Cornelia had even called them "lovebirds." And when Reverend Witt suggested Tilda bring Hans as a guest to church, according to Witt she said, "I have a different rendezvous in mind this Sunday." I knew they spent hours on end in the library, actually more hours than were officially posted as
OPEN,
because Mrs. Oleander had given Tilda a key. Separate arrangement, just so Tilda and Hans could discuss God knows which words, plus have privileged access to the big
Webster's
dictionary.

At supper, no subject caused a dustup, but then again, my uncle hadn't referred to U-boats or the war in general, and Hans didn't lecture us on philology. He took seconds on the potatoes, so did I, so did my uncle. There were two or three awkward silences. However, none felt like an outside presence had hushed all human voices. Because had such a silence occurred, my aunt predictably would have said, "An angel is passing." All well and good. Yet when Tilda stole, in plain sight, a spoonful of Hans's dessert of vanilla ice cream (he'd refused the maple syrup), the playfulness of it made me blurt out, "Hans, why would a person in their right mind get hypnotized nine times, anyway?"

Tilda corkscrewed her ears. Not only was I reckless in referring to the reason Reverend Witt had suggested that Tilda visit a mesmerist—that was a sore subject in our house—but, in the same breath, I'd more or less suggested that Hans, too, wasn't right in the head.

"Hans, my family—including Wyatt here—doesn't have much experience with hypnotism," Tilda said. "Wyatt didn't mean anything by it."

"Yes, but for the sake of argument," Hans said, "let us say that Wyatt honestly did mean something. I can educate him—"

"I fell short of graduating high school by only a year," I said.

"
—educate
in the sense of why I needed hypnotism so many times," Hans said.

"Why not educate all of us, then?" my uncle said.

"But why not educate us in the parlor?" my aunt said. "Tilda, dear, please clear the dishes. Wyatt, fetch my gray sweater from its peg. I'm feeling the evening air." Once we were situated—Tilda in the rocking chair, Donald and Hans on ladder-back chairs brought from the kitchen, me on the sofa—Donald said, "Full speed ahead, Hans. Give us your reason for those nine hypnotisms."

My aunt carried in a tray and distributed tea and cookies all around, then sat next to me. Hans took a bite of cookie, leaned forward and said, "You see, I walked in my sleep. I was most prolific at this, you might say. It started at age ten. We lived in a small village. Larger than yours, yes, but not large by standards of German farm villages. It wasn't far from Munich. We had a small house. My parents are good people, you see. And they had, with me, I think you say, a handful. They had a handful. At night, I was walking long distances in my sleep. Usually I was found out on the road. Once I was about to swim in a pond. A number of times I was found in a neighbor's garden."

"Ever ride your bicycle asleep?" my uncle asked. "I always wondered, could a person do that?"

"No, I never rode a bicycle, Mr. Hillyer," Hans said. "At least nobody reported that I had. Most often my mother or father would discover me simply sitting at our kitchen table, sometimes eating food I'd taken from the icebox while asleep. Eventually my father had to purchase inside locks, and he locked the doors and windows. Still, I walked all over the house. I might visit every room. By morning I'd be exhausted. I could hardly stay awake in school. A hypnotist in Munich was recommended. I went to him nine times, as I mentioned to Tilda. Yet hypnotism didn't work. I walked in my sleep for several years. In Denmark it stopped. I never walked in my sleep in Denmark."

"Denmark?" my uncle said.

"We had to leave Germany. My uncle—my mother's brother—previously was living in Denmark. He has funds. In fact, he is sponsoring me at Dalhousie University."

"Germany to Denmark to Canada," my aunt said. "My goodness. I've never been further than Newfoundland."

"We escaped to Denmark in 1935. Adolf Hitler is not the travel agent you'd wish on your worst enemy—this was my father's joke," Hans said. "My father always tries to bring a little light to the darkness. My mother is quite different. She always thinks the darkness is about to get even darker. That is their different natures."

"Tilda mentioned you have a heart malady," my aunt said. "Forgive my prying."

"Yes, I was born with it," Hans said. "I'm used to it by now. It's simply part of life for me."

"Well, don't black out before you have another of those cookies," I said.

"I'll do my best to take that advice," Hans said, and picked up a cookie from the plate.

"Tilda," my aunt said, "why not get out the Criss Cross set and you three sit down and play it? Donald and I need to leave you young people to yourselves."

"Criss Cross?" Hans said.

"We're the only ones in Middle Economy owns a set," my uncle said.

"True for now," my aunt said, "but Reverend Witt's got one on order. He's going to try to incorporate it into his children's Bible class somehow."

"See, Hans," my uncle said, "back in 1931 a man named Alfred M. Butts invented this board game. He was an architect and he planned it out in detail and then pasted a model of it onto folding checkerboards. It's something like a cross word puzzle—not exactly, though. You connect words on the vertical and on the horizontal, and these words all have to reside in your head already. Because during play you're not allowed to consult a dictionary. We don't keep one in the house, anyway."

"I'll go over the rules with Hans, okay, Pop?" Tilda said.

"Anyway, Constance was visiting her childhood friend in St. John's, Newfoundland," my uncle said. "In fact, she's got another visit coming up. Isn't that right, Constance?"

"Happily," my aunt said.

"Her friend's Zoe Fielding," my uncle said. "Zoe received a Criss Cross set for Christmas, from an American. Zoe taught the game to Constance last visit, and Constance put one on order the minute she got home. And that's how Criss Cross arrived to our humble little part of Nova Scotia."

"Hans, believe me," Tilda said, "you'll take to this game like a fish to water."

"My goodness, that's true, isn't it," my aunt said. "Criss Cross is all but custom made for a philologist."

"Myself, I'm no good at it," I said.

"Maybe Hans'll make us both better," Tilda said.

"Remember, Hans, you can't use German words," my uncle said. "That's breaking the law." My uncle was pacing the room now. I hadn't seen him do that except when he heard terrible war bulletins on the radio.

"I see," Hans said.

"For example, you can't use Germaniawerft," my uncle said, "the operation which builds a lot of U-boats. Germaniawerft—never mind my pronunciation, Hans."

"Donald,
please
," my aunt said.

"Or Deutsche Werft, which built
U-553,
the one that sunk the
Nicoya
off the Gaspe," my uncle said. "And you can't use its goddamn son-of-a-bitch shithole commander's name, Karl Thurmann."

"I understand," Hans said.

"Come to think of it, don't try and get away with 'Rapunzel' or 'Rumpelstiltskin,' either."

Tilda took the Criss Cross set down from a shelf. My aunt washed and racked the dishes, and my uncle went outside to cool down with a cigarette. Tilda got all the little wooden Criss Cross letters lined up neatly. "You always have exactly ten letters to work with, Hans," she said.

"So, 'Rumpelstiltskin' wouldn't be allowed anyway," Hans said.

"Each turn, you spell out a word, then choose replacement letters. We play until all the letters run out," Tilda said, unfolding the board on the dining room table. Donald stepped back into the house. He and Constance said good night and repaired to their bedroom. Tilda, Hans and I sat at the table.

Tilda went through the few remaining rules, ending with "—each letter is worth a different amount. In the end, the player who's got the most points wins the game."

"It's mainly a spelling competition, I think," Hans said.

"Look at their values, Hans. Short words can be worth quite a lot," Tilda said. "The main thing is, you have to join your word to someone else's word." She formed a cross with her two pointer fingers. "Like an intersection on the road. The words
crisscross.
"

"I'm prepared to start," Hans said.

We played for an hour, then we had seconds of ice cream. Tilda made coffee, which we took into the parlor. Back at the table, it was Hans's turn. He set down "ravishing."

"That's a lot of points," Tilda said.

"Do you know this word, Wyatt? Ravishing?" Hans asked. "Its definition is—well, basically, it's Tilda. Don't you agree?"

Quitting the game, I left the house and walked to the wharf. Stood there hangdog, only in shirtsleeves. Roiled up. See, what had caught up with me, standing there in the cold fog of the wharf, was the stark belief that I was illiterate in matters of the heart. That is, I felt Tilda
was
ravishing, but I hadn't known to use that perfect word. I stood there for quite a while. Finally, my uncle's truck appeared and I walked toward it. My aunt was on the passenger side. They were both dressed properly for the weather. "You'll catch your death, Wyatt," my uncle said. I got in beside my aunt in the front seat. But my uncle opened his door and got out. He walked to the end of the dock and smoked a cigarette.

"Tilda said you might be down here," my aunt said.

"Where's Tilda now?" I said.

"She's not at home."

"I've a mind to go over to the bakery."

"And do what? You'd get to the bakery and do what?"

"Let's just get Uncle Donald and drive back to the house, then."

"Donald won't smoke the whole cigarette, so with what time we've got, please listen."

"All right."

"First off, I took to heart your undignified behavior, Wyatt. I mean at supper, and later on when I eavesdropped on your game of Criss Cross. And just so you know, Donald and I are quite aware of Tilda and this German boy's fawning over each other right from the start. Make no mistake about it, Hans Mohring has a genuine courtship in progress."

"I know that," I said.

"We need to keep our distance from it, Donald and I. Tilda's allowed her young woman's discoveries, eh? On the other hand, and Lord knows I'm no great student of people, but when you and Tilda are in the same room, you should just see how you light up. And how often in a lifetime do you have to hear 'All's fair in love and war' for it to become useful?"

"Really, you see me as being in love with Tilda, Aunt Constance?"

"Yes I do. Yes I do. How do you see yourself, Wyatt?"

"The same way."

"Wyatt, here's my two cents' worth of advice: the longer Hans Mohring lives over the bakery, the sooner you might declare yourself to Tilda. Give yourself a fighting chance, young man!"

"But—and I don't quite know how to ask—is there anything in the Bible, or in Nova Scotia law, that speaks to cousins?"

"Tilda's merely
called
your cousin, but her being adopted, she's not blood relations, family-tree-wise she's not. I consulted Reverend Witt, and he said—grudgingly, but still—he said even the church recognizes this. Besides, Donald and I might as well be from Mongolia, considering how little Tilda resembles us. Hard not to notice, our features are a world apart."

"I see you've put a lot of thought into this, Aunt Constance."

"What I mean is, ethically, if you have feelings for Tilda, there's leeway. I hadn't felt the urgency to discuss this with you before, Wyatt. Neither had Donald, out in the shed. But now there it is."

"Well, thanks for coming out here, Aunt Constance. Some rescue mission."

"With Tilda, you might also try a divination. Some people believe in them. If a divination doesn't work, nothing happens. If it does work, life changes for the better."

"What'd be a proper divination?"

"Start with something simple. Name your bedposts after the one you love."

"Name my bedposts
Tilda Hillyer,
is that what you're suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting it can't hurt."

When I looked over, I saw my uncle douse his cigarette by holding it above his head and wagging it a few times in the fog-drenched air. He tossed the butt onto the dock, not into the sea. My uncle wasn't much given to superstition, but he'd warned more than once: never sully the sea, or someday it'll come back at you hard, tenfold.

O
N INTO AUTUMN OF
1942, there was, to my mind, a nagging sense of life being off kilter. Temperament-wise, my uncle sported a shorter and shorter fuse, and flare-ups, small and not so small, occurred between us at work, yet most of the time I couldn't figure out the provocation. Still, sleds and toboggans somehow got completed, deadlines were met, paperwork got done. There was, however, a new distance between Uncle Donald and me. Hard to say it right, but it seemed as if my uncle's closest human connection was now with the radio. For example —and this was a complete shock to my aunt and me—Donald didn't join us for dinner two, three or four evenings in a row. Some nights he'd come in so late, Constance would already be asleep. He wouldn't bother to heat up his food. Some nights I'd hear the radio and look in on him. He'd have his ear pressed to the speaker like a safecracker at a lock, except of course it was the tuning dial he turned in the tiniest calibrations.

Not wanting to act the lovesick village idiot anymore, especially in front of Tilda, I tried as best I could to avoid her and Hans. For the most part, this simply meant staying close to home. It helped that I was working such long hours, pretty much dawn to dusk, fairly collapsing after supper. What's more, when I listened to the rest of the house from my bed, I no longer heard the murmur of Tilda's reading from
The Highland Book of Platitudes
or
In a German Pension
or any other book. And one night, to my disturbing surprise, I realized I wasn't hearing my uncle's gramophone records, either.