Howard Norman - What Is Left the Daughter

"Did she?" My aunt looked momentarily flushed and stricken. "Did she, now?"

"In so many words."

"Donald won't, probably, be capable of attending. I understand that," she said. "This evening I'll stop by above the bakery and tell her I understand it."

"I'm sure she'll appreciate it, Aunt Constance."

"Of course, I wouldn't not stop by anyway. To say good-bye."

She placed an umbrella on top of her folded raincoat.

"There," she said, "it's done."

"It's a work of art, your packing," I said.

"I've left a little extra room," she said. "One should always leave a little room for a new purchase. I don't count on making a new purchase, but just in case."

My aunt closed the trunk, locked it, fastened the key to a piece of string she'd previously cut to length, then slid this bracelet onto her left wrist. "Do you mind, Wyatt, dear, setting this trunk near the front door?"

Yet before I even laid hands on the trunk, my uncle, standing outside the house, lifted a dining room window and said, "I've officially docked you a full day's wages." He hadn't shaved in at least a week. He looked exhausted, sallow, thinner in the face.

"I'll work this afternoon and tonight," I said.

"Don't bother," he said, and shut the window.

"Well, now," my aunt said, "not much effort at conversation, was there?"

"Not much, no," I said.

"Well, lately he talks with himself. Mainly."

"You know, Aunt Constance," I said, "given his seesaw moods of late, there's a chance that Uncle Donald might disrupt the wedding ceremony."

"Don't worry. He won't attend," my aunt said. "He might want to, but he won't. Donald won't go where he's not invited."

"I'd better get out my own suitcase," I said.

"It's two dollars fifty cents for the bus."

I lifted the trunk and placed it near the front door. My aunt went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. "I'd better bring Donald out some tea," she said. "Some tea for my husband of thirty-seven years, now sleeping in a shed."

CONSTANCE AND I BOARDED the Acadian Line at 10:05 on the morning of October 7. We took seats together, third row back, driver's side. She wore dark brown slacks, a white blouse, a sweater, a jacket. Comfortable shoes rounded out her travel attire. She had a scarf folded neatly in her handbag. Between Great Village and Truro we were the only passengers. Then, in Truro, two women boarded and sat together midway back of the bus, and immediately each took out a book to read. We had a thirty-five-minute layover in Truro. My aunt and I remained seated. She took out the thermos of tea she'd packed. Soon a vendor, a rough-hewn boy of fifteen or sixteen, walked down the aisle. He offered fried halibut sandwiches or ham-and-cheese. We both got the halibut.

The vendor went back into the depot. "Picnic on the bus," Constance said. "Life could be worse."

"You didn't have to pay for my sandwich," I said. "I have my own travel funds. Except for this past week, Uncle Donald's never been late with my wages."

"'Except' means an exception, and there shouldn't have been one."

"I won't press him on it."

"Pack your suitcase carefully?"

"You'll never know."

"When we get to Halifax, may I carry out a quick inspection?"

"No, you may not, Aunt Constance."

As the bus idled, the driver, Mr. Harrison (he and Mr. Standhope worked this route), went out to lean against the bus and smoke a cigarette. My aunt saved half of her sandwich, wrapping it back up and placing it in her handbag. In about twenty minutes the driver returned, followed by two young men, Canadian soldiers in uniform, who sat in the back row, smoked cigarettes, talked and laughed. The driver steered us out of Truro, southbound on the two-lane. Passenger stops included, this leg was scheduled at three hours fifteen minutes, which would deliver us to Halifax at five-fifteen.

"You might want to take your nap now," I said.

"Not yet."

"Then I'd like to ask you something. Do you mind?"

"I didn't say yes to you as a travel companion if I wasn't going to be companionable," my aunt said.

"Here's what, then. Rack my brains as I might, I can't figure out why Uncle Donald — I mean, considering his feelings about the U-boats — why—"

"Why in God's name would he allow me to travel on the ferry in the first place. Take the Caribou up to Sydney, then across to St. John's. Treacherous waters, what with the U-boats and all. Is that your question?"

"Yes."

Constance opened her handbag, reconsidered the remaining half of the sandwich. Finally, she ate it as if she were famished. In fact, for the first time in my experience, a completely unheard-of phenomenon, she spoke with food in her mouth: " — slept in the shed."

"I didn't quite get that," I said.

I waited while she finished the sandwich. "I slept in the shed last night," she said. "I wouldn't be seeing Donald till after the christening, so I went out to be with him. In marriage you have to adapt, eh? I adapted out to the shed. And we talked, husband and wife. Though I admit it's not comfortable out there. Those newspaper headlines on the wall are unpleasant. Anyway, to his credit Donald did desperately try to talk me out of leaving home. But I said it's a christening. It's Zoe's grandchild — my oldest friend's grandchild. Friendship is provisional, Wyatt — you have to keep earning it. Back and forth, give the gift that's only each other's to give, as the hymn says. How long have I been friends with Zoe Fielding? Since we were five years old! I reminded Donald of all that. We had tea in the shed. I turned the radio off. I said, 'I simply won't miss the christening.' And that's when Donald used strong language. God's name — in vain. Language I don't approve of, but it was heartfelt."

"Then what happened?"

"My husband and I called a truce and neither slept."

"You didn't sleep at all last night?"

"Though Donald had offered me the cot. But, yes, soon I'll need that nap."

"Everyone I love most can't sleep well lately."

"Somewhere in Tilda's book, it says, 'Plead, cajole and foist your opinion as you must, yet it does not necessarily change another's mind.' Donald tried and failed with me. The christening won out, and that's all there is to it. I've said to Tilda more than once: those platitudes aren't much good for predicting life, but they often manage to sum up what's just happened pretty well."

"I've never cracked the cover of that book. It's by Tilda's bed."

"Formerly her bed, eh?"

We were silent a few moments, then Constance said, "My husband asked why didn't I think ahead to go the first stretch by automobile. That'd limit it to only one, much shorter ferry ride, just across to St. John's. But drive all the way up to Sydney Mines in Cape Breton to catch that ferry? Those roads? At my age, with these old creaky bones?"

"By going out to the shed, you're saying what? That it's not just friendship that's provisional."

"Marriage is, too. Correct."

"Thirty-seven years, it's still—"

"More painfully than ever, provisional. Haven't you noticed?"

My aunt shut her eyes then. But she didn't sleep. Apparently she just wanted to talk with her eyes closed. "Reach into my handbag, there, Wyatt. I'm giving you permission. There's a folded-up sheet."

I found the piece of paper and read what was on it, a poem neatly printed in ink:

CASABIANCA

Love's the boy stood on the burning deck

trying to recite "The boy stood on

the burning deck." Love's the son

stood stammering elocution

while the poor ship in flames went down.

Love's the obstinate boy, the ship,

even the swimming sailors, who