Howard Norman - What Is Left the Daughter

"Now, Hans?" Tilda said. "I don't know if I can spell correctly. My head's stuffed with cotton."

"Yes, I'm afraid so, Tilda, now , please. And Tilda, it doesn't matter, your spelling," Hans said. "Please add, 'He loved the Schubert impromptus best.'"

Tilda took the obituary out of the roll-top desk drawer, then sat at the desk and began to write. I went down to the bakery. Cornelia was behind the counter; the radio was giving the weather forecast.

"Oh, Wyatt, there you are," she said. "I heard your vigil all night, you three. Young people gathering together against terrible news. Now that's resourceful. My worry is, if my own mind, just here in the bakery, has gone to hellish places, I don't want to imagine where Donald's has gone to."

"Cornelia," I said, "you are my aunt's closest friend. You yourself must be out of your mind with worry."

She brought a pot of coffee and a cup to a table and I sat down there. Tilda walked in and said, "I completely forgot, it's today I've got my funeral up to Lorneville. Completely forgot, completely forgot."

"Tilda, speaking on your behalf here," Cornelia said, "I'm not sure going to a cemetery's the best idea in the world. But I suppose work is work."

"Whatever the truth about Mother is, it's going to be the truth in three or four hours, or whenever I get back. Besides which, I promised the Drake family up there. Mom always said, a true gentleman or a true gentlewoman always keeps their promise, no matter what the rest of the world's like."

"I take it you want me to drive you to Lorneville," I said.

"It's a Mrs. Winslow Ledoyt Drake who passed," Tilda said. "Age ninety-four and outlived everybody who might've otherwise attended. Mrs. Drake's two daughters have been informed in England, but the war's got them stuck there, so it's just going to be me and Reverend Greene and the weather. Anyway, Hans isn't coming along. I said he shouldn't be alone. We didn't spat, but he didn't budge on this, so, yes, I'm turning to you and asking you. You don't have to get out of the car. During the service you could drive around if you wanted to."

This cannot reflect well on me, Marlais, but I was glad for the opportunity to be alone with Tilda, not to mention get away from my nerve-racked uncle and the empty house. So I accepted. Tilda had two cups of coffee in a row, and I had a second. "I'm going upstairs now," she said, "to change into my black dress." In fifteen or so minutes, we set out due east along the two-lane through Bass River, Portapique and finally to Glenholme, where we turned onto a well-kept dirt road. We traveled north, slowly curving westward, past Londonderry Station, then slowed down considerably in order to find the narrower dirt road leading into Lorneville. The only thing Tilda said the entire time was "Actually, this dress is quite comfortable."

The cemetery was within sight of the village of Lorneville. It had at least twice as much property as the one in Great Village. The service was scheduled for ten A.M., and we were right on time. Reverend Greene must have walked to the cemetery, or was dropped off, as there was no other car in sight. Smoothing down her dress, then fixing a bobby pin to her hair, Tilda said, "Well, here goes. The way I'm feeling, it's as if since yesterday I've stored up grief like rain in a rain barrel. I'm afraid this old Mrs. Drake's about to get drenched with tears. Then again, she might get short shrift if I decide to save everything for the news about Mom. We'll just see."

She attempted a smile but fell short, and when she got out of the car, I got out, too. I kept about three gravestones back, by the fence. Reverend Greene wore a heavy overcoat and fedora, as it was chilly and windy out and felt like it might snow, but Tilda went coatless. As it turned out, the grave had already been filled with dirt, properly tamped. And what did it matter, really? The moment Tilda stepped up to him, Reverend Greene said to her, "Shall we begin?" When he'd read about ten words from the Bible, the wind blew the hat off his head. It tumbled along the ground, smack into a gravestone. He didn't bother to retrieve it.

He spoke briefly about Mrs. Winslow Drake's lifelong devotion to Christ our Savior, to family and friends, and to the painting of miniature schooners built by her husband, Abial Drake, which graced fireplace mantels in many of her neighbors' homes. He kept looking over at me, maybe because having three was more respectful — less stark — than having just two people participate in the service. Especially since he and Tilda had both been hired.

Between the gusts of wind I was able to make out most of his words, right on through the Lord's Prayer. After the "amen," Reverend Greene added, "And Lord, please accept a separate prayer on behalf of Mrs. Winslow Drake's surviving daughters, Sadie and Vivian, who along with their husbands and children are under terrible siege and bombardment in London, England, on this very day. Please protect and keep them, so that someday they may visit their mother's grave and perhaps return to live in Nova Scotia."

He nodded to Tilda, stepped aside, and Tilda took over. I wondered if Reverend Greene had ever seen a professional mourner at work. As my aunt liked to point out, Tilda seldom did anything halfway, and as I soon observed, mourning was no exception. What's more, she was trying to build a reputation, so this would be a chance to impress Reverend Greene. In turn, he might recommend her around the province, if that's how it worked. But given how heavily thoughts of her mother must've weighed on her, I doubt she cared about ambition as she fell into a strange marionette's flailing of arms, wailing and moaning. To my eyes, at least, it was an authentic letting go.

In that windswept cemetery, as Tilda mourned a complete stranger, I recalled how stiffly I'd stood at my own parents' graves, how life felt tilted off-true, how I'd mainly wanted to sleep, how outsized my funeral suit had felt, even though it fit me perfectly. I realize all such comparisons are nonsense, but there in Lorneville, I thought: My dear aunt Constance may well have been drowned last night, whereas my mother and father… And then a snippet of a skip-rope song girls used to sing at my elementary school came to mind: "When the sea cried 'Repent! Repent!' only the sea obliged." Sometimes the girls would repeat "repent" ten times or more in a row. Like a lot of those skip-rope songs, it sounded happy-go-lucky, but actually it came from a dirge about a schooner lost in a storm, leaving widows, and children half orphaned, and empty graves in the village cemetery. And though I was remembering back a dozen or so years, it seemed I could really hear those girls singing, hear the slap and whir of the skip-rope, bells jangling on the wooden grips, their feet hitting the playground tar, their voices meshing into one voice. When I snapped out of this memory, I looked toward Reverend Greene and saw him leaning over Tilda, who had fainted and lay sprawled on Mrs. Winslow Drake's grave.

I ran to them and Reverend Greene said, "I don't imagine you have smelling salts."

I didn't know what I was doing, really, but I slapped Tilda's face back and forth, and she opened her eyes and said, "All right, Wyatt, that stung, and I'm cold."

Reverend Greene said, "Should I try and find a doctor?"

"I'll get her home now," I said.

Reverend Greene appeared too awkward to speak; he just couldn't wait to get out of there. He stuffed a small envelope into my coat pocket. It contained Tilda's fee. He walked over and picked up his hat, then set out toward Lorneville. When Tilda was able to stand, I fitted my coat over her shoulders and got her to the car. In the back seat she fell right to sleep.

Back home in Middle Economy, Tilda took immediately to her bed. Hans came down to the bakery and said, "She's asleep now, Wyatt. Thank you for getting her home."