Howard Norman - What Is Left the Daughter

Though a police cordon had been set up to keep onlookers at a distance, you could get close enough to see everything there was to see, except of course inside U-99, and who'd want to see that? I stood with a family of five — mother, father, two daughters and a son — and since each had their own camera, I figured they must be well-to-do. "At our hotel I read in the newspaper they're going to clean this U-boat right up," the son remarked with excitement. He looked to be twelve or thirteen. "Then they're going to move it to the Maritime Museum."

I lingered at U-99 long enough to realize I never wanted to see it again. The next time I'm in Harbor Methodist, I told myself, I'd fall on my knees and pray not to ever see it again. I knew where the Maritime Museum was. I'd have no difficulty keeping away.

I got a scone and coffee in an open-air café in the historic district and read the Mail, which had a two-page article about the salvage of U-99, but gave no details about what was found inside. The article did include an official statement from the RCN: "Records show that on December 19, 1944, at approximately 3:15 A.M., Axis attack submarine U-99 was severely damaged under a massive barrage of depth charges, and in all probability drifted or was mistakenly steered with crippled maneuverability into Halifax Harbor, where it was ensnared in antisubmarine fencing and finally sunk to the bottom. Records also indicate that U-99 was one of the last to have carried out attacks in Eastern Maritime Canadian waters."

The following Sunday I went to the ten-fifteen service at Harbor Methodist. I didn't feel particularly inspired, but there I was anyway, on my way to church. Maybe it's a simple equation: if you arrive uninspired, a sermon has a fighting chance to inspire you, but if you're already inspired, a sermon has to work wonders. Approaching the church, I'd seen on the bulletin board that the title of Reverend Lundrigan's sermon was A POSSIBLE ANODYNE. I'd never heard the word "anodyne" before (my thoughts went to Hans Mohring; had he known what it meant?), and when I walked in and sat, as usual, in the back pew, Lundrigan was already holding forth:

"Anodyne — it's not a word recently in good repute. But, my friends and neighbors, we all need an anodyne, and the definition, according to Webster's dictionary, will tell you why." He set a dictionary next to the Bible on the lectern, put on his reading glasses and continued. "One: a medicine that relieves or allays pain. Two: anything that relieves distress or pain; as in, the music was an anodyne to his grief. Three: soothing to the mind or feelings." He closed the dictionary but left it on the lectern. "And may I suggest that God can be an anodyne. Think of Job — think of others in biblical times who needed God at moments of great distress, facing challenges of immense proportions. But I don't wish to speak about that quite yet, my friends. For as you know, the sea has recently delivered us a disquieting messenger — a messenger in the form of a German submarine. We must look directly at this messenger and say, 'Evil One, we defeated you. We put you in chains and we defeated you. You have come back to try and torment us with bygone fears, but we reject you!' Here, today, on this holy Sunday in Harbor Methodist Church, Halifax, Nova Scotia, we call forth the memory of our best good deeds and how Canada defended its own. Let me now read from Scripture—"

My whole life, Marlais, I've had difficulty coming up with the right word to use in a given situation, but at least I know what the right word would have been once I hear it. After about two more minutes of Reverend Lundrigan's sermon, I left Harbor Methodist and walked home. I took out my Web ster's, purchased at J. P. MacPherson's pawnshop for a dollar, and studied the definition of "anodyne" again. When I'd bought my Webster's, J. P. had said, "This wasn't fished out of the harbor, but some of its pages are frayed, some might be missing. Don't worry, there's more than enough words left to improve the English of the average detritus gaffer like yourself." She meant it nicely.

And so, Marlais, my letter has caught up with the present moment — right now—7:35 A.M. on April 21. My next-door neighbors in the house formerly occupied by Reese Mac Isaac — Marshall and Caryn Phillips — have already left for work. They're both physicians. Through my kitchen window I can see their seventeen-year-old daughter, Elizabeth — Lizzy — sitting alone at their kitchen table having breakfast. She'll catch the school bus at 7:40 at the corner of Robie and Welsford. And like every morning for the past two months, she's playing Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. Lizzy's got it at full volume on her record player— I read the news today, oh boy —and I'm going to open my kitchen window a little to hear it more clearly. I like the Beatles a lot, and wish Marshall and Caryn would've left earlier than usual for work so Lizzy could've played even more of Sgt. Pepper. When she heads off for school, I'll put on the Bach cello suites that I bought at Ballade & Fugue. For no good reason, I'm taking the day off work. Since in all these years I've never taken my yearly two-week vacation, I've got hundreds of days saved up.

In yesterday's post there was a letter from Cornelia. I have it here in front of me. I'm going to copy it out for you.

Wyatt,

I haven't mentioned this, because I didn't know how things might turn out. It's been in the works for some time now to try and find a new librarian. First Mrs. Oleander passed, and her successor, Miss Claire, married and went to live in London. Since then, we've had able volunteers, but a professional was badly needed. It was my brainstorm — I admit — to approach Marlais Hillyer for the position. After all, I knew her credentials, and she'd written that she was not having the best of luck with gainful employment in Denmark. Plus which, she has a house in the village. Of course, it's her house by rights.

So as of today, I'm freely privileged to inform you that Marlais is our new librarian! Even by the high standards set by Mrs. Oleander and Miss Claire, there's much confidence in this decision. I know because I heard this confidence expressed more than once in my bakery. Naturally, when Marlais requested that Chester and Delia Waterford, who were the most recent tenants in Donald and Constance and Tilda's house, find a new place to live, they understood right off, and now they live in Advocate. That went smoothly. Marlais arrives tomorrow.

I'm soon to be seventy-five. You'd look at me, though, and be fooled into thinking I wasn't a day over seventy. I suppose I'll have to bake my own birthday cake. I must confess, my fingers still feel youthful when I'm baking, seldom times else. And of course I'm pleased that my bakery continues and that I can still manage the stairs up to my room.

Wyatt, dear, I pray you're in good health and in as good spirits as can be expected. After you've read this letter, I'd think a visit from you was in order.

Don't forget: now and then, life can be improved upon.

Your old friend,

Cornelia Tell

And now I know where to send my stack of pages: Marlais Hillyer, Cove Road, Middle Economy, Nova Scotia, Canada. I'll post it this morning.

Given my absence, Marlais, I have few expectations, and may deserve fewer. But I won't bring loathsome sentiment into the bargain here, as I'm fully aware that my life has been all failure and delinquency toward my daughter, who deserved far better. But let me say this: I wish to see you and talk with you. My coming to Middle Economy, to the library or to your house, may not be quite the right thing, not just yet, if ever. I must tell you, however, I've consulted a road map and there's even possibilities on it, too. For instance, do you know what restaurant's still in business? The one overlooking the Tidal Bore in Truro, and we could meet there.