Howard Norman - Next Life Might Be Kinder

“Of course, people are just people.”

“And people talk, and I’m sorry they talk about certain—”

“I’m not well known as a writer, not in the least. It’s everything else that got me in the newspaper.”

“‘I’m not a household name except in my own household, and then only on occasion’—that’s from Robertson Davies, a very fine Canadian novelist. Comical stuff, you probably know it.”

“I’ll return the book on time. Thank you. It was nice talking with you.”

I drove to the little grocery in town and purchased some milk and eggs. On my return, going past the library, I noticed Bethany Dawson standing in the small cemetery out back of the library. She was jotting something in a notebook. I stopped my truck, got out, and walked over to her. “Ah, Sam Lattimore,” she said, “your book’s not overdue yet.”

“Sorry to bother you. I saw you out here and I was just wondering what you were up to.”

“Well, I have a number of occupations. Besides my being the librarian, the Town of Port Medway has hired me to research every single grave in this cemetery. Who’s who, family histories, all like that. I’m filling up notebook after notebook. Next I’ll be doing research on the little cemetery by the wharf. All my employments are within a short distance of my very own house. Which suits me just fine. I’ve actually — this might seem odd — I’ve actually purchased a grave site. Right over there, top left, by the fence. Even if I don’t for some reason stay on as Port Medway librarian, I choose to be buried here.”

“At least you know where you’re heading in life.”

“That’s precisely how I thought of it. But you’re wondering what I’m copying out. It’s the epitaph on this stone here.” She pointed to a very tall, narrow gravestone in front of us. “It’s what scholars in the field call a retribution marker. There’s half a dozen in Nova Scotia, the majority up in Cape Breton.”

“Retribution?”

“Yes, just read what it says.”

In France it was I saved

my brother Donald McMillian’s life,

not vice versa.

It was I carried him

back to the trench.

God as my witness.

— Henry McMillian

“Beautiful language,” I said.

“Beautiful language revealing a big, nasty family secret. And as part of my research, I found out that Henry McMillian — may he rest in peace here — Henry and his older brother, Donald, both served in the same Canadian infantry unit in France during World War I. Their family was close to the Dewis family, who at one time lived in Port Medway but now live in Advocate Harbor, up along the Bay of Fundy. My research took me up to Advocate Harbor. Want to hear what I transcribed from Mrs. Annie Dewis, age eighty-one, up there?”

“Very much.”

We went back inside the library. Bethany Dawson opened a metal cabinet and took out a notebook. She sat at her desk and paged through it until she found the right entry. “Okay,” she said, “this is from Annie Dewis, transcribed from a tape recording. I can’t do her voice justice, but here goes:

Donald McMillian simply couldn’t live down the shame of it. It ate away at him that he’d lied. All those years about it being him who saved his brother Henry’s life. It was Henry, by the way, who suffered the mustard-gas cough, whereas Donald breathed freely. In 1926 Henry McMillian drowned off a lobster boat, gone missing into perpetuity. His marker is down to Port Medway. So his grave is empty, having died at sea. He died angry at his brother, which is awfully sad, to my mind. Some say it was innocent drunken carelessness, the two brothers out in the lobster boat that morning. But those who say that are fools, too much faith in mankind. And you know, folks who have too much faith in mankind, they live everywhere, not just in Nova Scotia.

Rarely, but still now and then, a murder visits our province. My opinion? This was a brother murdering a brother, like in the Bible. Bible, with the exception of it occurring on a lobster boat. As for proof of it being a murder, all the proof I ever needed was the fact that shortly after Henry drowned, Donald married Henry’s wife, Evie. They got married in Peggy’s Cove, not at home. No, they eloped to Peggy’s Cove! They just came back and announced, “Well, we’re married now.” Their courtship was dishonest. How about those sour apples?

Now, they waited months to have the service, in case the body washed up, but it never did. So when Henry McMillian was laid to rest by sermon only — since the body’s not in the grave — when his spirit was laid to rest in the ground, there was a fellow named Baron Wormser, a real artist with a chisel, he could chisel an epitaph in either vertical-horizontal traditional print or beautiful cursive, just like on a Hallmark greeting card. Anyway, Baron Wormser had been paid three years in advance by Henry McMillian himself, and since you’ve already copied out what it says on Henry’s marker, you know the exact words Mr. Wormser was obligated to chisel. He was obligated to carry out Henry McMillian’s wishes for retribution, those wishes being signed, sealed, and delivered in a legal contract. And Mr. Wormser being a dignified person with pride in his profession, properly did it, properly under the watchful eyes of God. I attended graveside, and let me tell you that when everyone went down to the cemetery and read those words you could have knocked every last person over with a feather. You’d just have to ask the Lord: how did Henry McMillian keep that to himself all those years? The discipline of the righteous sometimes knows no bounds. Kept his brotherly heroic act in France to himself all those years. And here’s the icing on the cake. The very day that Henry’s spirit was laid to rest, his brother Donald purchased a new pair of scissors. Then he secured those scissors in the attic window in his and Evie’s house, which formerly was the house Evie and Henry lived in. You had better believe that Donald prayed every night that the scissors worked. Scissors in the window — you want to know what that’s all about? Well, it has to do with ghosts. A scissors placed to keep an attic window shut keeps out unwanted ghosts. And it keeps wanted ghosts in. Wanted, unwanted. The scissors let the house enforce the distinction. Tell me: why would anyone not believe Henry McMillian? Come now, why would anyone lie on their own gravestone?

Bethany allowed this story to register a moment, then asked if I’d like a copy of the notebook pages. “For your reading pleasure,” she said, “on a rainy night.” I said yes, and she made one on the Xerox machine near her desk, then returned the notebook to the file cabinet. When she sat behind her desk again, she said, “And now I have a question for you, if you don’t mind. When we first spoke on the telephone, you said you didn’t think there’d be much worry about theft — of library books.”

“Yes, I remember saying something to that effect.”

“I only mention it because, in the whole time I’ve been librarian here, there’s never been a book stolen. Oh, certainly there’s been some absent-mindedness. People forget about a book for a week or two past the due date. That’s to be expected. Two years ago Philip Slayton accidentally took a book to Africa for a month — well, maybe not accidentally, but not on purpose with ill intent. On his return, once he got over jet-lag, he settled the full fine. But theft of books? No, we hadn’t had that until around a year ago, I think it was, give or take a month…”

“What happened then?”

“Eleven books suddenly gone missing. We were in the middle of an inventory. One of our volunteers brought the titles to my attention. You see, the first year I was librarian, a woman named Mary Evans — she’s in the cemetery by the wharf — you may have noticed we have the Mary Evans Children’s Reading Room. Port Medway paid for the plaque out of public funds. Well, Mary Evans donated her personal library. It was more personal than most, because it had so many of the books she herself read as a child. She even spoke to several elementary school classes here in the library. A very pleasant woman.”