Howard Norman - Devotion

David made his way into the water. Through thickening mist he heard William’s voice: “…Naomi Bloor telephoned. Someone’s brought in a gun-shot swan. She’s got it eating, but one wing is useless. Naturally she wanted to know if we’d take it in.”

“How can we not?” Isador said. “Of course. Yes.”

“I’ll let her know, then,” William said.

Silence, light splashing, then Isador said, “Stefania, I confess, on the hottest days, when you were off in Parrsboro, I’d swim in this pond without you. I hope you can forgive me.”

“But Isador, certainly you kept your suit on,” Stefania said. “You’ve always been too modest that way.”

“And when I went into Parrsboro?” Isador said. “On the hottest days?”

“Oh, certainly, Izzy. Of course I swam without you. But I was less modest.”

Laughter; silence; and then Maggie said in a tone of excited alarm, “I have to go to the hospital now.”

David said from his invisible place, “I’m here too!” But he was not heard; he might better have shouted. William helped Maggie gain dry ground, followed by Isador and Stefania. David clambered out last, but he’d been farthest out in the pond. Maggie saw him and said, “She’s arriving three days early, David. That’s probably my mother’s impatience with things”—thinking in terms of inheritances. Maggie, William, Stefania and Isador walked to the main house. David ran to the guesthouse, put on trousers and a long-sleeve white shirt and loafers, ran out and stood by Maggie’s car, which was parked next to the truck.

In a short while William emerged from the house carrying Maggie’s overnight case. Maggie came out next, followed by Stefania and Isador, who shut the door behind him. Wet hair; dry, clean clothes; Maggie and her beloved entourage, not a thought in their heads except for her and Stefania Field’s well-being. As things should have been. In Maggie’s room, the baby quilt, in the crib made by Ezra Murry, was turned down. Maggie then crouched with a moan and slightly pained laughter into the back seat of her car. Stefania got in next to Maggie, and Isador sat in the front seat, passenger side. William looked across the hood at David, who took a step forward, then stopped. “All of us will go on ahead,” William said. “You take the truck. Maybe get your camera, David. Why not take some pictures? For the album, remember?”

Maggie heard this through the open window; she approved, then felt a contraction. “We really need to go now, Dad,” she said. “I mean right now.”

“Right,” William said, getting in behind the wheel and starting up the car. They drove off. David lit out for the guesthouse, got his camera, and by the time he looked again, Maggie’s car was out of sight. David knew William would drive forthrightly.

David set the camera on the front seat of the truck, turned the ignition, drove to Route 2, where William stood next to Maggie’s car near the mailbox. He held his right hand outstretched and began to push downward in rapid motions, gesturing David to stop the truck. David parked where the drive met Route 2, switched off the ignition, grabbed his camera and got out. He stood next to the truck. “There’s room in the back seat,” Maggie said through the open window.

David did not know who convinced whom and didn’t care. He slid in beside Maggie. She held her right hand palm-up on her knee, and David pressed his left hand over it. They hesitated, then plaited their fingers together tightly. “Off to the next adventure,” she said, a phrase favored by her mother. She closed her eyes.

November 24, 1986

Dear Margaret,

On the airplane I looked back out the window at Nova Scotia and thought about that hymn your mother liked so much, cannot for the life of me recall the tide, but it included “the entire Kingdom we can see.”

I want you to know that your old pop is completely devoted to Stefania Field. But here’s something else came to mind on the flight. Over the past ten years there’s been one in particular of the Tecoskys’ swans who I’ve noticed is, almost without fail, either first or last onto the pond. Brave and impetuous one day, hesitant and fallen back the next. I find some familiar human tendency in this. You either can’t wait or you don’t want to jump in. Maybe what I’m trying to get at is, you and David couldn’t wait. To get married, I mean. Then you didn’t want to be. Now you’ve got a daughter — and there’s lots of room in between those two fixed points to exist in. Sorry, Margaret, for the clumsy language, but your dad never took a poetry class in school, as you know. Enough, anyway. Maybe I’m just tired.

I’m set up in this bed & breakfast for another week and generally engaged like last time as a tourist. I had my visit with Mr. Reginald Aston, but won’t see him again. A very busy man, and I doubt I’ve ever seen someone more dedicated to his profession. His assistant drove us down to the Thames and we toured eight different swan haunts elsewhere as well, and that was an education. Back in his office, nicely appointed, we had tea and Mr. Aston reviewed for me an average day’s work. I asked him some of my questions, which he took seriously. He said he’s entirely self-taught, from being given the opportunity, from observation, of course, and from books on avian medicine. He said over the years he’s made mistakes, none of which directly caused a swan to lose its life, except once. Then he told me he’d taken Winston Churchill to see black swans thirty miles out of London — during the Blitz. It’s a moment unknown to history, as he put it. “Just the two of us in a car like anyone’s. Two soldiers along as well. Mr. Churchill gazed at the swans for some time. Their composure seemed to give him heart.” To Mr. Aston’s surprise, swans had long been admired by Winston Churchill, who gave Mr. Aston a pencil sketch he’d done of one. Near the end of my visit Mr. Aston took that very sketch from the wall and pointed out Churchill’s personal best regards.

Kindly meet me at the airport at 10:10 on December 1. Lord’s sake, I take it the swans will be at the children’s zoo by then. I look forward to home. I must see Stefania Field right away — and you, dear Margaret. And David when convenient.

Love,

Dad

Two of HOWARD NORMAN’s novels, The Northern Lights (1987) and The Bird Artist (1994), were nominated for the National Book Award. His other novels include The Museum Guard, The Haunting of L, Devotion, and What is Left the Daughter. His books have been translated into twelve languages. Norman is the recipient of a Lannan Award in fiction, and he teaches at the University of Maryland.