“It’s the common-most way to get there, isn’t it? She and I might walk by. Or she alone. Maybe to swim. With this ungodly heat, and what with pregnancy being uncomfortable enough as it is. I remember Janice practically lived in that pond the summer Maggie was born.”
“I don’t get it. Maggie’s not cruel. I don’t recognize her in this so-called directive.”
“Start recognizing her in it, is my advice, take it or leave it. Consider it a way she keeps control, buys herself a little time to figure things out. A camera works through a window — take the opportunity to start your family album.”
“Will she take me back, William? I am asking directly. Once the baby’s born?”
“In my opinion, based on nothing but my opinion, she’s considering it. If I were you — God help me — if I were you, I’d comply. Don’t comply, well, I’m fit as a fiddle now, almost. I can drive the truck again. I can visit my daughter in Halifax. She doesn’t have to travel up here. But consider things on her behalf: the estate’s peaceful for her, with the possible exception of your presence.”
“I see.”
“The word ‘directive’ now fits like a glove, doesn’t it?”
“When’s Maggie visiting next?”
“Not until two days from now. Saturday. It’s a work week. She still works for a living.”
“If I write out a list, will you pick up some film for me? I’m not supposed to drive on these painkillers.”
“I’ll do it first thing tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“Margaret is quite capable of raising a daughter on her own. Don’t think for a minute she isn’t. And don’t think for a minute she won’t. Patience, I’m sure, will be useful in this situation, David, but don’t count on patience alone to provide results you think are fair, or any other such goddamn nonsense like fairness. Jesus, man, what’s wrong with you? You’ve got everything to lose. You’ve got to act on your feelings for Margaret best you can. Do something besides thinking.” William got up from his porch swing; it squeaked a little and both men laughed. “Anyway, just put the list on the front seat of the truck. You’ll fend for breakfast yourself, eh? I guess orange juice and toast won’t challenge you beyond your present abilities.”
The wild swans left on Saturday morning at dawn. During their occupation of the pond, the Tecoskys’ swans were confined to the pen. David had sprayed them with a hose four times a day. Maggie arrived to the estate at 10:15 A.M. David had stayed up the entire night before, nervous about seeing his own wife. Since 7:30 A.M., after freeing the swans from the pen, he had stood at the window. He ate breakfast standing there. Drank coffee. Cleaned his telephoto lens. Now, looking through the kitchen window as she slowly emerged from her car, David saw that Maggie was wearing a loose-knit pair of slacks, a white blouse and black flats. She stopped halfway to the porch, turned toward the guesthouse, placed her hands, fingers splayed, on her considerable belly and gazed at them. Then she went into the main house.
David took up his Nikon from the table. The kitchen window looked out on a wider stretch of lawn than any other in the guesthouse, and therefore allowed the longest duration of time he might view Maggie, should she walk to the pond and back. At 11:50 William and Maggie did walk to the pond. William carried a picnic basket. David attached the telephoto lens. Maggie wore a skirted one-piece swimsuit obviously designed for pregnant women, and David thought she looked wonderful. He noticed that she appeared a touch weary around the eyes. Their pace was leisurely and they didn’t hesitate in the least while passing the guesthouse. Nor did Maggie look over. David snapped six photographs, the final one capturing Maggie and William entirely from the back.
When they reached the pond, Maggie pointed at the swans; two were on the water, the rest on the far bank, sleeping, preening, the usual repertoire. William removed the loafer from his left foot, dipped his toes in, testing the water. He said something to Maggie. She carefully waded in. David could hear her laughter through the screen door. Submerged up to her waist, she stretched out across the surface and performed a few sidestrokes, drifted, stroked out to the middle and back. David took photographs all along from the porch. Maggie got out of the water. David photographed their picnic, a few swans paddling close for handouts, receiving none.
William walked back to the main house. David went into his kitchen. Replacing the telephoto lens with a shorter one, David photographed Maggie as she walked past half an hour later. She combed her fingers through her hair, twisted the ends, ringing out pond water. When she was directly in front of the kitchen window, she stopped. Maggie allowed David to chronicle her braiding her hair into two pigtails, and then, without once meeting his eyes, she continued on.
This tableau — David behind a window, Maggie just outside — constituted part of the same choreography of punishment and encouragement that defined each of Maggie’s visits over the next few weeks, and raised in William’s mind questions about what inventive stupidities people were capable of when wounded and confused, no matter their native intelligence. No matter their love for each other.
He’d come to some new knowledge about his daughter, always a useful thing, he knew. He thought about her situation most often at night while listening to opera. On the one hand, he admired her having built such a forbidding moat around herself. Why should she let David easily cross it? They had not even had time to set up house, and then that London hotel room. Dunce. On the other hand, William worried that her visits — this directive, et cetera — had a recklessness about them. That Maggie’s appearances and exhibitions, these opportunities for David to begin their family album under house arrest, contained a taunting vindictiveness he previously had no idea was part of his daughter’s nature, and whether justified or not, such displays might erode the situation beyond repair. Though nothing could be concluded with certainty, he figured that obsessing like this partly defined being a father, in that he was obliged to think these thoughts but could not — except when asked, and even then he’d expect his opinions to be ignored — give advice to Maggie. Besides, what could he do about any of this? He tried not to lose sleep over it. But a person doesn’t get to choose what to lose sleep over.
When Maggie disappeared into the house, David went straight to the darkroom, spending hours developing the photographs. To his great relief they all were in focus. He hung the prints on a clothesline in the bathroom to dry, and later fitted each one in the album William had purchased in Parrsboro. Under each photograph, along with the date, he provided a simple caption: “Maggie opening a picnic basket,” “Maggie looking at swans,” “Maggie asleep on a blanket,” and so on. The captions served no purpose other than to describe the obvious. As for the photographs themselves, they qualified more as snapshots than anything. In this respect, they defied all influence of Josef Sudek, but were hardly original. Too bad: clichés often have some ring of truth; these were scenes he embraced. David’s photographs were constructions of memory, the album meant to preserve them, and he considered it a decent beginning.
Late Sunday morning, after taking photographs of Maggie walking to her car as she left for Halifax, David didn’t submit to any pain medication and drove the truck into Parrsboro for an early lunch at Minas Bakery. He’d telephoned William first, asking to use the truck, and William’s reply was “It’s low on gas, you’ll notice.”
The bakery was empty of customers. Dory Elliot was washing the pastry window, which she once referred to as “the best view in Parrsboro.” The window was full of lemon tarts, baked that morning. She got to the bakery at 4 A.M., as everyone knew.