My sense was, all this sadness and regret provided a calm interlude. I knew it couldn't last long.
"Uncle Donald, might they return Aunt Constance's wardrobe trunk?" Honestly, this question served no good purpose, but it was all I could think to ask.
"Now, right there, Wyatt, is a true blessing," he said. "That is a true spot of grace in all this. Because Navy Secretary Macdonald's assistant said the wardrobe trunk will arrive here by bus. They promised."
"A keepsake," I said. "For Tilda."
"What's best for me now, Nephew, is to go out to my shed. I can do some sanding. I can sand for an hour or two and think. Plus, I have my own radio out there, as you know."
"I'd like to work out there with you, Uncle Donald."
"You know what I think? It's possible my Constance isn't going to be found in all of eternity," he said. "We should cobble together a family this evening, is what I think. Will you invite Tilda and her husband for me?"
"Listen," I said, "do you know what Hans Mohring did? Out of his own pocket, he bought new copies of just about every one of the gramophone records you smashed to pieces, Uncle Donald. He bought them at Ballade and Fugue."
"German-owned record shop?"
"No, sir, the owner's name — you go back and read the newspaper article, Uncle Donald. The shop owner who those RCN beat up — Randall Webb is not German."
"Consorted with them, though."
"You like Beethoven, Randall likes Beethoven," I said. "Uncle Donald, please listen to what I'm saying. The important thing: Hans glued the pieces together and figured out which they were. Maybe it was as much to please Aunt Constance as anything. But he specifically said he did it to make amends with you."
"Where are these gramophone records?"
"His and Tilda's rooms."
"Well, I'm seeing things in a different light now. All right, how about this? To make amends, Hans should bring those gramophone records to the house. And Tilda should be here, too. Her mother's gone, Wyatt."
"Tilda doesn't know that yet. She's been waiting for news just like you. She doesn't know Secretary Macdonald telephoned."
"You know the best thing I can do for Tilda, so recently in wedlock? I should try and knock some sense into my son-in-law's head. Maybe he and Tilda should go to Montreal. Or to someplace. Sit out the war, and he could tell people his accent's Swedish or from Denmark. See, considering what heroic measures should be taken, like the radio said. I think it's my father-in-law responsibility to point out it's dangerous times for a German in Nova Scotia. See, that'll be the give-and-take, right there. He'll give me the gramophone records—'Thanks, thanks'—and I'll give him solid advice."
I drove to the bakery and went directly upstairs, where I found Hans and Tilda each packing a suitcase.
"Navy Secretary Macdonald just now telephoned Uncle Donald," I said. "Aunt Constance isn't coming home."
"I knew it was true," Tilda said. "In my heart of hearts, I knew." She and Hans embraced, but Tilda got a bit frantic and suddenly held him at arm's length. "I have to go see my father."
"Yes, he's a widow now," Hans said.
"I know he wants to see you, Tilda," I said. "In fact, he wants us all, you, me and Hans, over tonight. He said Hans should bring the gramophone records."
"You told him about that?" Hans said.
"I was speaking on your behalf, Hans."
"We're taking the morning bus out," Tilda said. "It's for the best."
"How's that?" I asked. "How for the best?"
"The people in Middle Economy, they're good, gentle people for the most part. But they don't know Hans."
"There's not been enough time to know him."
"It all adds up to the same thing, Wyatt," she said. "No body's fault. They just don't know him. They don't yet know us as a married couple. And now look what's happened. The U-boat that killed my mother will be in Reverend Witt's sermon on Sunday, mark my words."
"I don't wish to make anyone here uncomfortable," Hans said.
"Have you listened to the radio, Hans? The whole goddamn world's uncomfortable!" I said. "What's uncomfortable got to do with anything?"
"Shut up, Wyatt. Just shut up," Tilda said. "Listen, Hans has a university friend in Vancouver, graduated last year. Hans telephoned him, and he'll take us in."
"Vancouver — all the way to the west coast of Canada," I said.
"Yes, Wyatt, that's where Vancouver's located," she said.
"All right, all right, all right, I can see your thinking. Still—"
"We counted our pennies," Tilda said, "and it's just enough, or almost."
"All right. I'll drive you to the bus personally," I said. "But you have to promise to come to the house tonight. Jesus Christ on the cross, just now I don't know any of what's what anymore."
"The world's a shithole," Tilda said. "That's what."
"About leaving tomorrow — your mind's completely made up?"
Tilda sighed deeply and said, "It's two weeks and five days by bus to Vancouver. There's a number of transfers. Off one bus, onto another. I won't promise you a postcard along the way, but I promise one once we've arrived, Wyatt." She went into their bedroom, and I could see her scrutinize each item of clothing in the bureau, rejecting, accepting. Either way, everything got neatly folded and put back in a drawer or into her suitcase. And I thought, Like mother, like daughter.
I went downstairs first and told Cornelia that Constance was gone. We all shared a supper of sandwiches and tea, the talk smaller than small, all life-and-death subjects avoided. Cornelia cleared the dishes. Then Hans said, "Tilda, I'd like to have a short time with your father alone, please."
"You sit with me awhile, then, Tilda," Cornelia said. "We'll talk things over."
"One hour at the most, Hans," Tilda said. "I mean that as much as I've ever meant anything. In one hour I'll be at my house."
"Why not let's walk there together, Hans," I said. "I'll leave my car for Tilda."
"Good," Hans said. "Good, good, good. Let me get the gramophone records and we'll go."
I took a flashlight from the glove compartment of my car. When Hans returned carrying the records, wrapped in a couple of shirts, we set out along the road. The weather was typical for October, cold rain. Hans tucked the records inside his overcoat. Our hair was immediately soaked, and I said, "Oh, well, it's not that far." The flashlight beam made almost a solid tunnel out ahead, and rain could be seen etching across it slantwise. We bent into the wind and walked at as steady a pace as we could. Finally, still out on the road but directly across from the house, Hans threw his arm over my shoulder and said something, but I couldn't make it out. "What?" I shouted.
Hans cupped his hands over my ear and said, "This is the same kind of night our child was conceived. Tilda is quite certain of which night it is on the calendar. We were out on the road and we saw the library. Tilda had a key, so we escaped inside. We didn't leave till morning."
Hans then crossed the road, so there was no chance for me to reply, let alone take in his news. I hurried to catch up. There were a number of lights on. Thick gray smoke was torn to rags as it rose from the chimney, gone into the darkness. Hans waited on the porch, and when I joined him I opened the front door, heard the radio, stepped in and said, "Uncle Donald?"
From behind me I heard, "You're not sleepwalking, are you, Hans?"
"No, sir, I'm not," Hans said, laughing a little. "Why would you think so?"
I turned to see my uncle. He'd arrived unnoticed around the side of the house. Hans hadn't seen him yet; he half smiled and began to unbutton his overcoat, no doubt reaching for the gramophone records. That was when my uncle brought a toboggan runner down on Hans's head. The sound was sickening. I can't compare it to anything.