"Do they have professional mourners in Denmark, I wonder."
"I don't know. But if they do, I'd need to learn the Danish language for that, don't you think, to do it properly? No, probably I'll find a different line of work. I'm resourceful, eh? The good thing, no matter what, is that Marlais will have, not exactly grandparents, but close as you can get."
"So much conviction, Tilda, that your plans will work out for the best."
"Less that, Wyatt, than I'm basing my decision on what I know of our past. Yours and mine."
I parked my car just down from the Esso station, close enough to watch your mother and you, hand in hand, climb onto the bus to Halifax. Mr. and Mrs. Mohring had left on an earlier bus. They were to meet you at the Lord Nelson Hotel. Then you'd steam across to Europe. A few days later I received a postcard: Bon voyage to us, it read. It was signed Your cousin Tilda Mohring. The way she put her signature made for more distance between us than the Atlantic Ocean.
You and Tilda were gone. And one final thing that convinced me that Tilda was genuinely starting a new life: she left behind The Highland Book of Platitudes, in clear view on her bedside table. I'd moved back into the house.
The day the church bulletin printed Hans's obituary was the day I began to let the sled-and-toboggan concern fall apart. Early the next morning, a Monday, I tacked the obituary to the shed wall near the door. I didn't hit a nail, sand a crossboard, fix a runner to a frame or paint a stripe — didn't attempt to do any work at all. I put on a gramophone record, cannot recall which one. Yet when the needle bobbed in the last groove, when the static began, I could hardly lift myself from my uncle's cot. Instead, I threw a hammer, which struck the tone arm, making the needle screech off the record.
Soup for supper, and afterward, all evening, no gramophone music in the house, no child's voice. Sitting at the kitchen table, I got the picture, as Cornelia might say. Absolutely, absolutely, absolutely, I got the bleak picture: this is how my days and nights in the house would be. And though it took a full two months to dismantle the business my uncle had built up over thirty years, it was just four days after you'd gone that I sat at the long table in the library and consulted the Halifax telephone directory, jotting down the names, addresses and telephone numbers of hotels. I composed letters to twelve hotels, asking about availability and rates. I enclosed a return postcard and stamp in each envelope. In a sense, I was already gone from Middle Economy.
I did manage to take an inventory, but it was an inventory of sleds and toboggans I'd never make. Sleds owed and promised, toboggans owed and promised. The shed was full of half-mades, slush boards not yet shellacked, cargo boxes not yet fitted. I brainstormed about selling the business, but after posting notices in the church bulletin, the Halifax Mail and the Truro newspaper, there were no takers. Not a single telephone call or postcard of inquiry. But what should I have expected? As Cornelia put it, "You know, Wyatt, when you think about it, who'd be interested? Probably have to be somebody who already makes sleds and toboggans and wants to move to Middle Economy. The only persons I think actually ever could fit that bill are Donald Hillyer and you." Eventually I sold off the surplus wood to Todd Branch.
In the bakery, on the morning of November 27, 1948, I said, "Cornelia, I'm moving back to Halifax."
"To your childhood house?"
"No, I need the money from rent."
"How much is it to rent a house in the city? I always wondered."
"Generally, I can't say. But mine costs fifty per month."
"It'll cost you nearly that much in petrol, since now you'll have to drive so many hours to sit here with me and eat my scones. And since my scones are sold out by nine A.M., think how early in the morning you'll have to leave Halifax."
"Rumor has it there's scones served in Halifax."
"Not mine, though."
"No, not yours."
"And as for a roof over your head?"
"I have enough savings to live on for I'd guess three months."
"Rooming house or hotel or whatnot, right?"
"Just yesterday I secured a hotel room."
"Write down the address, okay?"
I copied it out on a napkin from the return postcard I'd received. Cornelia cut off a piece of masking tape from its roll and stuck the napkin on the first page of a ledger. "My goodness," she said, "will you look at that? I've started an address book!"
We sat drinking coffee and looking out the window. It was a dreary overcast day, and if I remember correctly, one car and one pickup truck went by, and Mrs. Oleander stopped in for a sandwich. She joined our conversation, then went back to the library.
"I've kept this private," Cornelia said, "but before the war I used to take a bus into Halifax. I'd get a hotel room and I'd go to the cinema. Sometimes I'd go three nights in a row. Sometimes I'd see the same picture twice. Lately I'm considering starting up again."
"Your money's hard-earned, Cornelia. Why shouldn't you enjoy it?"
"And since you'll be in Halifax, you could escort me. Of course, that'd be like escorting someone your mother's age — may your mother rest in peace. And I'd understand if that'd be an embarrassment."
"It so happens, I did escort my mother to the cinema, on more than one occasion, in fact. Sometimes my father tagged along, sometimes he didn't. But I'd be honored, Cornelia. You were the kindest to us. Me, Tilda and Marlais. Always and by far the kindest, never a thought about yourself. You let me know when you're next visiting Halifax, and I'll expect to go to the cinema with you."
She fluttered her hand against her heart. "I'm so relieved to get that conversation over with," she said. "I might close the bakery just to rest up."
"By the way, thanks for putting me in touch with Mr. and Mrs. Leaf."
"That worked out, then, did it?"
"As we speak, they're unpacking their clothes in my house."
"The deed is still in Tilda's name, right?"
"Yes, it's in the town clerk's files."
"Well, it's unlikely she'll be back soon, if at all. On the other hand, who's to predict anything? I always liked that proverb, I think it's Jewish: 'If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.' Reverend Witt used it in a sermon once, back when I was attending his sermons."
"My only plan, whether God laughs at it or not, is to move to Halifax and get a paying job."
"Do you know the exact date you're leaving?"
"The Leafs want to sleep in the house starting three nights from now. I've sold them my automobile. Tilda's truck stays out behind the shed, though. I've made that clear."
"Come for breakfast every morning till you leave, okay?"
"Thank you, Cornelia. I accept your invitation."
So, Marlais, over the next couple of days I organized everything belonging to you and Tilda, bed quilts to dolls to crayons to clothes, up in the attic. Except for The Highland Book of Platitudes, which I'd honestly intended to return to the library, but made it a personal keepsake instead. On the morning of December 1, I asked Mr. Leaf to help me load the to boggan in its box onto the truck, accompany me to the bus stop in Great Village, then drive the truck back and park it behind the shed. He graciously complied. The bus was right on time.
In Halifax, I paid full passage for the toboggan to be transported first on a ship, the TSS Athenia, bound for Greece, then for France, and then sent by train to Sweden and on to its final destination of Copenhagen. I was concerned that the Kormikers no longer lived at the same address that was on their envelopes, but that was a chance I took. Nonetheless, I was relieved when, two months later, I got a letter acknowledging the toboggan's arrival. The address I'd enclosed with the toboggan: Wyatt Hillyer — resident, c/o The Evangeline Hotel, 227 Brunswick Street, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.