In the second photograph you were standing alone with the sea in the background. On your right wrist you wore a bracelet made of paper angels. Maybe each of the girls invited to the party got one.
"You should go to Denmark, Wyatt," Cornelia said. "Why haven't you?"
"I can't afford the travel, but I put money away for Marlais every month. She has her own bank account in Halifax waiting for her. The money's there whenever she needs it, even if she needs it wired to Copenhagen. Tilda knows this."
"Generous, Wyatt, but not as important as visiting."
"It's how life's turned out."
"And you didn't help it turn out the way it did, right?"
"Okay, I have your opinion now, Cornelia. Maybe you'd care to tell me what Tilda includes in her letters to you, generally speaking."
"This and that. Mostly news of Marlais, her school, her friends, what it's like to live with the Mohrings, what it's been like in Denmark after the war, this and that. She writes well, Tilda does, and always has."
"Tilda and I don't exchange letters. She's never sent me one and I've never sent her one."
"If everyone keeps waiting for the other, no letters will ever arrive, eh?"
"That's proven true so far."
"It's very stupid of you both. In fact, it's the goddamned stupidest, most selfish thing I've ever heard two people with a daughter doing."
We sat for a moment looking out onto the street, and then I said, "Are Marlais and Tilda happy, do you think?"
"Let me put it this way," Cornelia said. "In her letters she refers to intimate things but doesn't describe things intimately. Something like that. As for happy? It sure sounds as if Marlais is having everything good offered by a Danish childhood, which isn't a Nova Scotia childhood, but who knows, maybe it's second best in the world. That's not too shabby. And if Marlais is having a wonderful childhood, then it only stands to reason Tilda is happy about that, right?"
"Something else, Cornelia. I haven't written one single letter to my uncle, either. I haven't been to visit him. And the truth? I don't want to visit him."
"I've been only twice. And my visits were three years apart. But do you know what Donald's doing in Dorchester Prison? They've got a wood shop there. And he's making sleds. I don't think toboggans, but definitely sleds, because he gave me one. I brought it back on the bus. It's upstairs from the bakery, on the floor of what formerly was Tilda and Hans's kitchen. Donald asked that I ship it on to Marlais. He seemed to have no sane idea what he was asking — no idea how much Tilda would despise getting that sled from him."
"I'm sure Reverend Witt — is he still reverend?"
"Till he drops dead at the pulpit."
"I'm sure he can find someone who'd like that sled. He doesn't have to say who built it."
"Good idea. I'll suggest it first thing when I get home."
We talked and talked, and I happened to mention the photograph in Rigolo's Pub, and right away Cornelia said she wanted to see it. "I've never stepped inside a pub in Halifax, not once," she said.
We walked to Rigolo's and stood at the bar where we had a clear view of the photograph. I ordered a beer and Cornelia a cognac, which she said she didn't really care for, but thought since she was in a pub she should order something exotic. However, she was so taken aback by the photograph, so disturbed by it, she not only gulped down the first cognac but had a second straightaway.
"Wyatt, I wonder if anyone but you and me recognize Hans Mohring in that photograph," she said. "I mean, knows his actual name. Hundreds must've at least looked at it, eh? Of course, those German sailors are front and center, so who'd really notice which people are in the background. But what's strange is that, as I'm standing here staring at it, I see different Germans. There's the ones who did harm and Hans who didn't. And I imagine all of them are at the bottom of the sea now."
"You know, Cornelia, I read in the Mail that the Laughing Cow was sunk off the coast of France in 1944."
"I heard they built a memorial statue in Port aux Basques and survivors of the Caribou meet there every year for a reunion."
Cornelia had three more cognacs. She kept looking at the photograph, trying to keep it in focus. Finally, she said, "Wyatt, I can't be in here one more minute." She was so wobbly we had to take a taxi, even just the short distance to her hotel.
At about eight o'clock the next morning, my telephone rang. When I picked up, Cornelia said, "Me and my headache will meet you downstairs at my hotel for breakfast. How about fifteen minutes?"
It was raining. I threw on a sweater and slacks, put on my raincoat, took my umbrella and hurried over to the Dresden Arms. I found Cornelia at a window-side table. "I ordered scones and coffee," she said. "As for the scones, I'm not optimistic."
"You get breakfast free in this hotel. Don't forget that."
"Believe me, If I don't forget one thing all day, it'll be that."
The waitress brought us each a blueberry scone. The scones had been heated and pats of butter came along on the plates. Cornelia said, "Well, mine looks like a scone."
I took a bite and said, "It's the one hundred fifty-fifth best one I've ever had, Cornelia."
"The first one hundred fifty-four being mine."
"Your arithmetic is correct."
She ate her scone, drank some coffee and said, "You know why I like this scone? Mainly because I didn't have to make it. In fact, you just saw me eat the very first scone I've eaten outside of Middle Economy, which includes ones my grandmother and mother made, and mine. There it is, then. I've still never been to Paris. I've still never been to London. And here I'm of a certain advanced age, and this was my first scone ever in Halifax."
It was Saturday. I walked Cornelia to the 11:05 bus out of the city, the same run on which Tilda had first made the acquaintance of Hans Mohring.
Speaking of birthday parties again, that same evening I'd been invited to a party for Evie Michaels's daughter Ellen's fifth birthday. The party was held at six P.M. at the Michaelses' house on St. Harris Street, not far from Halifax North Common. Evie's husband, William — he's a custodian at Halifax General Hospital — was there, and ten other girls, all Ellen's kindergarten classmates. The girls had gotten gussied up, and Evie had made paper corsages to pin to their dresses. She served peanut butter and jelly sandwiches followed by a chocolate birthday cake and vanilla ice cream. A balloon floated above each girl's chair, tied to it with string. They all had a great rollicking time. Evie had invited the gaffing crew, and all of us showed up. Ellen got a ton of presents, and each time she opened a box, she tied the ribbon in her hair, so by the end she had them streaming out like fireworks. William had borrowed a camera and took a lot of photographs, mostly of the children, naturally, but a few of the grownups, too. At one point Ellen Michaels got so excited that she stuck her fingers right into her slice of birthday cake and then rubbed frosting all over her face and let their mutt Handy lick it off, and nobody cared. After the cake, Evie set out two metal tubs and the children bobbed for apples. Rules are rules, and they had to clasp their hands behind their backs, so of course got their faces soaked. Evie dried them off with a bath towel. When the children went into the parlor to listen to a fright show on the radio — there were two fright shows on Saturday evenings — the gaffing crew got into the spirit of things. One by one, we bobbed for apples. Evie Michaels said, "Look at this! Us expert gaffers of Halifax Harbor and not one apple's been lifted out of the water!"