Cornelia took a bus home that same evening.
The next Sunday I attended Harbor Methodist, and while all the other parishioners listened to the sermon, sang hymns and said prayers, I kept my own counsel in the backmost pew and held a private funeral service for your mother. For a moment, I had the startling worry that her obituary might appear only in Danish, in a Copenhagen newspaper. But as it turned out, Cornelia had written one and given it to Reverend Witt, and it appeared in his church's bulletin. It was nicely composed.
At church, I desperately wanted to avoid all the sanctimonious crap — sorry — usually heard at funerals. I began what I thought was a silent prayer, "May Tilda Hillyer rest in peace. She was the best person imaginable. She was beautiful," until I realized that I was mumbling out loud. Several worshipers on either side of me moved farther away.
You were still in the world, Marlais, very much in the world. But otherwise, in every other possible way, life felt disreputable and collapsed. After church, I spent seven straight hours out in the boat, gaffing in Halifax Harbor. The rain had stopped. The wind was manageable. As usual there was a cormorant on each buoy. I took hardly anything into the boat. A lady's hat, the feathers frayed and matted against the silk band. I wondered, had the wind swept it from a Hungarian leaving the Cascania? A toy water pistol. A window, its double panes cracked into spider webs, but the frame intact. Around dusk, near Purdy's Wharf, I saw a flock of gray geese descending. They are here year-round. I followed them in.
The last and final time I spoke with Reese Mac Isaac was on the following Sunday morning. No church for me that day. There was a knock on my hotel room door, and when I opened it, there stood Reese, dressed smartly, as always.
"I know, I'm showing my age," she said.
"How can I help you, Reese?"
"Sunday mornings I visit Katherine and Joe's graves. I'm going there now. I thought you might accompany me. Just this once."
My begging off might only have led to her insistence — though maybe I wanted Reese to insist — and what purpose would be served by not going? So we walked to the cemetery together. We stood at my mother's grave a few minutes, my father's the same, and then walked back to the Homestead.
"Except for restaurants and the cinema," Reese said, "any place I visit, I don't stay very long. Come to think of it, maybe I'll be cremated, you know? I don't want to overstay my keep, not even in a cemetery."
Once I was done laughing, I said, "Reese, you sure don't hesitate to think out loud, do you? I'd imagine both my mother and father liked that quality."
Midweek, when I'd got back to my hotel, a hand-delivered letter was waiting for me. No return address. I sat on a couch in the lobby and read it.
Wyatt,
It was kind of you to go to the cemetery with me. My house is now put up for sale. I leave Halifax today by train. I've arranged a room with a distant cousin — said cousin has secured employment for me in the oldest hotel in Vancouver — need I mention what that employment is? So, there should be no concern that I've gone off to Hollywood! I wish for you a good life.
Reese Mac Isaac
A Possible Anodyne
MARLAIS, WELL INTO my twenty-sixth night in a row of writing to you, I realize I've sometimes raced over the years like an ice skater fleeing the devil on a frozen river. That's a phrase from one of Reverend Lundrigan's sermons. (I've attended five in the past six months at Harbor Methodist here in Halifax.) Still, what's been true of all the intervening time between 1948, when I last set eyes on you, and this very moment, 3:20 A.M., April 21, 1967, is that I've savored each and every morsel of knowledge about you I've been given. For example, during the years you attended that small, "progressive" (your mother's word) English-speaking school in Copenhagen, Cornelia Tell provided me with your report cards.
I was grateful to get them. The report cards had substance. Your mother had copied them out and mailed them to Cornelia at the bakery in the first place. I'd rung her up when the first one arrived. "Tilda asked me to forward it to you," Cornelia said. "But I'd probably have sent it without her permission." I read each one dozens of times. I still keep them in a separate envelope. News of how you performed in school was important to me. Yet as anyone but a complete fool knows, no child worth her salt ever reveals her entire character in school, no matter how deep her allegiance to teachers or textbooks, right? So all along I naturally wondered about my daughter's whole self. What did you get worried about? What was your sense of humor like? Everything, everything, everything. I had more selfish curiosities, too. Did your mother ever begin a sentence with "Your father"? You must've asked about me, and when you did, what did Tilda say? Was there sympathy, blame, or what? Did you ever see a photograph of me? I know that Cornelia sent one to you when you were ten. Did you ever receive the official City of Halifax portrait of my gaffing crew, maybe four years ago? I'd drawn a circle around my face.
When I read a report card, if a teacher's comment was in the least critical, I railed against it, though for all I knew it might've been accurate. For instance, I've just taken out a report card from when you were eleven years old: Marlais Hillyer is intelligent — sometimes there's too much emphasis on words. Very good recall of facts — sometimes a rather snippy tone. Frequently laughs to herself — this puts fellow students off. Bold opinions—"If I started to ride horses, I'd probably stop admiring horses so much." At times offers theatrical, morbid excuses for being lazy—"Mother says if you assign me to sharpen pencils again, she'll swallow poison." Arithmetic — below standard. Excellent reader but possessive about it—"I read a lot of books but you'll never know their titles." Enthralled with her own contradictions — does poorly in Danish lessons, yet makes certain her teachers hear her speaking it quite fluently on the playground.
After your mother died, you began to write letters to Cornelia, though I imagine you were too young to remember — do you? — what she looked like. Or that you licked frosting from an outsized wooden spoon in her bakery, or that she took you for walks, or that you and Cornelia spent hours drawing with crayons. Of course, writing her letters was picking up where your mother left off, though I'd bet my last nickel you had your own flair for it, Marlais.
Anyway, you kept Cornelia up to date, and in turn she kept me up to date about my daughter. "Secondhand news, sure," Cornelia would say, "but whose fault is that? Count your blessings it's news of Marlais at all." This past September I learned that you'd taken a summer course and graduated from a two-year degree program in library science at Trinity College, Dublin. Graduated at the top of your class! Reading of that, I was allowed only a distant pride, but it was pride nonetheless. My goodness — Nova Scotia, Denmark, Ireland — you've already seen the world.
Three-thirty, four, four-thirty, five in the morning, still April 11. I've just made coffee. Dawn light touching the window, the glass beaded up from last night's rain. Insomnia — the mind jumps around a bit. Just last week I was walking home with Tom Blackwell and Hermione Rexroth. We'd accomplished ten hours of gaffing in rough waters, eight of those mainly along Queen's Wharf, but also as far out as the mouth of Halifax Harbor. Add to that two hours of overtime across to Dartmouth. After work, it was still raining at a windy slant and so we kept our rain gear on. It was dark out, streetlamps were like frozen pale explosions in the mist, and we were heading to Rigolo's Pub. At one point, Hermione wanted to light a cigarette, and we found ourselves standing in front of a place called Museum Gallery. The window announced PHOTOGRAPHS OF WAR BRIDES.