Read Online What Is Left the Daughter by Howard Norman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Howard Norman
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advice: the longer Hans Mohring lives over the bakery, the sooner you might declare yourself to Tilda. Give yourself a fighting chance, young man!"
"Butâand I don't quite know how to askâis there anything in the Bible, or in Nova Scotia law, that speaks to cousins?"
"Tilda's merely
called
your cousin, but her being adopted, she's not blood relations, family-tree-wise she's not. I consulted Reverend Witt, and he saidâgrudgingly, but stillâhe said even the church recognizes this. Besides, Donald and I might as well be from Mongolia, considering how little Tilda resembles us. Hard not to notice, our features are a world apart."
"I see you've put a lot of thought into this, Aunt Constance."
"What I mean is, ethically, if you have feelings for Tilda, there's leeway. I hadn't felt the urgency to discuss this with you before, Wyatt. Neither had Donald, out in the shed. But now there it is."
"Well, thanks for coming out here, Aunt Constance. Some rescue mission."
"With Tilda, you might also try a divination. Some people believe in them. If a divination doesn't work, nothing happens. If it does work, life changes for the better."
"What'd be a proper divination?"
"Start with something simple. Name your bedposts after the one you love."
"Name my bedposts
Tilda Hillyer,
is that what you're suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting it can't hurt."
When I looked over, I saw my uncle douse his cigarette by holding it above his head and wagging it a few times in the fog-drenched air. He tossed the butt onto the dock, not into the sea. My uncle wasn't much given to superstition, but he'd warned more than once: never sully the sea, or someday it'll come back at you hard, tenfold.
In Tilda's Own Hand
O N INTO AUTUMN OF 1942, there was, to my mind, a nagging sense of life being off kilter. Temperament-wise, my uncle sported a shorter and shorter fuse, and flare-ups, small and not so small, occurred between us at work, yet most of the time I couldn't figure out the provocation. Still, sleds and toboggans somehow got completed, deadlines were met, paperwork got done. There was, however, a new distance between Uncle Donald and me. Hard to say it right, but it seemed as if my uncle's closest human connection was now with the radio. For example âand this was a complete shock to my aunt and meâDonald didn't join us for dinner two, three or four evenings in a row. Some nights he'd come in so late, Constance would already be asleep. He wouldn't bother to heat up his food. Some nights I'd hear the radio and look in on him. He'd have his ear pressed to the speaker like a safecracker at a lock, except of course it was the tuning dial he turned in the tiniest calibrations.
Not wanting to act the lovesick village idiot anymore, especially in front of Tilda, I tried as best I could to avoid her and Hans. For the most part, this simply meant staying close to home. It helped that I was working such long hours, pretty much dawn to dusk, fairly collapsing after supper. What's more, when I listened to the rest of the house from my bed, I no longer heard the murmur of Tilda's reading from
The Highland Book of Platitudes
or
In a German Pension
or any other book. And one night, to my disturbing surprise, I realized I wasn't hearing my uncle's gramophone records, either.
I had to face facts: Tilda was in love with Hans. My aunt's phrase, "her young woman's discoveries," had loud nighttime echoes. Yet I never thought I'd see the day when my uncle stopped listening to Beethoven. I'm sure Constance could've told me where Donald's love for this composer had come from, and why it had persisted, but I had failed to ask her. I have to admit, Quartet No. 9 in C Major and Quartet No. 10 in E-flat Major were my favorites, and all the major symphonies. For Aunt Constance, the absence of gramophone music made her feel bereft. Then one nightâand I mean at three A.M.â I heard my aunt's voice, louder than I'd ever heard it or could ever have
"Butâand I don't quite know how to askâis there anything in the Bible, or in Nova Scotia law, that speaks to cousins?"
"Tilda's merely
called
your cousin, but her being adopted, she's not blood relations, family-tree-wise she's not. I consulted Reverend Witt, and he saidâgrudgingly, but stillâhe said even the church recognizes this. Besides, Donald and I might as well be from Mongolia, considering how little Tilda resembles us. Hard not to notice, our features are a world apart."
"I see you've put a lot of thought into this, Aunt Constance."
"What I mean is, ethically, if you have feelings for Tilda, there's leeway. I hadn't felt the urgency to discuss this with you before, Wyatt. Neither had Donald, out in the shed. But now there it is."
"Well, thanks for coming out here, Aunt Constance. Some rescue mission."
"With Tilda, you might also try a divination. Some people believe in them. If a divination doesn't work, nothing happens. If it does work, life changes for the better."
"What'd be a proper divination?"
"Start with something simple. Name your bedposts after the one you love."
"Name my bedposts
Tilda Hillyer,
is that what you're suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting it can't hurt."
When I looked over, I saw my uncle douse his cigarette by holding it above his head and wagging it a few times in the fog-drenched air. He tossed the butt onto the dock, not into the sea. My uncle wasn't much given to superstition, but he'd warned more than once: never sully the sea, or someday it'll come back at you hard, tenfold.
In Tilda's Own Hand
O N INTO AUTUMN OF 1942, there was, to my mind, a nagging sense of life being off kilter. Temperament-wise, my uncle sported a shorter and shorter fuse, and flare-ups, small and not so small, occurred between us at work, yet most of the time I couldn't figure out the provocation. Still, sleds and toboggans somehow got completed, deadlines were met, paperwork got done. There was, however, a new distance between Uncle Donald and me. Hard to say it right, but it seemed as if my uncle's closest human connection was now with the radio. For example âand this was a complete shock to my aunt and meâDonald didn't join us for dinner two, three or four evenings in a row. Some nights he'd come in so late, Constance would already be asleep. He wouldn't bother to heat up his food. Some nights I'd hear the radio and look in on him. He'd have his ear pressed to the speaker like a safecracker at a lock, except of course it was the tuning dial he turned in the tiniest calibrations.
Not wanting to act the lovesick village idiot anymore, especially in front of Tilda, I tried as best I could to avoid her and Hans. For the most part, this simply meant staying close to home. It helped that I was working such long hours, pretty much dawn to dusk, fairly collapsing after supper. What's more, when I listened to the rest of the house from my bed, I no longer heard the murmur of Tilda's reading from
The Highland Book of Platitudes
or
In a German Pension
or any other book. And one night, to my disturbing surprise, I realized I wasn't hearing my uncle's gramophone records, either.
I had to face facts: Tilda was in love with Hans. My aunt's phrase, "her young woman's discoveries," had loud nighttime echoes. Yet I never thought I'd see the day when my uncle stopped listening to Beethoven. I'm sure Constance could've told me where Donald's love for this composer had come from, and why it had persisted, but I had failed to ask her. I have to admit, Quartet No. 9 in C Major and Quartet No. 10 in E-flat Major were my favorites, and all the major symphonies. For Aunt Constance, the absence of gramophone music made her feel bereft. Then one nightâand I mean at three A.M.â I heard my aunt's voice, louder than I'd ever heard it or could ever have
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