“After you get some sleep, maybe.”
“You see, it’s been so hard, Enoch. What with everything. What with one thing or another, that damn most recent shawl to finish for Mrs. Dollard. For instance, that shawl —and for what? For a pittance. And then there’s the leering of Reverend Sillet. His leering at me, like I was the only harlot since the Bible. Did he ever bring me up in a sermon? Did he ever use me as an example? Did he refer to me in a sermon on harlots?”
“I haven’t been to church in some time.”
“But did you hear of him doing as much? People tend to tell you things. They confide in you. They give you letters and they tell you things.”
“No, Alaric, I never heard of Reverend Sillet mentioning you in church, no. Not by name. I’ll personally ask him not to, if it’ll make you feel better. Alaric, you might want to lie down now. You look awfully tired. I’ll set out my coat for you. You’ve got this arduous plan, you know, and you’ll need some strength to carry it out. Even to lift yourself over the side. That’ll take some strength, even to lift your own weight. It’s just now dark, so there’s plenty of time. Plenty of time left tonight.”
Her voice now trembling, she said, “When I’m dead, you just wait and see, Sillet will use my life as an example.” She was barely whispering now. “He does that sort of thing, doesn’t he? He even makes people from the Bible seem like his very own confiding friends, have you noticed? Like he knew Job and Ruth and the others personally, and then he goes and takes the privilege of his pulpit to gossip about their intimate lives. He’ll open my marriage up to the congregation. Mark my word.”
“Alaric, you sleep.”
“I am tired just now.”
I stepped into the cabin and saw that my mother had drifted off. She was curled on the floor. Enoch draped his coat over her.
“A cold wind is up,” he said. “In a while we’ll move her down to her bunk.”
“I was listening in.”
“There’s still fifteen or so hours of water between here and Halifax. We’ll keep a close watch on her. But I think she’ll sleep at least till mid-morning. That’s my guess. This stuff either wakes you up more than you’ve ever been or puts you out the same.”
“You did a good thing here, Enoch.”
“I’ll bet Alaric won’t think so.” He started up the engine, and we set out night-traveling to Halifax.
8
My Marriage
Mid-afternoon on October 24, we arrived at Halifax Harbour. Enoch brought us right alongside the wharf. On the dock next to ours I saw the Doubting Thomas. I tapped my mother on the shoulder and pointed out the other Newfoundland mail boat. “Somehow, when you get out in the world like this,” she said, “coincidences get more frequent.” There had been a drizzling rain that morning. A man dressed in galoshes and a black frock coat was pushing a wide broom along the pedestrian walkway that led to the commercial fish stalls. I had never before seen a broom used to push water back into the sea, except on board ship. Children were fishing in groups of two or three from all of the ten or so docks in sight. There was a general air of activity, the unloading and loading of crates, longshoremen shouting up and down decks and loading platforms, fish wagons, ice wagons, pushcarts rattling along cobblestones, gulls keening, darting here and there for a fishhead one of the children tossed aside. A cat was curled up in a wheelbarrow near some grain sacks; the sacks leaked grain-colored juices. On the north side of the harbor was a stone quay with a wagon road leading up into Halifax. The sharp odors of fish, wet burlap, and lumber filled the air. From on deck we could see all along the wharf, the granary silos, the ascending levels of commercial buildings, on up to the residential streets. We stood next to our suitcases.
“At the guest house,” my mother said, “let’s at least try to be civil to each other. Let’s at least try and masquerade as people who still know each other, if for nothing other than Cora Holly’s sake, meeting her in-law for the first time.”
“Let alone her husband.”
“The Hollys don’t have the slightest notion of the worst part of our lives. My most recent letter to them kept wholly to the future.”
“The future may be the worst part.”
My mother and I each picked up our suitcase and did not move. It occurred to me then that we had left my father’s suitcase in the bunkroom. Enoch set the plank and we walked down and stood at the bottom. “I’ll be staying at the Princeport Hotel,” Enoch said. “It’s about ten blocks from the Hagerforse Guest House. Let me know when you want to return, whoever’s going back, though it wouldn’t surprise me if I go back alone.” He lugged down one sack of mail, secured a wagon to take him and the mail to the postal depot. He threw the sack into the wagon. He handed the driver some money. The driver walked with Enoch back on board, and each of them retrieved two sacks of mail. Enoch made no introductions. He did not look at us or say a word. It was as though we were not there.
We walked to the end of the dock and up the street of fish stalls for a moment. My mother then set her suitcase down. “I’m still your mother, Fabian. No matter what else I’ve become. No matter what longing you have to disown me. I’m your mother,” she said. “The most important thing to me—you should believe this—is that this wedding christen a new life for you. A new, exciting, and better life.”
“I murdered Botho August. So what can you possibly be talking about?”
“Ye of little faith, and still, things may turn out for you.”
She bent down, laid her suitcase flat on the cobblestones, snapped it open, and took out a cloth wrapping with a hard, rectangular object inside, which she handed to me.
“It’s the Garganey for Cora Holly. I took the liberty, given that we were in such a hurry.”
I followed my mother to the nearest fish stall. The peddler was a tall, stoop-shouldered man in his fifties, with thinning white hair and a deadpan expression.
“Can you please direct us to Robie Street?” my mother said.
He was arranging fish on a bed of ice. He looked up at my mother, then at me.
“Just off the boat, eh?”
“Just.”
“Which boat? Not French, not Russian, no sir, you speak God’s English, with some evidence of Newfie in it.”
“Is a certain background required by you to get directions?”
He laughed as my mother stiffened. “From Newfoundland, then. Journey in from British Territory first class, did you?”
“On the mail boat,” I said. “The Aunt Ivy Barnacle. Maybe you’ve seen it.”
“I know all the ones that come in here. I know both the Newfoundland mail boats.”
“And do you know the Hagerforse Guest House?” my mother said.
“On Robie Street, as you know.”
“And how to get there?”
“Up Barrington to Spring Garden, past the park, right on Robie. A big white house with a porch and gables, oak trees all up and down. In direct view of the Citadel stockade. That’s your most prominent landmark. I’ll get you a carriage.”
“Can we walk?”
“I’ll get you a cheap carriage.”
He called out, “Zasy!” A boy of about twelve left a game of dice with three other boys, all dressed in blood-splotched aprons.
“Get the ice wagon, son. Take these people up to the Hagerforse Guest House, on Robie,” the peddler said.
In a few minutes the boy drove up a horse-drawn wagon. He handled the reins well. “Get on up, then,” he said.
My mother and I sat on planks opposite each other. The wagon reeked of fish. There was a layer of wet, moldy newspapers and the planks were rough. My mother tucked her dress tight to her legs and brought her feet up and sat lengthwise. Zasy drove us past the enormous Lord Nelson Hotel. It had chairs on its porch, a chandelier hanging from the porch ceiling. We crossed the public garden. I saw a hoe lift above the hedges but did not see the gardener. We went up Sackville Street, full of shops and restaurants. Through a window I saw a woman lift a cu
p to her lips.
“Saturday’s a big shopping day,” Zasy said. “But seeing as I’m not getting paid to guide …”
The horse clomped on cobbles as we turned onto Bell Road, then along the park again, turning right onto Robie. There were four or five wagons moving along in both directions. I counted eight houses, and Zasy pulled up in front of the ninth, the Hagerforse Guest House. “Fare’s a dollar,” he said.
“I take a week to knit a shawl for two,” my mother said. “I’ll pay you a quarter of that, young man.”
“Canadian,” Zasy said.
I leapt down. I placed our suitcases next to the wagon, then helped my mother down. She handed Zasy a coin.
He flipped it into the air and caught it. “It’s a quarter more than I had an hour ago,” he said. “And it was time away from cleaning fish, is how I see it.”
“Don’t you carry in the suitcases?” my mother said.
“No, ma’am, I don’t. I’m apprenticed to my father at the bins. I’m not a bellhop. Thanks for the coin, Newfies.”
He swung the wagon around and moved down Robie Street.
“You didn’t much come to my chivalrous rescue, Fabian.”
“His father said ‘Newfies,’ and so did he.”
“Well, let’s hope that Mrs. Hagerforse is civil.”
We walked up the stairs onto the porch. I used the brass knocker. Mrs. Hagerforse answered the door. We stepped inside. The hallway led directly to a drawing room; it had red couches, chairs with wooden armrests, a chandelier, and a fireplace. “You’ve arrived the afternoon of the wedding,” Mrs. Hagerforse said. “How—unusual. We thought you’d perhaps be here last night, latest. For the rehearsal. And a lovely dinner as well. Oh, but just listen to me, reprimanding like a schoolmarm to weary travelers. Was there bad weather? And where, pray tell, is Mr. Vas?”
I would say that Mrs. Hagerforse was in her late fifties or early sixties. She had a brisk, restrained way of talking. Her grey hair was up in a tight bun. She tended to push out her lower lip into a child’s pout. She waved her right hand around like a choirmaster. Her voice was pleasant enough, though, and while slightly nervous she seemed a sympathetic, attentive sort.
“I’m of course not invited to the wedding,” she said. “But I’ve worn this formal dress simply because there’s a wedding in my house.”
“I take it that you’re Mrs. Hagerforse,” my mother said.
“Yes, and what’s gotten into me! Yes, I’m Meredith Hagerforse. Welcome, of course. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, not properly introducing myself, I must seem frazzled as an egg on a skillet.”
“I’m Fabian Vas, and this is my mother, Alaric—”
“Alaric Vas,” my mother said. “Mr. Vas took sick along the way and went ashore. And where is Mr. Hagerforse?”
“I’m a widow.”
“I might be now, too. I haven’t gotten any news about Mr. Vas, you see.”
“He was that ill, then?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Prayers are in order.”
“We’ll need to freshen up.”
“Of course.”
“And we’d like two separate rooms. One for me, one for my son. There’s one for the newlyweds, already arranged.”
“Well, yes, fine. There is an extra room available. Just for tonight, it happens. Mr. and Mrs. Holly, and Cora, the bride-to-be, are all settled in nicely. They slept well, they tell me.”
“We’re filthy top to bottom,” my mother said. “From the long journey, you see. We must really now have some time.”
“Let me show you to your rooms, then. My goodness, so little time,” Mrs. Hagerforse said, frowning all the way down the hallway.
We stopped in front of room number 6. “This is yours, Mr. Vas.”
“We’ll pay for last night, too,” I said. “The night we weren’t here for but were supposed to be. And the extra room, too. My father made a lot of money killing birds on Anticosti Island to earn it. He gave us some, all in Canadian.”
“I have no doubt that any of what you tell me is true,” Mrs. Hagerforse said. “Mrs. Vas, you’ll be in room 8.”
The hallway had braided rugs. So did the rooms. I bathed quickly, got out my strop razor, shaved, donned my suit, combed my hair. I knocked on my mother’s door. “Fabian, come in,” she said. I saw that she was dressed in her most formal church clothes, a black dress with small red flowers at the lacy cuffs, flowers along the neck. She had on white gloves. She looked quite beautiful, though her eyes were bloodshot, her skin windburned. “I didn’t bring my creams,” she said. She fidgeted, kneading up under her cheekbones with her hands as if trying to get the circulation going, draw up some color. She fussed with her hair, though it was braided as precisely as ever.
Mrs. Hagerforse appeared in the doorway. “I understand that Justice of the Peace Averell Grey will arrive promptly at five of four. The wedding is at four o’clock, of course. It’s now—” She looked at the grandfather clock in the hallway. “Oh dear—it’s almost that. The newlyweds’ room, number 23, is upstairs. It has a private bath, naturally. The Hollys will be there now, I trust. Please excuse me.” She hurried out.
“Particularly jittery woman, isn’t she?” my mother said. “For an experienced innkeeper, you’d think—Well, I’m going to finish unpacking. They can’t begin without us, can they? We’ll stay calm.”
She took care to smooth out each item of clothing— sweater, shawl, nightgown, stocking—before placing it in a drawer or hanging it in the closet. “I managed a well-rounded wardrobe in my frantic state,” she said. “I’m pleased.”
I sat at the desk, looking out through the open door into the hallway, though only the enormous clock was in view. It was 4:16. That precisely was when the sight of a man sent a shiver through me, as though I had just put my feet into a tub of ice. He had stepped into the doorway and folded his arms across his chest. He stared at me. My mother did not see him. She was half inside the closet. I recognized him immediately. It was Mitchell Kelb, the constable from St. John’s who had traveled down to investigate the death of Dalton Gillette. These many years later his features were more settled, his sideburns grey, but otherwise he looked as trim and neatly attired as he had in 1900. He turned and checked the time. Then, after quickly surveying the room, he nodded to me and was gone.
“He’s here because we are,” I said out loud.
“What? What did you mumble just now?”
“Mother, if you traveled overland, then caught the Doubting Thomas, you could get from Witless Bay to Halifax in good time.”
“Well, we didn’t have the proper amount of time to figure out a different travel route, did we?”
“It—I’m sorry, it was just something that got into my head.”
Mrs. Hagerforse bustled into the room again. “My, you both look so nice. Groom and mother of the groom.”
My mother sighed. “Perhaps this is all too rushed,” she said. “This is a moment in life to savor, not simply get over with.”
Although my mother had not addressed anyone in particular, Mrs. Hagerforse suddenly looked alarmed, all but horrified at the notion of postponement.
“Oh—” she said, then stammered, “There’s, as I mentioned, no rooms for tomorrow night. None available. Tonight, by chance, there was the one vacancy.”
My mother turned from the closet and looked at Mrs. Hagerforse. “I only meant we might have the ceremony later this evening.”
Again Mrs. Hagerforse’s composure seemed shattered by such a harmless suggestion. She left the room.
“Peculiar,” my mother said.
Keeping to the doorway, I peered down the hall. There I saw Mrs. Hagerforse knocking on a room door. The door opened and Mitchell Kelb beckoned her in. I stepped back and had such an overwhelmingly clear image of when I had first seen Kelb eleven years before that the words “Do you know what happened to Margaret’s bicycle?” seemed to rush forward from that very day.
“You are talking pu
re nonsense. Nervous groom, is all. Come with me. I’ve straightened up in the mirror. It’s time.”
She took my arm and walked me down the hallway to the staircase. We went upstairs to room 23. My mother knocked.
But Mrs. Hagerforse suddenly appeared, out of breath, and knocked on the door herself, then opened it.
Near the bay window, Pavel and Klara Holly stood holding hands. While Mrs. Hagerforse’s voice was full of cheer, the Hollys’ expressions were at best confused. They both looked to be in their late forties. Mrs. Holly struck me as an outsized woman; she was not ungainly, mind you, or fat, but big-boned, as they say. She was a good two inches taller than Pavel Holly. She wore a broad sloping hat rimmed with flowers. It actually hid all of her forehead. But I could see that she had generous features, and, to steal a phrase from Isaac Sprague, “uncompromised blue” eyes. Her smile truly broadened her cheeks, though at the moment it took real effort for her to smile. At 4:30 the planter’s clock on the desk behind Klara set itself in motion; a farmer and his wife paraded out the hinged door, each holding a pitchfork, trailed by three goats. The figures completed a half-circle, then disappeared back into the clock. The sun, moon, and stars clicked a bit to the right on their copper sky and Klara suddenly said, “Mrs. Hagerforse, might that clock be for sale?”
“Klara!” Pavel Holly said. “Now is hardly—”
“Quite so, and I’m—” Klara said.
“We can discuss—” Mrs. Hagerforse said.
Each sentence had been brought up short; immediately, everyone but Pavel and my mother found a chair and sat down.
Klara, who wore a formal dark blue gown with a pale white corsage attached with a long, black-headed pin, used a polished cane even to shift a step or two to the side. She seemed to have shinnied down the cane, fixing it into the rug in front of her chair. I liked her face. Even at a glance, it was not hard to see that her arthritic movements revealed long suffering. I wondered if it had been physically painful for her to have sat for hours, composing letters to my mother. She now leaned forward on her cane.
The Bird Artist Page 14
