BY THE SPRING OF 1942, my uncle had delegated to me five new customers, all in Quebec province. I wrote them letters and three of them agreed to let me build their toboggans, whereas two said they'd prefer Donald's work, and who could blame them? They'd said it nicely. Of course, my uncle and I continued to work together as well.
Tilda was often on my mind. Or I might better say, she rarely was not. Yet I felt I still knew very little about her. So every new discovery, every fact of her upbringing and nature, was a revelation. For instance, on August 25, 1942, Tilda kept an appointment with a mesmerist, Dr. Everett Sewell, of 27 Ingus Street in Halifax. Donald and Constance hoped that Dr. Sewell, using the techniques of hypnotism, might get Tilda to "talk in her waking sleep," as Donald put it, and reveal why she hardly thought of much else but mourning the deaths of people she'd never met, some of whose names she found in the obituary pages of Halifax newspapers. Up until this time, I had only a general understanding of this. I knew that she could recite certain obituaries like Scripture, a practice begun when she was fifteen. By age seventeen she'd invented her own obituaries, which she'd write down. Fictions. Eventually she let me read some. On page after page I recognized Tilda's writerly talents. I don't know how the wider world would've judged this, but to my mind Tilda wrote like a dream. She didn't scrimp on imagination, I thought. Anyone would be honored to have her write their obituary. It's an art if a true artist is at work.
Yet when Tilda announced her intention of being a professional mourner (in Nova Scotia, only two other people were legally registered as such), Donald and Constance were thrown into a tizzy. I was present, but Tilda wasn't, when Reverend Witt, of Bayside Methodist Church of Middle Economy, took tea in our kitchen and suggested that Tilda see a mesmerist. Witt was acquainted with Dr. Sewell and provided Tilda a letter of introduction. "It's not that her wanting to be a mourner is on the whole undignified," Witt said. "Families estranged from the deceased person, say. Or say a person's ostracized from society for some moral trespass. Or say the deceased simply outlived anyone who knew him. There's any number of possibilities for why a person has nobody to mourn for him. Indeed, a mourner provides a useful service, perhaps even a spiritual one."
"So what's the problem, then?" my uncle said.
"It's just that the other day," Reverend Witt said, "when I'd officiated graveside at Great Village Cemetery over Mary Albright's internment—and I know you didn't know the Albrights—I happened to look over and see your Tilda throwing herself on the ground in front of a gravestone near the picket fence. Tilda was wailing, too. The sound carried."
"Are you saying my daughter shouldn't have a trade?" my uncle asked.
"No, that'd be independent of her, and that's pride and that's good," Reverend Witt said. "From what you've told me, she's not for university. True, there's a tradition—professional mourners have been in Nova Scotia a long time. But since you asked for advice, I'm merely saying that it's a somewhat morbid choice for such a beautiful young woman, so alive, so full of the appetite for life, as anyone can see. What's more, I understand she's sewn two black dresses in advance of starting this employment."
"She's a fine seamstress," my aunt said. "I take responsibility for that."
My uncle picked up Reverend Witt's teacup before he'd finished his tea. Looking out the window over the sink, my uncle said, "If Tilda chooses to publicly demonstrate she's got that much additional sadness to give away—plus there's the wages, however modest. I have to trust what you saw in Great Village was Tilda practicing her craft, so to speak. So to speak, and right while you were practicing yours, by the way, on Mary Albright's behalf."
"But seeing this Dr. Sewell probably can't hurt," my aunt said.
"It can hurt twenty-five dollars," my uncle said. "The appointment costs twenty-five dollars, according to Reverend Witt here."
After Reverend Witt left our house, my aunt said, "Wyatt, what do you think?"
Well, I secretly loved Tilda so much, I could only answer as if she was in the room, as if she was right there judging me. "Why not just put it directly to Tilda?"
"Fair enough," my uncle said. He scrubbed out Reverend Witt's teacup.
That evening at supper, Donald broached the subject. He quoted Reverend Witt at length. Tilda was all serious ears, and she nodded thoughtfully throughout. When my uncle finished talking, he looked to my aunt, indicating it was her turn, but she deferred to Tilda.
"First, as for my carrying on in Great Village," Tilda said, "and what Reverend Witt saw? I'd say I was in top form that day. And as for this Dr. Sewell, I'm steamed at you for suggesting that my thoughts have become all higgledy-piggledy—isn't that how Cornelia Tell refers to a mind being muddled? So steamed, in fact, I'm going to pack my bags, get on the Acadian Line bus and see to it that you spend hard-earned dollars for me to get hypnotized. I'm interested in getting hypnotized, actually. I imagine I'll be the first in Middle Economy to do so. I haven't been to Halifax in two years anyway. You know how much I like it there. The bus out and back, the stop for sandwiches in Truro. All the sights along the way, thank you very much."
"I hope you're not too angry at us," my aunt said. "We only had your best interests at heart."
"My heart's my best interest, Mom," Tilda said. "And it tells me I've got a good opportunity here. Plus, think of the practicalities, eh? Let's say I'm asked to mourn somebody in Kentville, or all the way up to Prince Edward Island. I could come back and finally be able to contribute to my room and board, until I move away."
"She's got a point there," my uncle said.
"Know what?" Tilda said. "Just now I've lost my appetite. But before I go to my room, let me tell you something. Mother, Father—you too, Wyatt. I like mourning and I've got a natural talent for it. And I can hardly wait until I get my first commission. In fact, when in Halifax, I'll stay at the Baptist Spa there, which is just a block from the office where I submit my application. And I expect, and you should expect, that it will be approved."
My aunt had asked me to meet Tilda's return bus. So at about six o'clock in the evening, August 27, I was waiting in front of the Esso station in Great Village. That was the stop nearest Middle Economy. I sat in my car for ten or so minutes, then saw the bus in the rearview mirror. The blue-and-white Acadian Line had silver panels on the sides, a sloped rear end and straight-down vertical front, two wide front windows with windshield wipers fixed below each window, and a wide curved silver front bumper. As it approached, I doused my Chesterfield in a cup of coffee, mostly dregs. I had expected Tilda to get off the bus on her own. But she was followed out by Hans Mohring. (Of course, I didn't know his name yet.) They were chatting away, and Tilda was not—rare sight—carrying her Dutch book satchel, Hans Mohring was. Well, there's something, I thought.
I took in Hans Mohring. My best estimation, he looked to be a couple years older than Tilda and me. I made another comparison: he was taller than me (I am five feet nine inches in bare feet). He had on brown corduroy trousers, held up by a belt that didn't pass through the trouser loops but was just fastened around his waist. I had seen this only once before, on a drunken piss-pants fellow on Barrington Street in Halifax, but Hans Mohring definitely hadn't fixed his belt absent-mindedly. And he wore a white shirt buttoned at the neck, very formal for a bus ride, and a black raincoat, for warmth, obviously, as it was a clear evening.
When Tilda steered Hans Mohring in my direction, I saw that he had a somewhat narrow, handsome face, pronounced crow's-feet at his eyes. He had thick brown hair, collar-length in back, neatly combed and parted neither left nor right, more slightly disheveled or windblown, not vainly. And he had a very open, in fact a wonderful smile (this irked me, as I had pronouncedly crooked front teeth, and had from about age five developed a tight-lipped smile to try and hide them), and whatever they had been laughing about, they continued to laugh about as the bus left Great Village.
When they got to the car, Tilda said, "Wyatt, this is Hans Mohring. I met him on the bus. He's from Germany and he's a student at Dalhousie. He's studying to be a philologist."
"Oh, a philologist," I said.
He could no doubt tell I had no idea what a philologist was. He offered his hand and I shook it.
"Yes, yes, philology," he said. "I can explain it to you later, philology, if you wish. Tilda comprehended everything about philology immediately, but not everyone can." His accent was more than noticeable; the word that came to mind to describe his English pronunciation was "punctual." I realized right away I meant "punctuated." Something in his tone got me to imagine that he was capable of saying very unfriendly things in a companionable way, obviously just an uneducated guess. One thing for sure, I could see Tilda and Hans liked each other, and I didn't like that. In fact, I said something next that put Tilda's teeth on edge and made her corkscrew her thumbs in her ears, as if she couldn't possibly have heard what she had clearly heard. It was her gesture of high annoyance.
"I don't make wishes," I said. "So I won't wish for you to tell me about philology."
"All right, maybe later you'd like me to explain it to you," Hans said.
"Where were you heading on the bus, anyway?" I said.
"I wanted to take in the sights," Hans said, "that's all. I was feeling—cooped up. At Dalhousie. In my room. I simply went to the station and bought a ticket. I have a map. I thought I'd go all the way around Nova Scotia. But now it seems Tilda was meant to be my destination."
"Is that how you see it?" I said to Tilda.
"I see Hans and I talked and talked on the bus," she said. "And when he suggested he stop here, I didn't say no. Those two things are how I see it. No more, no less. Is that okay with you, Detective Hillyer?"
"Wyatt, are you an excellent driver?" Hans asked. "Because I'm an excellent driver, and I can drive us to your village if you'd like to sit in back."
"We can all three fit in front," I said.
"Hans is going to stay awhile," Tilda said. "I thought the rooms above the bakery might work."
"I'll drop him off," I said. "We have to pass by there anyway."
"Cornelia Tell can use the revenue, I bet," Tilda said. "Hans, do you have any money?"
"I have some Canadian money, yes," Hans said.
"Canadian's all that will work in Middle Economy, Hans," Tilda said. "Maybe since the bakery's got late hours tonight, after dinner we can have an éclair. Wyatt, you can chaperone me, eh?"
"If you need a chaperone just to have an éclair in the bakery, all right, sure," I said.
"On the bus we talked about my getting hypnotized," Tilda said. "Actually, Hans has been hypnotized, isn't that right, Hans?"
"Nine times," Hans said.
"For me, once was enough," Tilda said. "Enough to know it worked."
"How do you mean?" I said.
"Well, Mom and Dad wanted the mesmerist to talk me out of being a professional mourner, right? But when I snapped out of the hypnotism, I looked right at Dr. Sewell and said, 'I've just had the most clear, vivid and wonderful dream that I'd done a great job at a cemetery up in Northport, on the Northumberland shore. And the woman who'd paid me said she would recommend me in the wink of an eye.' Fact is, the second she said 'wink of an eye' is when I'd snapped out of my trance. Dr. Sewell didn't snap me out of it. I did it on my own. So, you see, twenty-five dollars was spent to reassure me I'm doing the right thing."
"I'm sure Reverend Witt had a different result in mind," I said.
"I'm sure he did," she said. "But aren't you happy for me?"
"Productive visit to the city, sounds like," I said.
I drove the three of us to the bakery. Cornelia was all too pleased to have a tenant. She and Hans quickly settled on a price. I was irritated to see Hans Mohring pay for a whole week in advance. "You're my first German to rent," Cornelia said. "I've let my rooms be occupied by—let's see. There's been a Dutch family of four. Then there was that Swedish man and wife who admired Donald's sleds. I recall the Swedish husband said he couldn't fall asleep without a strong cup of coffee. It took me a while to realize it was a joke—I'm pretty sure. And there's been a number of French speakers from Quebec. The rooms above my bakery are a regular tourist trap, eh? Anyway, Hans, as for any European cuisine you may be used to, you're out of luck. My pastries have a reputation, however. I don't serve dinner, but I'll fix you a sandwich, meat and cheese, if you like. Tomato slices included."
"I'd be honored," Hans said.
"Honored, well! My sandwiches aren't war medals, Hans," Cornelia said. "They're just sandwiches."
"Hans is a student of philology," Tilda said. "He's careful with words. If he said honored, he meant honored, is my guess."
"I must've had the war on my mind," Cornelia said. "What with those German wolf packs turned our coast into a shooting gallery. Right, Hans?"
"I can understand your not wishing me to stay above your bakery," Hans said.
"Oh, I know you're just a student, Hans," Cornelia said. "Probably you aren't communicating shore-to-ship with U-boats."
"Please understand," Hans said. "Your government willing, I'll become a citizen of Canada. My parents, too, wish this for themselves. And my sister. They live in Denmark."
"Somehow you're not a German sailor or soldier, are you, Hans? And I wonder, how'd that happen? How did you finagle out of conscription as such? Do you come from an influential family, Hans?"
"Influential, no," Hans said. "Modest of income."
"There's Canadian citizens at the bottom of the sea off our province, yet you're welcome to stay long as you want, Hans Mohring. But you should know that every time I look at you, I might think of the bottom of the sea. That's not because of anything you yourself did, mind you."
"I'm not in the military because we left Germany," Hans said.
"Enough of this tug of war," Cornelia said. "Your rooms are nice and clean, Hans. I did the sheets yesterday, in fact. My private room is directly below your rooms, Hans, so if you have any questions, knock, and if I'm not in my nightgown, I'll meet you in the hallway and tell you what's what."
"What are the house rules?" Hans asked.
"The only house rules I've got," Cornelia said, "is that you just now paid the rent. Look, I'm sorry. It's just this war's got me so off kilter. For instance, if I'm listening to war bulletins on the radio, I can scarcely bake at all."
"I'm coming back later to have éclairs with Hans," Tilda said.
"Want me to chaperone?" Cornelia said.
"Wyatt said he would," Tilda said.
"You don't see me behind the counter, come right in anyway," Cornelia said.
"All right, then," Tilda said. "See you in a couple of hours, Hans."
Hans shook hands with me, Tilda and Cornelia Tell, in that order. "How do I get to my rooms?" he asked.
"Step out the door, turn right, you'll see another door," Cornelia said. "The door handle's painted black. You can't miss it."
Carrying his backpack and satchel, Hans left the bakery.
"You aren't still under hypnosis, are you, Tilda?" Cornelia asked. "I heard that some people never snap out of it, even though they appear to have."
"No, Cornelia," Tilda said. "I asked Hans to stay in Middle Economy with my thoughts very much my own, if that's what you meant."
"I put him through the wringer, I suppose," Cornelia said.
"Along the chin, if you look closely, and down his neck and shoulders, it's discolored," Tilda said. "Bruised up. He's taken a few beatings in downtown Halifax. The collar covers that up a little. On the bus, he saw me notice, so he buttoned up his collar like that. Still, once we got to talking, he told me about the bruises straight out. Germans aren't much in favor in Halifax these days."
"Haligonians might wonder does Hans, there, have siblings working on a U-boat," Cornelia said.
"Cornelia, sit down a moment, will you?" Tilda said.
Cornelia sat at the nearest table.
"Hans has got some sort of heart condition," Tilda said.
"Well, now, who doesn't?" Cornelia said.
"His is medically diagnosed," Tilda said. "Now and then he blacks out. I'm talking out of school here, but he blacked out right on the bus—keeled over, just like that. I'd been wondering why he hadn't sat next to me. Fetching as I am. When he blacked out, I realized, it was out of specific politeness. He wanted, just in case, to avoid falling against my shoulder or whatnot, impolite and too forward. Mr. Harrison, the bus driver, saw Hans slump over in the rearview, pulled to the side of the road, came back and propped Hans up and took his pulse. Hans wasn't completely out. Said 'Sorry sorry sorry' to everyone on the bus, which happened to be just me and Mr. Harrison, but still. It was an eventful bus trip home. But we talked and talked. What's more, Cornelia? I've some money left over and would've paid out of my own pocket for you letting him the rooms, and I mean without a second thought."
Tilda and I drove home in complete silence. She looked out the window the whole way.