What Is Left the Daughter by Howard Norman Page A

to Middle Economy, I drove my church suit to Truro. I hadn't attempted to seek out my uncle, though I knew he was working in the shed; I could hear the radio out there. Anyway, Winterson's Cleaning Establishment was in downtown Truro, on Phillips Street. The owner, a woman named, according to the plaque on the counter, Bettina Winterson, said my suit would take two days. "A prediction's not a promise," I said, being impolite for no good reason. I didn't realize at the time that I'd quoted
The Highland Book of Platitudes.
    "Okay, then, here's a promise. You'll have your suit tomorrow, by four," she said, "or I'll owe you a free cleaning. Trousers, shirts, anything you please. One-time offer, of course. How's that for a promise?"
    Leaving Truro, I felt confident that, clothes-wise at least, I'd be presentable at Tilda's wedding. Driving along Route 2, I put stubborn will to work and tried not to think about much at all. Jettison all worries and concerns and vicissitudes and whatnot—and this seemed to take effect, because soon the inside of my head was the same as the general view of the boat-empty expanse of the Minas Basin, the day's last gull disappearing below the horizon.
    I met Tilda at the bakery the next morning. I realized I'd begun to look forward to these meetings, rely on them, all the while realizing they couldn't go on for much longer. Still, there she was, bundled up in double sweaters, a thick scarf, a pair of Hans's trousers rolled up to reveal winter leggings. She looked a touch disheveled, and I said, "Night on the town, eh?" She yawned as if it was painful to her face. She struck me as a flibbertigibbet—all nerves—and at first could not meet my eye. But then she did what she always did when she wanted my full attention, which was to place her hands firmly over mine, press a fingernail into my knuckle and talk.
    "We've pushed our wedding date up," she said.
    "To when?"
    "Actually, Wyatt, we got married at five P.M. yesterday."
    "I don't get it. You asked me to give you away."
    "I gave myself away."
    "In Nova Scotia you need a legal witness, I thought."
    "Cornelia volunteered. She was between baking scones and baking cupcakes and was available. In fact, she reminded us we needed wedding bands. I said we didn't have any, so she cut lengths of twine and we used those. I'm hoping Mother will advise on real bands when she gets back. She and I could make a day of it in Halifax. Anyway, as for using twine, Reverend Plumly didn't so much as blink."
    "Maybe he suspected it was a German wedding practice."
    "Wyatt, you're starting to sound like my father."
    "No. Donald's dangerously tilted. Me, I'm just all envy, in case you didn't notice."
    "I've noticed a lot of things."
    "I still don't understand exactly why you changed your wedding date."
    "Here's why. Reverend Plumly had to officiate at a funeral in Advocate on the day we were supposed to get married, and the family—the Dewis family—wants me to mourn at it. It's one of the uncles who died. Everett Dewis. He was on the outs with the whole bunch. The rest of the Dewis family are going to Montreal. So graveside it'll be just me and Reverend Plumly. Hans and I can really use the fee."
    "Why didn't you wait till Constance got home?"
    "Because Reverend Plumly was leaving to visit his sister in Quebec City right after the funeral. We asked everyone else who came to mind to marry us. No takers. Two justices of the peace—no. Reverend Mann in Glenholme—he's had three men from his congregation killed in the war. He said no directly to Hans. Don't be so thick, Wyatt. Can't you see we felt lucky Reverend Plumly obliged us?"
    "So you took who wanted you when. Well, things have a way of working out, don't they?"
    "Mom was going to miss the wedding anyway," she said. "Strange, I was thinking of a platitude: When a wedding and a funeral meet on the road, the funeral should always step aside. Except I've just stepped aside my wedding for a funeral,