David did not know who convinced whom and didn’t care. He slid in beside Maggie. She held her right hand palm-up on her knee, and David pressed his left hand over it. They hesitated, then plaited their fingers together tightly. “Off to the next adventure,” she said, a phrase favored by her mother. She closed her eyes.
The Swankeeper
November 24, 1986
Dear Margaret,
On the airplane I looked back out the window at Nova Scotia and thought about that hymn your mother liked so much, cannot for the life of me recall the tide, but it included “the entire Kingdom we can see.”
I want you to know that your old pop is completely devoted to Stefania Field. But here’s something else came to mind on the flight. Over the past ten years there’s been one in particular of the Tecoskys’ swans who I’ve noticed is, almost without fail, either first or last onto the pond. Brave and impetuous one day, hesitant and fallen back the next. I find some familiar human tendency in this. You either can’t wait or you don’t want to jump in. Maybe what I’m trying to get at is, you and David couldn’t wait. To get married, I mean. Then you didn’t want to be. Now you’ve got a daughter — and there’s lots of room in between those two fixed points to exist in. Sorry, Margaret, for the clumsy language, but your dad never took a poetry class in school, as you know. Enough, anyway. Maybe I’m just tired.
I’m set up in this bed & breakfast for another week and generally engaged like last time as a tourist. I had my visit with Mr. Reginald Aston, but won’t see him again. A very busy man, and I doubt I’ve ever seen someone more dedicated to his profession. His assistant drove us down to the Thames and we toured eight different swan haunts elsewhere as well, and that was an education. Back in his office, nicely appointed, we had tea and Mr. Aston reviewed for me an average day’s work. I asked him some of my questions, which he took seriously. He said he’s entirely self-taught, from being given the opportunity, from observation, of course, and from books on avian medicine. He said over the years he’s made mistakes, none of which directly caused a swan to lose its life, except once. Then he told me he’d taken Winston Churchill to see black swans thirty miles out of London — during the Blitz. It’s a moment unknown to history, as he put it. “Just the two of us in a car like anyone’s. Two soldiers along as well. Mr. Churchill gazed at the swans for some time. Their composure seemed to give him heart.” To Mr. Aston’s surprise, swans had long been admired by Winston Churchill, who gave Mr. Aston a pencil sketch he’d done of one. Near the end of my visit Mr. Aston took that very sketch from the wall and pointed out Churchill’s personal best regards.
Kindly meet me at the airport at 10:10 on December 1. Lord’s sake, I take it the swans will be at the children’s zoo by then. I look forward to home. I must see Stefania Field right away — and you, dear Margaret. And David when convenient.
Love,
Dad
About the Author
Two of HOWARD NORMAN’s novels, The Northern Lights (1987) and The Bird Artist (1994), were nominated for the National Book Award. His other novels include The Museum Guard, The Haunting of L, Devotion, and What is Left the Daughter. His books have been translated into twelve languages. Norman is the recipient of a Lannan Award in fiction, and he teaches at the University of Maryland.