See, Marlais, in local parlance "dog porch" meant the floor. So by saying I shouldn't trip on the dog porch, Tilda was declaring how I could hardly handle the simplest thing — a conversation — which was true enough. Though more to the point, it was the sudden new import of Tilda's loveliness that had got me so tongue-tied.
Then, for some reason, I sat down at the table again. "Is there enough for seconds?" I asked.
"Seconds, thirds and fourths," my aunt said.
"I'll serve myself, thanks," I said. I went to the stove and ladled more soup into my bowl. I sat down and ate at a deliberately slow pace. My uncle came in and said, "My poor stomach's making me call it quits for the day, I'm afraid. Say, Wyatt, why'd you take your shoes off? I nearly killed myself stumbling over them."
"Do you want a bromide?" my aunt asked.
"Maybe later," he said. "I'll just sit here for a while and have some tea. Then I'll go in and lie down. Probably a nap."
"Well, you were up to all hours with those radio bulletins, Donald," my aunt said.
"I have to keep up with the war," my uncle said. "Some choose not to."
My aunt poured him a cup of tea. My uncle turned on the radio. As he fiddled with the tuner dial, he said, "No European war news on yet, but let's see what's what anyway, shall we?" As he jumped from station to station, he said, "Lenore, if I catch you using your stenography on our small talk, I'm going to have to ask you to put on a dunce cap and finish your soup in the parlor."
It seemed to me that my uncle was teasing, but Lenore was stung and quickly set her notebook and pencil aside. My uncle finally found a program out of Halifax in which people called in items they wanted to get rid of — from sofas to pigs, firewood to egg beaters, fishing rods to dolls, hay to hay wagons — for an hour it ran the gamut. The program was called Bargain Basement and was hosted by a man named Arthur Bunting. "I've always found it dishonest of Arthur Bunting," my uncle said, "to speak of every item, no matter what, with equal excitement. I mean, how can you compare a dog collar to a freestanding generator? On the air he'd peddle lint out of a pocket if someone called in to declare said lint was no longer wanted and would take fifty cents for it."
"Admit it, Donald," my aunt said, "you're still angry at Arthur Bunting, despite the fact it's been two years since he offended you."
My aunt then spoke directly to me, probably because everyone else already knew the story. "Roughly two years ago," she said, "we were listening to Bargain Basement when all of a sudden Graham Hejinian — I've sat in the same pew in church with his family, before they moved to Advocate Harbor — Mr. Hejinian called in to say he had one of Donald's toboggans for sale, at a very cheap price. Kristin, the Hejinians' daughter, was already married and living in Kentville. And their son Charles was in the RCN — and the Royal Canadian Navy isn't going to allow a toboggan on a Navy vessel, now, is it? So it made perfect sense that their toboggan was no longer needed. But couldn't Graham have simply stored it in the attic or basement? Let it wait there for a grandchild."
"Seems to me the blame sits with Graham Hejinian," Lenore said, "not Arthur Bunting."
"Well, Donald considers them partners in crime, you see," my aunt said.
My uncle got the tuning just right, static close on either side on the dial. The first caller was a woman who had a love seat on offer. She said it was only a month old. She was asking ten dollars.
My uncle sipped his tea and remarked, "Let's see, today is September 23, so that means it only took since August 23 for love not to work out anymore on that seat, eh? If my calculations are correct."
"People do have sudden debts," my aunt said. She was clearing the dishes, except for teacups. "Perhaps the caller had an unexpected debt."
"I should've jotted down that woman's telephone number," Lenore said, "because I'm interested in that love seat. Even though I live alone."
"What about Denholme Mont?" my aunt said at the sink, rinsing the dishes.
"Postal worker from Truro?" Lenore asked.
"The very same," my aunt said, setting plates on the wooden drying rack.
"What about him?" Lenore said.
"Well, I believe we were talking about love seats and living alone," my aunt said.
"If you must know," Lenore said, "since last April, Denholme Mont and I have lived together, but for only a few hours of a given evening."
"At a go, you mean," my uncle said. "But maybe if you had a love seat, he'd begin to stay upward of twenty-four hours. Weekdays and holidays, at least. Him being a postal worker."
"I have no intention of learning how to cook breakfast for two," Lenore said.
"Come on, Lenore," my aunt said. "It's just doubling the amount of eggs, toast and whatnot."
"If only that was all there was to it," Lenore said.
That ended the conversation. My uncle went into the master bedroom and I started back for the shed. But as I put on my shoes, I heard Lenore say, "Ladies, in my notebook, here, I have a conversation. Hundreds of words Denholme Mont and I said to each other. Saturday last."
"Did you take down every word, do you think?" my aunt asked.
"Denholme fell asleep right after," Lenore said. "So I quickly took up my pencil. I think I got most of it."
"Practice makes perfect," Tilda said.
"Would you like to hear it?" Lenore said.
"Not if I'm going to need smelling salts and a fainting couch," my aunt said.
"Probably not, Constance," Lenore said. "Unfortunately."
"Go right ahead, then," my aunt said.
I quietly closed the door behind me.
Truth be told, during lunch that day, it was I who practically needed smelling salts. I'd never thought of myself as particularly romantic, or romantically available, or romantically interesting, though in high school I'd taken girls to dances. Also, some had refused me dances. The previous winter, however, I had what might be called a dedicated romance with Mavis Joubert, a French Canadian, and I stayed miserably dedicated months after she broke it off. During our courtship, Mavis was twenty and waitressed at a fish-and-chips place near the bottom of Duke Street. Her two-room apartment in a house on Gerrish Street spilled over with books. After our breakup she got involved with a professor of art history at Dalhousie, who took her on a tour of museums in Italy, though she returned by herself. Yet once my wounds had mended, I realized I was grateful Mavis and I had had nighttime experiences together, of the sort my mother preferred to call "not casual."
Marlais, it's important for me to tell you why I looked away from Tilda in the kitchen. It's related to memories of a teacher I had in tenth form in Halifax. Her name was Mrs. Francine Woods. The thing is, my grades were only average, but I felt above average at paying attention, especially when it came to history and English literature. For instance, I'd paid very close attention when Mrs. Woods — I'm amazed now to think that she was probably no more than your age, or perhaps a year or two older — spoke passionately and learnedly about the English poet John Keats. She recited his sonnets and read us some of his letters. Keats was her favorite writer of all time, and she said as much, more than once.
Now, you may well ask, how does this pertain to my turning away from Tilda? It pertains because I can definitely say without hesitation that stepping into the kitchen and watching her prepare tea was the moment I fell in love with her. Completely gone, smitten, whatever other words you might find in the dictionary. She was too much beauty, and I had to turn away.
You see, at some point during a full week devoted to Keats, Mrs. Woods provided an anecdote. One day John Keats and a friend were walking in the English countryside, which they often did. They trekked up a hill and took in the broad vista below. The sun was behind some clouds and the pale moon could still be seen in the sky. Mist hung low over a pond, swans gliding in and out of view. The big elm trees looked magnificently intelligent (I think "magnificently intelligent" were Mrs. Woods's words, not Keats's). And according to Mrs. Woods, the sight was suddenly too much for John Keats. "Too much beauty — he had to look away," she said. "Class, can you understand this?"