"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."