What Is Left the Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page A

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