What Is Left the Daughter Read Online Free PDF

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"