Montreal Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

doctor. “Did she work around here?”
    “She lived over on Bishop,” said Mr. Fenton. “She was visiting some friend and took a shortcut home. Her father was a principal.” He named the school. Nora had never heard of it.
    “English,” said Dr. Marchand, placing the story in context.
    “They moved away. Some crazy stories went around, that she knew the guy, they had a date.”
    “I knew a case,” said the doctor. “An old maid. She set the police on a married man. He never did anything worse than say hello.”
    “It was hard on Louise, something like that going on just outside. Nobody heard a thing until she ran down to the area and started banging on the door and screaming.”
    “Louise did that?”
    “This girl. Missy let her in and gave her a big shot of brandy. Missy’s a good head. She said, ‘If you don’t quit yelling I’ll call the police.’ ”
    “Her English must be pretty good now,” said the doctor.
    “Missy’s smart. When my mother-in-law hired her, all she could say was, ‘I cook, I clean.’ Now she could argue a case in court. She told Louise, ‘Some guy grabs
me
in a lane, I twist him like a wet mop.’ Louise couldn’t get over it.” He became lighthearted suddenly, which suited him better. “We shouldn’t be scaring Nora with all this.” Nora found that rich, considering the things that had been said in the car. She was at the door, waiting. He had to look up.
    He took the last steps slowly. Of course, he was closer to thirty than twenty and not in great shape. All that booze and his lazy way of moving were bound to tell. On the landing he had to catch his breath. He said, “Don’t worry, Nora. This end of Crescent is still good. It isn’t as residential as when Iwas a kid but it’s safe. Anyway, it’s safe for girls who don’t do dumb things.”
    “I’m not one for worrying,” she said. “I don’t wander around on my own after dark and I don’t answer strangers. Anyways, I won’t ever be spending the night here. My father doesn’t like me to sleep away.”
    A word she knew but had never thought of using—“morose”—came to mind at the slow change in his face. Sulky or deeply pensive (it was hard to tell), he began searching the pockets of his vest and jacket, probably looking for his latchkey. The doctor reached across and pressed the doorbell. They heard it jangle inside the house. Without Dr. Marchand they might have remained stranded, waiting for the earth to turn and the slant of the sun to alter and allow them shade. Just as she was thinking this, wondering how Mr. Fenton managed to get through his day-by-day life without having the doctor there every minute, Dr. Marchand addressed her directly: “On
ne dit pas
‘anyways.’
C’est commun. Il faut toujours dire
‘anyway.’ ”
    The heat of the day and the strain of events had pushed him off his rocker. There was no other explanation. Or maybe he believed he was some kind of bilingual marvel, a real work of art, standing there in his undertaker suit, wearing that dopey hat. Nora’s father knew more about anything than he did, any day. He had information about local politics and the private dealings of men who were honored and admired, had their pictures in the
Gazette
and the
Star
. He could shake hands with anybody you cared to mention; could tell, just by looking at another man, what that man was worth. When he went to Blue Bonnets, the racetrack, a fantastic private intuition told him where to put his money. He often came home singing, his hat on the back of his head. He had an office to himself at City Hall, no duties anybody could figure, but unlimited use of a phone. He never picked a quarrel and never took offense. “Never let anyone getunder your skin,” he had told Gerry and Nora. “Consider the source.”
    She considered the source: Dr. Marchand had spent a horrible morning, probably, trying to sidestep Mr. Fenton’s temporary moods and opinions. Still, the two of them were friends,