Nora watched Missy turn and climb the stairs and disappear around the bend in the staircase. There’ll be a holy row about this, she thought. I’ll be gone.
“It was very nice meeting you,” she said. “I have to leave now.”
“Come on, Nora,” said Mr. Fenton. “Anybody could have made the same mistake. You came in out of bright sunlight. The hall was dark.”
“Could we please, please go and sit down?” said his mother-in-law.
“All right,” he said, still to Nora. “It’s O.K. You’ve had enough. Let’s have a bite to eat and I’ll drive you home.”
“You may have to take Neil to the hospital.”
Mrs. Clopstock took the doctor’s arm. She was a little woman in green linen, wearing pearls and pearl earrings. Aunt Rosalie would have seen right away if they were real. The two moved from the shaded hall to a shaded room.
Mr. Fenton watched them go. “Nora,” he said, “just let me have a drink and I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t need to be driven home. I can take the Sherbrooke bus and walk the rest of the way.”
“Can you tell me what’s wrong? It can’t be my mother-in-law. She’s a nice woman. Missy’s a little rough, but she’s nice too.”
“Where’s Mrs. Fenton?” said Nora. “Why didn’t she at least come to the door? It’s her child.”
“You’re not dumb,” he said. “You’re not Ray’s girl for nothing. It’s hers and it isn’t.”
“We all signed,” Nora said. “I didn’t sign to cover up some story. I came here to do a Christian act. I wasn’t paid anything.”
“What do you mean by ‘anything’? You mean not enough?”
“Who’s Neil?” she said. “I mean, who is he?”
“He’s a Fenton. You saw the register.”
“I mean, who is he?”
“He’s my son. You signed the register. You should know.”
“I believe you,” she said. “He has English eyes.” Her voice dropped. He had to ask her to repeat something. “I said, was it Ninette?”
It took him a second or so to see what she was after. He gave the same kind of noisy laugh as when she had tried to place the child in Missy’s arms. “Little Miss Cochefert? Until this minute I thought you were the only sane person in Montreal.”
“It fits,” said Nora. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said. “I don’t know. There are two people that know. Your father, Ray Abbott, and Alex Marchand.”
“Did you pay my dad?”
“Pay him? I paid him for you. We wouldn’t have asked anyone to look after Neil for nothing.”
“About Ninette,” she said. “I just meant that it fits.”
“A hundred women in Montreal would fit, when it comes to that. The truth is, we don’t know, except that she was in good health.”
“Who was the girl in the lane? The one you were talking about.”
“Just a girl in the wrong place. Her father was a school principal.”
“You said that. Did you know her?”
“I never saw her. Missy and Louise did. Louise is my wife.”
“I know. How much did you give my dad? Not for Neil. For me.”
“Thirty bucks. Some men don’t make that in a week. If you have to ask, it means you never got it.”
“I’ve never had thirty dollars in one piece in my life,” she said. “In my family we don’t fight over money. What my dad says, goes. I’ve never had to go without. Gerry and I had new coats every winter.”
“Is that the end of the interrogatory? You’d have made a great cop. I agree, you can’t stay. But would you just do one last Christian act? Wash your hands and comb your hair and sit down and have lunch. After that, I’ll put you in a taxi and pay the driver. If you don’t want me to, my mother-in-law will.”
“I could help you take him to the hospital.”
“Forget the Fenton family,” he said. “Lunch is the cutoff.”
Late in the afternoon Ray came home and they had tea and sandwiches at the kitchen table. Nora was wearing Gerry’s old white terry-cloth robe. Her washed hair was in rollers.
“There was nothing to it, no problem,” she said again. “He needed a hospital checkup. He was run-down. I don’t know which hospital.”
“I could find out,” said Ray.
“I think they don’t want anybody around.”
“What did you eat for lunch?” said her mother.
“Some kind of cold soup. Some kind of cold meat. A fruit salad. Iced tea. The men drank beer. There was no bread on the table.”
“Pass Nora the peanut butter,” said Ray.
“Did you meet Mr. Fenton because of Ninette,” said Nora, “or did you know him first? Did you know Dr. Marchand first, or Mr. Fenton?”
“It’s a small world,” said her father. “Anyways, I’ve got some money for you.”
“How much?” said Nora. “No, never mind. I’ll ask if I ever need it.”
“You’ll never need anything,” he said. “Not as long as your old dad’s around.”
“You know that Mrs. Clopstock?” said Nora. “She’s the first person I’ve ever met from Toronto. I didn’t stare at her, but I took a good look. Maman, how can you tell real pearls?”
“They wouldn’t be real,” said Ray. “The real ones would be on deposit. Rosalie had a string of pearls.”
“They had to sell them on account of Ninette,” said her mother.
“Maybe you could find out the name of the hospital,” Nora said. “He might like to see me. He knows me.”
“He’s already forgotten you,” her mother said.
“I wouldn’t swear to that,” said Ray. “I can remember somebody bending over my baby buggy. I don’t know who it was, though.”
He will remember that I picked him up, Nora decided. He will remember the smell of the incense. He will remember the front door and moving into the dark hall. I’ll try to remember him. It’s the best I can do.
She said to Ray, “What’s the exact truth? Just what’s on paper?”
“Nora,” said her mother. “Look at me. Look me right in the face. Forget that child. He isn’t yours. If you want children, get married. All right?”
“All right,” her father answered for her. “Why don’t you put on some clothes and I’ll take you both to a movie.” He began to whistle, not “Don’t Let It Bother You,” but some other thing just as easy.
THE FIFTIES
THE OTHER PARIS
By the time they decided what Carol would wear for her wedding (white with white flowers), it was the end of the afternoon. Madame Germaine removed the sketchbooks, the scraps of net and satin, the stacks of Vogue; she had, already, a professional look of anxiety, as if it could not possibly come out well. One foresaw seams ripped open, extra fittings, even Carol’s tears.
Odile, Carol’s friend, seemed disappointed. “White isn’t original,” she said. “If it were me, I would certainly not be married in all that rubbish of lace, like a First Communion.” She picked threads from her skirt fastidiously, as if to remove herself completely from Carol and her unoriginal plans.
I wonder if anyone has ever asked Odile to marry him, Carol thought, placidly looking out the window. As her wedding approached, she had more and more the engaged girl’s air of dissociation: Nothing mattered until the wedding, and she could not see clearly beyond it. She was sorry for all the single girls of the world, particularly those who were, like Odile, past thirty. Odile looked sallow and pathetic, huddled into a sweater and coat, turning over samples of lace with a disapproving air. She seemed all of a piece with the day’s weather and the chilly air of the dressmaker’s flat. Outside, the street was still damp from a rain earlier in the day. There were no trees in sight, no flowers, no comforting glimpse of park. No one in this part of Paris would have known it was spring.