Montreal Stories Read Online Free Page B

undress under a bathrobe, quick as a mouse. No earthquake, no burglar, no stranger suddenly pushing a door open would find Nora without at least one thing on, even if it was only a bra.
    “… from Mac McIvor,” the doctor was telling Mr. Fenton. “He’s out in Vancouver now. It’s a big change from Montreal.”
    “He’ll crawl back here one day, probably sooner than he thinks,” said Mr. Fenton. Something had made him cranky, perhaps the talk about souls. “I consider it a privilege to live in Montreal. I was born on Crescent and that’s where I intend to die. Unless there’s another war. Then it’s a toss-up.”
    “Crescent’s a fine street,” said the doctor. “Nice houses, nice stores.” He paused and let the compliment sink in, a way of making peace. “He’s buying a place. Property’s cheap out there.”
    “It’s a long way off,” said Mr. Fenton. “They can’t get people to go and live there. That’s why everything’s so cheap.”
    “Not being married, he doesn’t need a lot of room,” the doctor said. “It’s just a bungalow, two rooms and a kitchen. He can eat in the kitchen. It’s a nice area. A lot of gardens.”
    “Sure, there are stores on Crescent now, but they’re high-quality,” said Mr. Fenton. “I could sell the house for a hell of a lot more than my father ever paid. Louise wants me to. She can’t get used to having a dress shop next door. She wants a lawn and a yard and a lot of space between the houses.”
    “Mac’s got a fair-size garden. That won’t break his neck. Out there, there’s no winter. You stick something in the ground, it grows.”
    “My father hung on to the house all through the Depression,” said Mr. Fenton. “It’ll take a lot more than a couple of store windows to chase me away.” So saying, he madea sudden rough swerve into his street, having almost missed the corner.
    It jolted the baby, who had just fallen asleep. Before he could start to cry or do anything else that could make him unpopular, she lifted him to the window. “See the houses?” she said. “One of them’s yours.” A few had fancy dress shops on the first floor. Others were turned into offices, with uncurtained front windows and neon lights, blazing away in broad daylight. The double row of houses ran straight down to St. Catherine Street without a break, except for some ashy lanes. Short of one of these, Mr. Fenton pulled up. He retrieved his vest and jacket, got out, and slammed the door. It was the doctor who turned back to help Nora struggle out of the car, held her arm firmly, even adjusted the strap of her white shoulder bag. He wasn’t trying anything, so she let him. Anyone could tell he was a family man.
    Neil seemed more awkward to hold than before, perhaps because she was tired. Shielding his eyes from sunlight, she turned his face to a narrow house of pale gray stone. On her street, it would indicate three two-bedroom flats, not counting the area. She was about to ask, “Is the whole thing yours?” but it might make her sound as if she had never been anywhere, and the last thing she wanted was Mr. Fenton’s entire attention. In the shadow of steps leading up to the front door, at a window in the area, a hand lifted a net curtain and let it fall. So, someone knew that Neil was here. For his sake, she took precedence and climbed straight to the door. The men barely noticed. Mr. Fenton, in shirtsleeves, vest and jacket slung over a shoulder, spoke of heat and thirst. Halfway up, the doctor paused and said, “Boyd, isn’t that the alley where the girl was supposed to have been raped?”
    “They never caught him,” said Mr. Fenton at once. “It was dark. She didn’t see his face. Some kids had shot out the alley light with an air gun. Her father tried to sue the city, becauseof the light. It didn’t get him anywhere. Ray Abbott knows the story. Light or no light, it wasn’t a city case.”
    “What was she doing by herself in a dark lane?” said the