Across the Bridge - Mavis Gallant [76]
The old nun addressed Mr. Fenton: “Your beautiful flowers are gracing our little chapel.” At least, that was how Dr. Marchand decided to translate her words. Nora would have made it, “Your flowers are in the chapel,” but that might have sounded abrupt, and “gracing” was undoubtedly more pleasing to Mr. Fenton.
“That’s good to hear,” he said. A current of laughter set off by the story of Earl and the mattress still ran in his voice. Nora was afraid he might pat the nun on the cheek, or in some other way embarrass them horribly, but all he did was glance up at the clock, then at his watch, and make a stagy sort of bow – not mockingly, just trying to show he was not in his customary habitat and could get away with a gesture done for effect. The clock struck the half hour: twelve-thirty. They should have been sitting down to lunch at Mr. Fenton’s house, along with his wife and Mrs. Clopstock, who was his wife’s mother. Nora had never before been invited to a meal at a strange table. This overwhelming act of hospitality was her reason for wearing white earrings, white high-heeled shoes and her sister’s relinquished bracelets.
The hard midday light of the street stunned them quiet at first, then the baby set up a thin wail – his first message to Nora. I know, she told him. You’re hungry, you’re too hot. You need a good wash. You don’t like being moved around. (For a second, she saw the hairline divide between being rescued and taken captive. The idea was too complex, it had no end or beginning, and she let it go.) You’ve dirtied yourself, too. In fact, you reek to high heaven. Never mind. We’re going to put everything right. Trying to quiet him, she gave him one of her fingers to suck. Better to let him swallow a few germs and microbes than cry himself sick. Mr. Fenton had parked in shade, around the corner. It wasn’t much of a walk.
“Nora can’t remember the war,” he said to the doctor, but really to her, trying the buddy business again. “She must have been in her cradle.”
“I know it’s over,” she said, thinking to close the subject.
“Oh, it’s that, all right.” He sounded sorry, about as sorry as he could feel about anything.
The doctor had replaced his Panama hat, after three tries at achieving the angle he wanted. He made a reassuring sort of presence in the front seat – solid, reliable. Nothing would knock him over. Nora’s father was thin and light as a blown leaf. The doctor said, “There’s another name I like. Desmond.”
“Des?” said Mr. Fenton. He struggled out of his jacket and vest and threw them on the backseat, next to Nora. His white carnation fell on the floor. The doctor remained fully dressed, every button fastened. “Des Butler?”
“He married an English girl,” said the doctor. “Remember?”
“Remember? I was best man. She cried the whole time. She was called Beryl – no, Brenda.”
“Well, she was in the family way,” said the doctor.
“She hightailed it right back to England,” said Mr. Fenton. “The Canadian taxpayers had to pay to bring her over. Nobody ever figured out where she got the money to go back. Even Des didn’t know.”
“Des never knew anything. He never knew what he should have known. All he noticed was she had gotten fat since the last time he saw her.”
“She