Across the Bridge - Mavis Gallant [86]
The next morning, and in spite of the heat, Ray requested pancakes and sausages for breakfast. No two of the Abbotts ever ate the same thing; Nora’s mother stood on her feet until the family was satisfied. Then she cleared away plates, bowls, and coffee cups and made herself a pot of strong tea. Ray picked his teeth, and suddenly asked Nora if she wanted to do a favor for a couple he knew: it involved fetching this couple’s baby and keeping an eye on it just a few hours a day, until the end of the week. The infant’s mother had suffered a nervous breakdown at his birth, and the child had been placed in a home and cared for by nuns.
“Why can’t they hire a nurse?” Nora said.
“She’s on her way over from England. They’re just asking you to be around till she comes. It’s more than just a good turn,” her father said. “It’s a Christian act.”
“A Christian act is one where you don’t get paid,” Nora said.
“Well, you’ve got nothing better to do for the moment,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to take money for this. If you take the money, you’re a nursemaid and have to eat in the kitchen.”
“I eat in the kitchen at home.” She could not shake off the picture of Ray as old and being waited on by Gerry. “Do you know them?” she said to her mother, who was still standing, eating toast.
“Your mother doesn’t know them,” said Ray.
“I just saw the husband once,” said his wife. “It was around the time when Ninette had to stop giving lessons. Mrs. Fenton used to come once a week. She must have started being depressed before the baby came along, because she couldn’t concentrate or remember anything. Taking lessons was supposed to pull her mind together. He brought a book belonging to Ninette and I think he paid for some lessons his wife still owed. Ninette wasn’t around. Aunt Rosalie introduced us. That was all.”
“You never told me about that,” said Ray.
“What was he like?” said Nora.
Her mother answered, in English, “Like an English.”
Nora and her father took the streetcar down to the stone building where Ray had worked before moving into his office at City Hall. He put on his old green eyeshade and got behind an oak counter. He was having a good time, playing the role of a much younger Ray Abbott, knowing all the while he had the office and the safe and connections worth a gold mine. Mr. Fenton and his doctor friend were already waiting, smoking under a dilapidated NO SMOKING sign. Nora felt not so much shy as careful. She took in their light hot-weather clothes – the doctor’s pale beige jacket, with wide lapels, and Mr. Fenton’s American-looking seersucker. The huge room was dark and smelled of old books and papers. It was not the smell of dirt, though the place could have done with a good cleanout.
Nora and the men stood side by side, across from her father. Another person, whom she took to be a regular employee, was sitting at a desk, reading the Gazette and eating a Danish. Her father had in front of him a ledger of printed forms. He filled in the blank spaces by hand, using a pen, which he dipped with care in black ink. Mr. Fenton dictated the facts. Before giving the child’s name or its date of birth, he identified his wife and, of course, himself: they were Louise Marjorie Clopstock and Boyd Markham Forrest Fenton. He was one of those Anglos with no Christian name, just a string of surnames. Ray lifted the pen over the most important entry. He peered up, merry-looking as a squirrel. It was clear that Mr. Fenton either could not remember or make up his mind. “Scott?” he said, as if Ray ought to know.
The doctor said, “Neil Boyd Fenton,” pausing heavily between syllables.
“Not Neil Scott?”
“You said you wanted ‘Neil Boyd.’ ”
Nora thought, You’d think Dr. Marchand was the mother. Ray wrote the name carefully and slowly, and the date of birth. Reading upside down, she saw that the Fenton child