it down to the front walk, where she unfolded it and set it down ready for the baby. The little boy stood on the porch and grinned at her.
“Hello, Liebling,” she said to him as she climbed the steps again. “Come to Auntie Gracie.” She picked him up and sat on the porch railing, dangling him on her knee. He pointed down the street and said something in French, while she answered him in German. Though neither understood the other, there was a well-established relationship between them. On two or three occasions she had babysat with the Laramée children, but the Laramées didn’t like to ask her very often.
Monique came out carrying the baby and some covers for the stroller. Grace placed Gaston on the floor and took the baby from its mother while Monique readied the buggy. Cradling the baby in her arm she chucked it under the chin, making funny little noises to it, watching its tiny face break into a grin. Then she smiled down at it, caught off guard by the love and longing that surged through her. It was the spontaneous smile of an aging woman, the most unaffected in a woman’s repertoire, and the most revealing smile a woman has.
After the baby was tucked in and young Gaston had attached himself to the side of the buggy, Mrs. Laramée set off down the street, as Grace waved them goodbye. Then setting her face against any of the neighbours who might have seen her give herself away, she went back into the house.
She had just placed the kettle on the stove and spooned some instant coffee into a cup when there was a sharp imperious knock at the front door. She moved the kettle to an unlit burner, wiped her hands on her hips, and went to answer it.
“Have you a room to rent, ma’am?” a tall young man asked as she opened the door.
She looked him over carefully before answering. “Yes, a single.”
“What are you asking for it?”
“Eight dollars.”
She looked him over once again. He was in his middle or late twenties, good-looking in a careless way. He wore a windbreaker and his head was bare. On his feet were a pair of heavy black institutional shoes, which might have been prison issue if his suntan hadn’t ruled out a recent prison background. She reasoned that the price of the room was of prime concern to him, and that this had prompted his asking for it so soon.
“Could I see the room?” he asked.
She hesitated. She was alone in the house except for old Martin downstairs, and something about the young man frightened her in a way. It wasn’t his appearance, or even the look of his shoes, but the challenging maleness of him, which made her feel vulnerable and female. When she spoke again she felt her chin tremble and her voice crack a little.
“Just follow me please,” she said.
On the way upstairs she turned and said. “Mr. Martin downstairs is working nights right now, so I don’t like to make any noise.” This was to let him know they were not alone, and had nothing to do with her feelings for a sleeping roomer, especially old man Martin.
The young man looked the room over carefully, staring down into the alleyway as if gauging the drop, walking into the closet, picking up the chair, and glancing briefly into the hanging mirror. His self-possession fought with his hesitancy, but he pressed his hand down on the bed, testing its strength and resiliency, and finally turned down the sheet, blanket, and faded counterpane.
Grace stood in the doorway, watching the litheness of his movements and the tightness of his windbreaker over his shoulders as he bent himself. She resolved to let him have the room for seven dollars if he hesitated about taking it.
“Well?” she asked.
“It looks all right,” he said, staring up at a cracked spot in the ceiling. “I’ll take it if it’s okay by you.”
“I expect the rent every week,” she said. “When is your payday?”
“I haven’t any regular one. I’m a salesman — gas burners,” he answered. “I get my money any day of the week.”
“Is that a good job?” she asked, her smile disappearing beneath her doubts, “It seems to me that spring isn’t a good time for selling things like that.”
He gave her an assured laugh. “That’s what everybody seems to think,” he said. “Actually spring and summer are the best times to sell heating equipment. Nobody has their furnaces on then, see? And they don’t have their fuel in either.”
“I never thought about it before,” she said.
“What do you burn here, coal or oil?”
“Coal.”
“Still burning coal, eh? I’ll bet you haven’t much of it in your cellar right now, have you?”
“Mr. Martin looks after that,” she said, both to show him that she was above tending furnace and reminding him of old man Martin’s presence.
“Maybe I’ll be able to sell you a gas furnace,” he said. “It’s the cleanest, least troublesome fuel in the world. Natural gas heating. Everybody’s putting it in.”
“I’m thinking of selling the place before long. They’re talking about tearing down every house on this block, and them on Bemiral at the back too. They’re gonna build apartment houses.”
“It’s happening everywhere these days. When do you figure this is going to happen?”
“Maybe next fall. Next winter at the latest.”
“Anything can happen before then. I figure I’ll have moved to a place of my own before that. I only decided to take a room for a little while.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a thin wad of bills. “Eight dollars, you said it was?”
“That’s right.”
He handed her the money.
“I’ll bring you a receipt later,” she said.
“I don’t need a receipt.”
“Where are you living now, Mr. — ?”
“Cronin. Clark Cronin. I’m staying at the Parklawn Hotel.”
“Down here on Bloor Street?”
“Yeah. Just a couple of blocks away.”
“But isn’t it — I mean it’s — ?”
“Expensive?” he finished for her. “Yes, it is that’s why I’m moving. You see, I’ve been on the road — out in the field for three months, and when I hit town again last week I booked in there. Now I’m expecting to stick around so I need a cheaper place.” He plucked at the front of his windbreaker “I’ve been inspecting some installations today, that’s why I’m dressed like this.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. She didn’t believe he was staying at the Parklawn at all. Who did he think he was kidding? She’d been a landlady too long to be fooled by his kind. He was some kind of sharpy, but what kind?
He walked to the window again and tried to look down into the backyard. “You haven’t got a garage, have you?” he asked.
“No.”
