Montreal Stories by Mavis Gallant

Fenton seemed more like the sort of man her father might go with to the races. She could imagine them easily going on about bets and horses. Most of the babies Ray was kind enough to find for unhappy couples were made known by doctors. Perhaps he was one of them.
    It was decided between Ray and Mr. Fenton that Nora would be called for, the next morning, by Mr. Fenton and the doctor. They would all three collect the child and take him home. Nora was invited to lunch. Saying good-bye, Mr. Fenton touched her bare arm, perhaps by accident, and asked her to call him “Boyd.” Nothing in her manner or expression showed she had heard.
    That evening, Ray and his wife played cards in the kitchen. Nora was ironing the starched piqué dress she would wear the next day. She said, “They gave up their own baby for adoption, or what?”
    “Maybe they weren’t expecting a child. It was too much for them,” her mother said.
    “Give us a break,” said Ray. “Mrs. Fenton wasn’t in any shape to look after him. She had
her
mother down from Toronto because she couldn’t even run the house. They’ve got this D. P. maid always threatening to quit.”
    “Does he mind having his mother-in-law around the whole time?” said Nora.
    “He sure doesn’t.” Nora thought he would add some utterly English thing like “She’s got the money,” but Ray went on, “She’s on his side. She wants them together. The baby’s the best thing that could happen.”
    “Maybe there was a mistake at the hospital,” said Nora’s mother, trying again. “The Fentons got some orphan by mistake and their own baby went to the home.”
    “And then the truth came out,” said Nora. It made sense.
    “Now when you’re over there, don’t you hang out with that maid,” Ray said. “She can’t even speak English. If somebody says to you to eat in the kitchen, I want you to come straight home.”
    “I’m not leaving home,” said Nora. “I’m not sure if I want to go back to their place after tomorrow.”
    “Come on,” said Ray. “I promised.”
    “You promised. I didn’t.”
    “Leave your dress on the ironing board,” said her mother. “I’ll do the pleats.”
    Nora switched off the iron and went to stand behind her father. She put her hands on his shoulders. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to let you down. You might as well throw your hand in. I saw Maman’s.”
3
    Obliged to take the baby from Nora, Missy now held him at arm’s length, upright between her hands, so that no part of him could touch her white apron. Nora thought, He’ll die from his own screaming. Missy’s face said she was not enjoying the joke. Perhaps she thought Mr. Fenton had put Nora up to it. His laughter had said something different: Whatever blunders he might have committed until now, choosing Missy to be the mother of a Fenton was not among them.
    “You’d better clean him up right away,” said Mrs. Clopstock.
    Missy, whose silences were astonishingly powerful, managed to suggest that cleaning Neil up was not in her working agreement. She did repeat that a bottle was ready for some reason, staring hard at the doctor.
    “The child is badly dehydrated,” he said, as if replying to Missy. “He should be given liquid right away. He is undernourished and seriously below his normal weight. As you can tell, he has a bad case of diarrhea. I’ll take his temperature after lunch.”
    “Is he really sick?” said Nora.
    “He may have to be hospitalized for a few days.” He was increasingly solemn and slower than ever.
    “Hospitalized?” said Mr. Fenton. “We’ve only just got him here.”
    “The first thing is to get him washed and changed,” said Mrs. Clopstock.
    “I’ll do it,” said Nora. “He knows me.”
    “Missy won’t mind.”
    Sensing a private exchange between Mrs. Clopstock and Missy, Nora held still. She felt a child’s powerful desire to go home, away from these strangers. Mrs. Clopstock said, “Let us all please go and