Toby by Todd Babiak Page B

linens for this purpose, with just-detectable fleur-de-lis embroidery. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then stuffed his linen into her bag without taking even a moment to consider its astonishing beauty. From time to time, in moments of crisis, moments like these, Toby questioned the rewards of his behaviour. He understood why so many of his peers cussed in public, why they spent more time in restaurants and cafés looking at their iPhones than into their lovers’ eyes.
    The woman removed her helmet. “He was a murderer.”
    “No, Madame.” The taxi had long gone. “He was just an idiot.”
    She rubbed her shoulder. The sturdy bicycle had survived the impact, but the chain had fallen off. Toby took her bag and walked her bicycle one block east to the gas station on Saint-Denis.
    “It’s another awful day. Another ridiculous, monstrous day.” She sobbed again. Toby pulled the linen out of her bag and gave it to her demonstrably, so she might notice the fleurs-de-lis. Traffic was light suddenly. The sun was warm on his face and the wind had calmed. No one was honking.
    “The day will surely improve for you, Madame. I have a feeling.”
    She pointed to her ripped nylons. “I’m already late.”
    “You were hit by a car.”
    “There is a recession, you know.”
    “My name is Toby Ménard. I’m enchanted to meet you.”
    “Catherine Brassens. I’ve seen you on television.” She attempted a phrase in English: “I practise sometime to hear correct.”
    “ Parfait .”
    “It’s normal, I suppose, that you’d stop for a woman in distress.”
    “I suppose it is.”
    In English again, she ventured, “A gentle man.”
    “A gentleman and a gentlewoman.”
    Catherine went into the washroom, and Toby waited for one of the gas station attendants to make eye contact with him so he might ask for some assistance. Eventually, he gaveup and replaced the chain himself. Now there was grease on his hands, plenty of it. He hopped on the bicycle and pedalled in a small circle in the gas station parking lot.
    “Like it never happened,” he said, when Catherine returned.
    She had three wet paper towels. “The mirror in the washroom’s too small and too high. Will you?”
    Toby crouched and inspected the wound on her upper thigh. She had done a thorough job, but islands of dirt and debris had been hidden by her nylons. “May I?”
    “Of course.” Catherine lifted her skirt a few inches higher.
    He pulled the fabric away from her skin and reached in through a hole, gently dabbing the dirt and bits of gravel away. The skin of her leg was not as pale as her face and neck, and she was muscular: the advantage of bicycle commuting. He looked up, for an instant, when he was finished. She watched him. The colour had returned to her cheeks. Neither of them spoke until a dump truck passed, rattling him to his feet.
    “You’re going to be all right, Madame Brassens.”
    “Thanks again, Doctor Toby.”
    “I shouldn’t have shouted.”
    “The murderer shouldn’t have hit me with his taxi.”
    They shook hands. His grease transferred to her, and he apologized. She pulled a small package of damp wipes from her pocket and offered one to Toby. Together, they wiped the grease from her hands, and Toby wondered about the damp wipes: Who carries such things?
    “Can I do something for you in return?” Already she referred to him as toi.
    “Madame Brassens, it was my pleasure to help.”
    “I’ll make you dinner.”
    “It’s not necessary.”
    “What’s necessary? I just want to make you dinner.” A strong gust came up Saint-Denis, without any bakery in it. She shifted the bangs of her blond hair from her eyes. “You’re a gentleman. You can’t refuse. I have you.”
    Toby pulled a calling card from his stainless steel Frank Lloyd Wright holder, a gift from Alicia. “My number is here, and my e-mail.”
    “Friday night. Six thirty.”
    Catherine wrote her address on the back of a crumpled receipt. He watched her go,