The conductor hollered street names like he was calling plays at a ball game. Two chatty, smartly dressed women boarded at Hanna Street. Vera Maude recognized them from Smith’s department store, the ladies’ undergarments to be exact, or the girls’ bait & tackle counter.
She had considered bringing up the subject of Mrs. Cousineau’s mystery man with her in the course of conversation by saying something like “oh, and I happened to notice” or “I haven’t seen your lodger lately,” but Vera Maude nixed that idea because she didn’t want to appear to be looking for an introduction. The Misses Cousineau and Richardson were always asking if there was a special man in Vera Maude’s life, and Vera Maude was always saying yes, even if that wasn’t the case. The absolute last thing she needed was the Clothesline playing matchmaker. She’d wind up with somebody’s idiot nephew, or worse, some yolk with a face like an elevated railway.
“SHE-E-E-P-herd.”
When Vera Maude found out that Braverman actually lived in Detroit, she became even more suspicious. It made her wonder if Mrs. Cousineau’s lodger wasn’t a bootlegger. That was when she decided to turn detective and try to gather some more facts.
Traffic was light and the streetcar continued to make good time. Half the city seemed to be on vacation. Vera Maude once considered going on one of those weekend excursions to Colchester Beach, but she needed someone to go with and couldn’t bear the thought of tripping with any of her co-workers getting paired with some loathsome, giggling girl who had a crush on her cousin and wore a nightgown to bed.
Wait — why hasn’t Mrs. Cousineau tried to set me up with Braverman? Does she know something?
“E-e-e-llis.”
The streetcar was starting to fill up. Vera Maude watched the long faces pile aboard, the folks that already used up their vacation time, the folks without an electric fan, the folks that couldn’t stand the heat and were staring down the short end of what was going to be a long week. In a few months these same people would be complaining about the cold. Last winter, when Mrs. Cousineau took ill and was practically bed-ridden, Vera Maude brought her magazines from the library. It became a habit, and now Mrs. Cousineau was used to her regular rotation of American Cookery, Ladies’ Home Journal, House Beautiful, and Chatterbox.
A few weeks ago Vera Maude decided to use one of these visits to try and learn more about her lodger. She found Mrs. Cousineau turning soil in the flowerbed. She was wearing her enormous, straw sunhat and oversized garden gloves, and they made her look like a little girl playing in the dirt. Vera Maude was feeling reckless. She asked her if there was anything she might bring the gentleman in her next parcel.
Do you know what sorts of things he likes to read?
I couldn’t say, dear. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with a book.
His work probably keeps him very busy. What line did you say he was in?
Well, that got Mrs. Cousineau’s gums flapping, and that’s how Vera Maude learned that the man’s name was Braverman, worked as a commercial artist somewhere downtown, and though he resided in Detroit, he had taken this room in Windsor in case he worked late or felt like spending the weekend.
Why doesn’t he just move here?
He says his situation is only temporary. He’s planning to move abroad.
How interesting. Did he say where?
No, but if I were to guess I would have to say Paris.
Paris!
Mm-hm. A few days after he took the room he got a giant carton from Paris. Had to be delivered by truck. Supplies for work, he said. And he gets letters all the time.
Supplies?
That’s right. Paints and varnishes. It looked heavy. Nice fellow. Always pays his rent on time.
Does he ever —
Have any plans for the long weekend, Maudie? I know a young man who —
Oh — got to run, Mrs. Cousineau. I hear Mrs. Richardson calling me for supper.
Since then Vera Maude had made several attempts at trying to find out where Braverman works. All she knew for certain was that his office was nearer the river than the library because she always got off the streetcar before he did. Today, however, with the extra time she was determined to go through with her investigation and see where it took her.
“Gi-i-i-i-iles.”
Some professional-types got on, the new midtown crowd. They kept their noses wedged in their morning papers, counting the days until they saved up enough for this year’s Cadillac and they could be rescued from public transit.
Cadillac: What a Wealth of Satisfaction.
A milk wagon halted on the tracks. The horse was either harbouring a grudge against the modern age or coping with a belly full of bad grass. People were pulling at both ends of the horse. Vera Maude suddenly imagined the word “Vexed!” on a movie dialogue card in her head. If her plans were foiled by this old nag, she would have to start advocating a prohibition on milk.
She looked over at Braverman. He was gazing out the window and drumming his briefcase lying flat on his lap with his fingertips. He had a far-away look in his eyes, like he was imagining elegant cafes, romantic cul-de-sacs, and ancient bridges; artists, lovers, and ex-soldiers walking the streets, basking in the glow of the city of light. Vera Maude had never noticed before how handsome Braverman was. There was something vaguely aristocratic about him. Surely he was one who could move comfortably through a range of social circles.
From saloon to salon.
Vera Maude liked the sound of that. She thought it would make a good title for her memoir. The horse was finally coaxed off the tracks and the way was clear.
“E-E-E-E-rie.”
The stop outside St. Joe’s Hospital seemed to last an eternity, and it cost Vera Maude a bit of her surplus time. She started working on her lateness excuses for Miss Lancefield.
I overslept. The streetcar derailed. There were these sailors on leave, drunk, vandalizing public property. They wouldn’t quit. Let’s just say I made the ultimate sacrifice.
She studied Braverman some more. She thought about his hands holding a brush, and then she looked at her own small hands. She had been biting her nails again.
“Wy-y-y-yn-DOTTE.”
The blocks were shorter now. This was the city in one of its earliest incarnations. On the older maps the river was the main street with little lanes running off it into farmers’ fields. On the newer maps the streets intersected the Avenue like steps up a ladder towards the river. In a little over a decade, streetcars and the automobile had completely shifted the axis of the city.
Some uniformed schoolgirls were skipping down the Avenue towards the sound of a bell. St. Mary’s Academy was coming up after Maiden Lane. Had her great-grandfather, a Catholic farmer, not decided to re-invent himself as a Methodist linen merchant, Vera Maude might very well have found herself a graduate of St. Mary’s.
And got me to a nunnery.
She wondered how the other branches in her family tree were managing their inheritance, especially those still in Ireland now living through a violent revolution. Maybe some wished they had remained Catholic. Perhaps some had even converted back. To Vera Maude, it was all a bit like those people jumping on the Giants bandwagon at the beginning of the World Series.
Some old codger was looking her over, and she made a face at him. He kept staring so she looked away. She would much rather have belted him one.
“Pa-a-a-rk Street.”
On any normal day, this was her stop. She could still potentially make the library on time, provided Braverman wasn’t going all the way to the ferry dock. Vera Maude stood up and grabbed