The Age of Cities by Brett Josef Grubisic

other than household cleanliness, gardening, and making them meals three times a day. A career, unlikely as that was, could be one of them. Why not move to the city and become an elevator woman at the Hudson’s Bay Company? She might even marry. Who could say? His inviting her along had turned out to be a benefit for them both.
    They finished with coffee—served in bone china, no less—and samplings from the dessert table. Winston told his mother that the Marine Room custard was nowhere close to hers. Looking forward to taking him through the highlights of the department store and getting across the city to view flowering trees and beds of blossoms, Alberta recommended they pick up the pace. Winston waved to their waitress.
    As they stood and readied themselves for the afternoon, Alberta said, “Alright then, sir, let me show you around.” She resumed her policing act, white gloves beckoning him now toward the elevator. He smiled, thinking how infectious her enthusiasm had become.
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    On the main floor at long last, Alberta and Winston planned their route to Queen Elizabeth Park from downtown. Winston agreed to their taking a bus, and refrained from suggesting an easy and quick taxicab.
    â€œBefore we move another muscle, though, I’m off to the Ladies’ Room.” Alberta handed her two shopping bags to her son.
    â€œI’ll wait right here,” he said.
    He was testing his eyesight—one eye squeezed shut, the other discerning shapes on the distant banks of shoes—when a voice interrupted him: “Excuse me, sir, we’re running a special offer in the Men’s Department. Today only!”
    The voice was unmistakable. Winston turned and said, “Well, hello, Dickie. What a surprise. You’re walking around the store advertising your department?” In a grey suit and somber striped tie, hair combed and parted neatly on the right, Dickie was the picture of an up and coming store clerk.
    â€œNo, you dizzy thing, that was for your ears only. I’m running an errand for Management, in fact.” He raised his brow and tilted his head to indicate some documents in his hand. As always, his tone implied that there was trouble lurking below the calm surface: classified information, for instance, that could fall into the wrong hands.
    Department store secrets, Winston thought, imagining spies from Woodward’s infiltrating unlit rooms in the dead of night, flashlights in hand, sussing out enemy plans secured within filing cabinets. It seemed ludicrous, but who knew? Even he had been transfixed by the Rosenberg case—not least because the pair looked so innocuous. Their double-dealings remained a mainstay of conversation at work and at home for months. A lament had been uttered by practically everyone: If you couldn’t trust your neighbours, then what was left to believe in?
    The War and the tensions that had risen since then had made folks suspicious, Alberta complained now and then. “It’s hardly necessary. I mean, why in God’s name would any enemy power be interested in a sleepy valley in Canada?” she’d asked him one afternoon. Having gotten caught in a tangle of conversation—the proposed setting up of sentinels at the bridge and western exit of the city to alert citizens about the arrival of Soviets was a topic that had town lips flapping—at the Post Office, she was exasperated and in need of a kindred spirit. “Unless there’s a strategic importance to strawberries and lumber the government hasn’t told us about. Maybe they can make rocket fuel out of them.” The idea was so risible they’d both laughed and coughed up their tea. While they had poked fun at the possibility of local clandestine lives and cloak-and-dagger goings-on, they could not help holding a few newborn reservations, or think of truths disguised by appearances: who could say?
    Dickie took a step closer to Winston and glanced