Free David by Ray Robertson Page B

clothes. She bent over to pick up a stocking and didn’t attempt to disguise the fact she had an asshole. I’d never witnessed anything so honest, ever. I felt myself getting hard again and went to her.
    Later, Loretta on my mind led straight to Mr. Blake in my brain:
    The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
    The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
    The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
    It was the first time I’d thought about Him in a long, long time.
    *
    Of course, there was the matter of Loretta fucking other men for money.
    Like most things too important to talk about, we didn’t, not directly, anyway. She would simply say she had to go to work and I would never ask her how work was, and sooner than you’d imagine, anything becomes ordinary, even the extraordinary, such as your one and only beloved performing sexual intercourse with strangers in return for financial compensation. And when it didn’t feel normal, it felt nasty, like I was eighteen all over again and discovering who I was by mocking who I was supposed to be. If I was finally going to settle down, it was going to be on my terms, with a Prussian-born white woman who sold her body for money. I wanted to have my cake and to toss it too.
    The nearest Loretta ever came to addressing what she did was when she let on she wouldn’t be doing it for very much longer, that not only did she have a strategy, it was a strategy she was determined to carry out and accomplish. Taking a stroll with me one spring morning, Loretta insisted we eschew our standard turn around Tecumseh Park in favour of a walk down Hartford Street. I didn’t complain; as long as I was with her and moving, I was happy.
    She stopped in front of a large, less than impressive house halfway down the street. It sorely needed a fresh coat of paint, new shutters and eavestroughs, and an entirely rebuilt porch.
    â€œWhat do you think of this?” she said.
    â€œNot much.”
    â€œMaybe not now not much, but after fixing, very much.”
    It didn’t appear to be occupied. “You talk like you’re thinking of buying it,” I said. Loretta still lived above the tavern in Dresden where I’d first met her.
    â€œThere is no thinking. I have already bought it.”
    I was almost as flattered as I was surprised. That she had enough money to purchase a house was one thing; that shewould use it to live closer to me, for us, was another. “Congratulations,” I said, as much to me as to her.
    â€œThank you,” she said, appraising her new home.
    â€œWhen do you move in?”
    â€œ I do not. My tenants, they move in in September. It is not so bad as it looks. I have men do fixing for me beginning next week. I am promised no longer than ten days to make all necessary changes.”
    As well as surprised and flattered, now I was confused. “You’re not going to live here?”
    â€œOf course not. I buy to make money, not spend.”
    It turned out that, through one of her work contacts, Loretta had learned that the Canada Business College on Queen Street was looking to locate a permanent, centralized boarding house for the young out-of-town females attending what was at that time Canada’s only business college. At five dollars per week per young lady, Loretta had been quick to see the possibilities.
    I joined her in silently admiring her investment. “Congratulations,” I said.
    â€œYes, you have said,” she said. She slid her arm through mine and turned us around, back toward the park.
    A couple that was our double in everything—age, dress, evident relationship; everything but colour combination—passed us, making no effort to disguise their weary, head-shaking disapproval. Loretta pulled me closer. She was strong enough, she could.
    â€œOne more year and I buy one more house. The year after that, two more, I am certain. After that, I make enough money owning houses, I do no other