The Way the Crow Flies Read online

  “Speak up, little girl,” says Mr. March.

  “I found it,” says Claire, and yes, you can hear a little sway to her words.

  Claire goes to offer the blue egg to Philip Pinder in the front row, but Mr. March stops her. The egg is too delicate to be passed around the class. “Especially to the likes of Mr. Pinder.” The class laughs in agreement. Even Philip Pinder laughs. Madeleine is relieved that Claire will be spared the agony of a broken robin’s egg. Mr. March is kind at heart.

  Everyone wishes Claire would talk more, in her American accent, but all she says in conclusion is “I collect them sometimes.” Sometahms. That does it. At recess the girly-girls want to be her friend and several boys show off in her vicinity. Philip Pinder sings at the top of his lungs, “‘Roger Ramjet he’s our man, the hero of our nation, the only thing that’s wrong with him is mental retardation!’”

  Cathy Baxter, the boss of the girly-girls and their skipping ropes, puts one hand on her hip and says fed-uppedly, “Philip,” and he squeals away like a racing car. Joyce Nutt, who is the prettiest, is her second-in-command. They all surround Claire to marvel at her bracelet. Claire doesn’t brag or say a thing, just holds out her wrist obligingly as Cathy goes through the charms one by one—

  “Marjorie, don’t butt in.”

  “Sorry, Cathy.”

  Thus, while Madeleine can see the physical resemblance, she knows—heading for the swings, climbing on and glimpsing the shiny pixie cut in the centre of the small crowd below—that she and Claire McCarroll are nothing alike.

  “The following little girls will remain after the bell”—and he consults his seating plan even though he knows everyone’s name by now—“Grace Novotny….”

  Well that’s not surprising, Grace didn’t “tell,” she sang, and not terribly well.

  “Joyce Nutt….”

  Joyce Nutt? What did she do? She is one of the skipping-rope girls and they never get in trouble—

  “Diane Vogel….”

  Diane is also a skipping-rope girl, but not a bossy one. It seems she too requires improved concentration because, as Madeleine has just noticed, Diane has suddenly become a tortoise in spelling.

  “And Madeleine McCarthy.”

  After all her efforts at concentration, she is required to remain after three. Due to mirth. Her stomach goes cold. She showed off and now she’s in trouble. And yet she wasn’t trying to show off. How do you tell the difference?

  She and the others wait at the back of the empty classroom, ranged along the wall with the coat hooks, while Diane Vogel does her backbend up at the front. Mr. March spots her by holding her steady between his knees so that she won’t fall and hurt herself.

  “Can you spell Mississippi, little girl?”

  “Thank you, sir,” says Blair McCarroll as Jack slides a glass of beer to him along the bar at the mess.

  McCarroll is, as Simon predicted, fresh-faced. His jaw has a freshly chiselled look, his profile clean and buffed. The hardness of youth is apparent behind the pleats and creases of his uniform, and in his neck rising from his starched collar, which has yet to wilt against any excess of flesh. The wings over his left breast pocket attest, along with a row of stripes, to his service as a fighter pilot. But in his manner there is none of the swagger of his trade. He has not seen fit to rumple his lapel, push back his hat, loosen his tie or look Jack in the eye with the force of a punch. A flush stains his cheeks at the slightest provocation.

  “So what are you doing up our way, McCarroll?” asks Jack. “Going to learn to fly?”

  The men laugh—two or three flying instructors here to welcome McCarroll, along with several non-aircrew officers from the school.

  McCarroll glances down at the high gloss of the bar, then up again. “Well your pilots are some of the best in the world,” he says in his mild drawl. “I consider it an honour to help out with the training.”

  A few men exchange looks, nod. Okay.

  “You seem like a reasonable man, McCarroll,” says Jack with a grin.

  “Please call me Blair if you like, sir.” He glances at the others. “And you all.”

  Vic Boucher orders a plate of fried scallops. “Who’s going to join me?”

  Ted Lawson says to Jack, “How about it, sir? Einmal Bier?”

  A fresh round is bought, they move to a table, work is discussed along with plans for the next formal event—a dinner and dance in honour of the Air Vice Marshal from Air Training Command Headquarters, who is flying in from Winnipeg for Battle of Britain day. Jack groans inwardly at the thought of squeezing into his formal mess kit—his monkey suit. McCarroll will have no such problem; lean and anything but mean, he reminds Jack of a young seminarian. The kid is probably steady as a rock in the cockpit, perfect reflexes uncorrupted by bravado—the machines these lads fly nowadays are hair-trigger. Nothing like the old beasts Jack piloted.

  Hal Woodley joins them, removing his hat, loosening his tie; the other officers straighten up and make room, greeting him, “Sir.” A waiter brings him a clean ashtray and a Scotch.

  Jack leans back again in his bucket chair amid the kibitzing. He watches McCarroll listening politely. It’s an odd feeling, knowing something about another man that he is unaware of himself. Especially when it affects that man’s family, thinks Jack. There’s no harm in it, of course—both he and McCarroll have a special, if simple, job to do. But McCarroll doesn’t know it, and won’t need to know it until Simon gives Jack the word. McCarroll and his wife will eat, sleep, perhaps conceive a child here on this station. Their daughter will go to this school instead of another, and McCarroll doesn’t know why. Yet. It doesn’t sit perfectly well with Jack, this secret knowledge. Something about it—an inappropriate intimacy. The odour of someone else’s tousled sheets.

  “What’s the word, Jack?” asks Woodley.

  “Well, things are ticking over pretty good. I got Warrant Officer Pinder on side, I figure my job’s halfway done.”

  Woodley chuckles. “Don’t get him too far on side, he’ll fill your icebox with deer meat and it’s all you’ll eat for a month.”

  The topic turns to fishing. Jack weighs in on New Brunswick salmon and Hal Woodley tells a story about an Indian guide up in northern British Columbia. It’s not right. Jack shifts in his chair. Woodley should not be in the dark about why McCarroll is here. Like everyone else at this cocktail table, McCarroll is under Woodley’s command, and any orders he follows while stationed here should come through Woodley. Jack is sitting next to an American officer who is not strictly subject to the chain of command. This is wrong.

  “… and he said, ‘Aw, you should’ve been here yesterday, Mr. Woodley, they was bitin’ then.’” Laughter erupts. Even McCarroll has relaxed enough to join in. Jack feels a smile stretched across his face. My problem, he thinks, is that it never seemed as though I was going behind Woodley’s back until McCarroll showed up and put this whole thing in uniform. It was supposed to be “unofficial.” He sips, mildly relieved to have at least analyzed his discomfort. No, none of this is by the book, and Jack is unaccustomed to that. But the fact remains, we’re all on the same side. This favour will be over and done with soon enough, and no one need ever be the wiser.

  He bends to rise from his chair and experiences an uncomfortable sensation around his throat. As though he were carrying a little excess weight and, in the act of bending, the displacement of extra flesh had exerted a slight pressure on his neck. He lifts his glass of Scotch for a toast. “Here’s to being above it all.”

  He feels the Scotch open his throat, says, “Cheers,” by way of leave-taking and heads for the doors.

  Knowing more about other people’s lives than they do themselves—Jack reflects that, after all, it’s nothing new for him. In Germany, at 4 Wing, he often had advance notice of exercises and drills, even postings. He knew whose leave would be cancelled, whose wife would be disappointed, who would get his preferred posting and who would be going to a radar base in the Arctic. It was part of
his job to know and, sometimes, to decide. It never gave him a moment’s pause. How different is this, really? He reaches the doors and glances back at the lounge full of officers. In a far corner is Nolan, alone at a table—not unusual in and of itself, there’s no law that says a man always has to be “all in together, fellas.” What is unusual is that Nolan is eating supper here again. At first Jack assumed Nolan’s wife was away, but he was told earlier this week, by Vic Boucher, that Mrs. Nolan is some kind of invalid. Jack pushes through the big oak doors and fills his lungs with fresh air. He exhales the cigar and cigarette atmosphere, the aroma of liquor and beer and uniforms. He enjoys the company of his fellow officers, he enjoys his work, but all that is only a means to an end. Real life is what his wife is cooking up for him at home, this very moment.

  When Madeleine emerges from the side door, she sees that Lisa and Auriel have not waited but are halfway across the field, walking slowly so she can catch up with them. She has already started running across the playground when Marjorie calls from the swings, “Hi Madeleine.”

  Madeleine doesn’t stop. “Hi.”

  “Wait up.”

  “I can’t.” But she slows down, not wanting to catch up to Auriel and Lisa with Marjorie in tow.

  “How come you had to stay after three?” Marjorie is breathless with the effort to keep up.

  “’Cuz,” says Madeleine.

  “’Cause why?”

  “To do exercises.”

  “Do you get to be a monitor?”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “Can I play with you and Auriel and Lisa?”

  Madeleine shrugs. “It’s a free country.”

  Marjorie looks down.

  Madeleine says, “Here,” and hands her a chocolate rosebud.

  Marjorie gazes at it and with an intake of breath says, “Oh Maddy, where did you get it?”

  Madeleine mutters, “Mr. March.”

  Marjorie pops the rosebud in her mouth and, before she can say thank you, Madeleine takes off like the Road Runner, leaving Marjorie in a cloud of cartoon dust.

  She catches up with Auriel and Lisa. “What happened?” Auriel asks.

  Madeleine looks at them solemnly. Tucks in her chin, unhooks her eyeballs from their moorings and says, “‘Mm-bedea-bedea, that’s all folks!’” As they zigzag toward home, she steals a glance over her shoulder at Marjorie trailing behind them. Madeleine didn’t want the rosebud anyway.

  “How was school, old buddy?”

  They are on the couch, reading the paper before supper; Madeleine is snuggled under his arm.

  “It was fine. There’s a new kid.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “She’s American.”

  “Mm-hm.” They read “The Wizard of Id.” Then he asks, “What’s the situation report?” Jack has decided not to bring up the subject at the dinner table, he knows she feels private about it.

  “I got put back up to dolphins,” she says.

  “There you go, this time next week you’ll be a rabbit again.”

  “Hare.”

  “Did you do like we said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you look him in the eye and not miss a trick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good stuff.”

  Madeleine waits for him to ask if she had to stay after three again, but he doesn’t. And why would he? The whole point was getting out of tortoises, and she has done that. Why would he suspect she might have been kept after three again? And anyhow, it was her own fault. She stepped on another land mine, she has to learn where they are. A bad teacher is a gift. Do you really want to tell Dad how you disrupted the class due to mirth? After we talked about winning the war of concentration? You know what you must do. You have your mission. Operation Concentration.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “… Are backbends good for you?”

  “I suppose so, yeah.”

  Jack turns a page of his newspaper. KHRUSHCHEV SAYS WEAPONS IN CUBA SOLELY FOR DEFENCE….

  “Do they improve your concentration?”

  “What’s that, old buddy?”

  “Backbends.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, how would they do that?”

  “By making the blood flow to your head.”

  “Yeah I suppose they would. Why, have you been doing backbends?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “After school.” She adds, “On my way home.” That’s not really a lie. Mr. March’s desk is on her way home, she has to pass it in order to get to the door.

  “Don’t work too hard, sweetie.” He puts down the paper because she looks so serious all of a sudden. “Listen now”—he pulls her onto his knee—“maybe it’s time to throttle back, what do you think?” He tells her to forget all about tortoises and hares for a while, because “half the battle goes on back here,” and he taps the back of his head, “while you’re out playing or in bed asleep dreaming. You’ve got to be careful not to burn the candle at both ends.”

  Dad doesn’t know what backbends are. She tries not to think about them while he hugs her. They don’t belong here on his lap. Mr. March’s knees in a vise grip on her hips, “spotting” her.

  “Dad, can I watch TV now?”

  “Why don’t you go out and play, there won’t be many sunny days left.”

  “To Tell the Truth is on.”

  “It’ll be on next week too, don’t you think, eh?”

  “Yeah.” She returns his smile and gets down off the couch. Her legs feel heavy.

  When she imagines telling him about the backbends, she thinks of herself doing one right in front of him, and that makes her feel sorry for him because he would be so bewildered. But Dad wasn’t wrong. She got out of tortoises.

  Jack returns to his paper. Bleeding hearts in Britain are demonstrating, Ban the Bomb! Self-described Communists. That sort of leaning was understandable in the thirties but is unforgivable now. Have these people never heard of Stalin? He turns the page. Sees his daughter still standing in the middle of the room, looking a little lost. Maybe she’s had a falling-out with her friends. “Did you say there was a new girl in your class?”

  Madeleine nods.

  “Why don’t you go call on her. Make her feel at home.”

  “Okay.”

  Her legs are so heavy and the sun is so bright, it feels like miles down to the little green bungalow. She squints, feeling almost sick.

  “Hello Madeleine, honey,” says Sharon McCarroll. She has the same sweet Virginia voice as Claire.

  Claire McCarroll has a bedroom full of unbroken toys. Shelves of dolls, and games with no pieces missing. That’s because she is that rare and blessed creature, an only child. She doesn’t so much play with Madeleine as watch Madeleine play. She is like someone in a foreign country who knows a few polite phrases: “You can play with it.” Claire is not used to defending her stuff. She even lets Madeleine hold the bird’s nest on her dresser. It has the blue egg in it.

  “Wow,” says Madeleine, “you have an Easy-Bake Oven.”

  “You can play with it.”

  “‘It’s Kenner! It’s fun!’” and Madeleine squawks like the cartoon bird, “Grawk!” Claire giggles and it sounds like water bubbling up. It is so sudden and happy that it makes Madeleine laugh.

  “Pull my string,” says Madeleine. And Claire pulls the imaginary string. Bugs Bunny says, “Nyah, what’s up, doc?” Claire laughs again. “Pull it again.” Claire does.

  It’s too nice out to play inside so Mrs. McCarroll lets them take Claire’s Easy-Bake Oven outside. They sit on the grass, peering through the oven door, waiting for the light bulb to cook the tiny angel food cake. Madeleine is in play clothes but Claire is still in her dress.

  There is not a great deal to talk about.

  The cake is ready. Claire opens the oven. “You can cut it,” she says, blushing.

  Madeleine divides the cake scrupulously and they take as long as they can to eat it
off tea-party plates. Then they do somersaults to aid digestion. Madeleine sees Claire’s underpants even though she isn’t trying to look. She imagines Claire doing a backbend at Mr. March’s desk, then closes her eyes to get rid of the picture. She squeezes them shut only to see Claire’s underpants, their pattern bright and clear on the insides of her eyelids. A storm of yellow butterflies.

  That week at school, Claire is much sought after. But it wanes. She is so genuinely what she seems—quiet, shy—that there is no point continuing to make a fuss or fight over her. She never picks a best friend, which is what everyone is waiting for her to do. Offerings are made: “Claire, do you want one of my Smarties?”

  “Yes please, would you like a cookie?”

  Regardless of who makes the offer, Claire accepts it and offers something back. She doesn’t understand that you shouldn’t enter into any exchange with Grace Novotny, that it taints you. Claire just doesn’t get it, even after a whole week. She doesn’t join any huddles, she swings on the swing alone, not high. She may go down the slide, braking carefully with her hands on the way. And she rides to and from school on her bike every day, even though the PMQs are too close for anyone to have to ride.

  Her bike has fat tires like Madeleine’s, and underneath its custom paint job perhaps it is also a Zippy Vélo. But Claire’s father painted it pink and white, a decorative diamond pattern like the Pied Piper’s cloak gracing the fenders and chain guard. It has a pink seat, pink bell, pink plastic wicker basket and—pièce de résistance—two glistening pink plastic streamers.

  Claire is definitely not a reject, and since everyone kind of likes her and nobody dislikes her, no one notices that she has no friends.

  POLICIES OF CONTAINMENT

  As a parent you undoubtedly want to protect your youngsters from missteps and mishaps in the sexual sphere. You undoubtedly want to assure your children of sound sexual information and of freedom from marriage-impairing inhibitions.

  Chatelaine, August 1962

  GOING TO SCHOOL in the morning is often very different from coming home in the afternoon. Wednesdays are best because she never has to stay after three. No one does. Mr. March conducts the school band, and Wednesday afternoons they practise from three to four-thirty. Lisa and Auriel are in the band, playing triangle and recorder respectively, but Madeleine has managed to avoid it by promising her mother to practise her accordion faithfully. She has started lessons with Mr. Boucher.