Way the Crow Flies (51 page)

“Simon.”

“Yeah?”

“How can you be so sure this fellow from Dora isn’t Soviet? The fact they haven’t moved on Fried might mean they’re biding their time. Watching him.”

There is the merest hesitation, then Simon says, “Because the Soviets don’t realize Fried has defected. They think he’s dead.”

“… Oh.”

“That’s how we got him out and closed the loop behind him. If the KGB were looking for him despite that, I’d’ve heard from our people in the East by now. There’d have been a bit of fallout. Canaries in the coal mine.”

“… So everything’s still basically in working order,” says Jack.

“Everything’s tickety-boo.”

And they hang up. Simon didn’t sound perturbed. But he never does.

Jack leaves the booth but doesn’t head back to his building; he walks in the opposite direction, toward the Primary Flying School—where he will find McCarroll.

So he was right, Fried worked on the V-2 rocket—the first ballistic missile, precursor to the Saturn rocket that is the West’s best hope of propelling the Apollo astronauts to the moon “before this decade is out.” He shivers—a surge of energy intensified by the raw spring air. Oskar Fried must have worked side by side with Wernher von Braun. This more than makes up for any minor annoyance Jack may have endured at Fried’s hands. He nears the
massive hangars that border the airfield and heads for Number 4, which houses the PFS.

Dora. An underground factory. The Germans had several of them—twelve-storey palaces beneath the pines, turning out Messerschmitts till the bitter end. Feats within feats of engineering. Even greater feats of pure management—the genius of Albert Speer. Jack strides into the hangar; steel rafters arch high overhead causing him to feel suspended as he glances up. Underfoot is the smooth certainty of concrete. He follows a makeshift corridor between prefab classroom walls.

Has Fried been recognized by someone from Dora? A fellow scientist? Fried is paranoid, trained by the Soviet system to be constantly looking over his shoulder, but it’s entirely possible that the man who called out to him did so innocently, at the sight of a familiar face whose name had escaped memory with the passage of years. It might have been intended as a friendly greeting—knowing Fried, he likely couldn’t tell the difference.

Through open doors Jack sees aircraft parts laid out on tables, blackboards scrawled with meteorological terms and, in another room, the good old Link Trainer—sawed-off little simulator with its hood for blind approach training. Not all that much has changed since Jack’s day. He stops at McCarroll’s office door and taps on the glass.

An admin clerk looks out of the next office. “Sir, if you’re looking for Captain McCarroll he’s gone till Wednesday.”

“Gone, eh? Where’s he gone to?” What’s the good of having an opposite number if he’s not here when you need him?

“He’s in Bagotville, sir.”

“Bagotville?”

“I believe he’s getting his time in on the Voodoo, sir.”

Of course. Bagotville is an operational station with a training unit. McCarroll is keeping his flying skills honed at a thousand miles per hour. A great deal has changed since Jack’s day.

“Good enough,” he says to the clerk.

Back at his own building, Jack walks down the hallway, hearing the blunted sound of his heels along the linoleum. He could be anywhere. No doubt the halls of the Pentagon are paved with the same
drab flecked squares. Not to mention the Kremlin. Someone has made a fortune.

He is no longer in a hurry, and as he tosses his hat onto the hook he’s aware of feeling slightly crestfallen. He had looked forward to briefing McCarroll. Seeing the young man’s eyes light up at the mention of rockets; his sense of vindication when he realizes that this posting was not in fact a lateral move, but an honour. It will have to wait till Wednesday.

He calls Fried and the man sounds calmer, having just spoken with Simon. Jack asks if he can possibly wait till Wednesday to get his groceries—Jack has remembered his son’s first baseball game of the season this evening, and tomorrow he has back-to-back meetings followed by a bridge night out for Mimi. Besides, McCarroll will be back and he can take him to meet Fried. Kill two birds….

“Yes, Wednesday is fine,” says Fried.

Jack is taken aback. Fried sounds not just polite but friendly. He is either tremendously relieved, or scared silly.

He leans back in his oak swivel chair, rests a foot against the edge of his desk and looks out the window. High above, a jet stream coils and comes undone. McCarroll is somewhere up there. Getting his time in.

Grace is not the quiet type any more. Ever since she and Marjorie were kicked out of the exercise group, they have been thick as thieves. Marjorie no longer even attempts to skip with Cathy Baxter’s group, and Grace has acquired the disgusting new habit of sucking her fingers, stroking her tongue and smearing the wetness around and around her mouth. Her lips look permanently sore, too red, as though they would taste tangy to her, and her eyes swerve as though she has been caught at something and is in a panic to pin it on someone else. She cries if a grown-up so much as says, “Grace,” in a questioning tone of voice.

Marjorie has her Brownie notebook and pencil out. “We’re reporting you, Madeleine.”

Madeleine replies scornfully, “Reporting to who, pray tell?” “None of your beeswax,” replies Marjorie with a toss of her stiff yellow ringlets. Grace giggles. She is carrying Marjorie’s baton.

By noon the clouds had rolled in and by three o’clock it had started to rain. Everyone else has run for home, but Madeleine doesn’t want to give the impression that she is running away.

“I’m warning you, Madeleine McCarthy.”

Just ignore them.

“Yeah,” says Grace.

Madeleine is taken aback at that. How can someone you felt sorry for, and were recently so kind to, suddenly be so disrespectful of you?

“You stink, Madeweine.”

“Do you hear me?” says Marjorie.

“Do you hear me?” repeats Madeleine.

“You’re in big trouble, Madeleine.”

“You’re in big trouble, Madeleine.”

“Shut up!”

“Shut up!”

Madeleine knows she should resist the temptation to torment Marjorie. Poor Margarine, with a sleeve full of Brownie badges and a retard for a friend. If you really want to be a good person, you will seek out those you can’t stand and befriend them. That’s what Jesus did. Bad women, and money-changers. Madeleine is contemplating the radical notion of turning and extending her hand with a holy smile on her lips when she hears Marjorie behind her, “Get her, Grace.”

The blow strikes her across the shoulder blades, knocking the wind out of her and causing her to stumble forward. She turns to see Grace holding the baton like a baseball bat, swervy eyes lit with excitement. Marjorie stands with her arms folded, a resigned, even regretful expression on her face. “It’s your own fault.” Madeleine’s mouth is open but she is silent, and for an instant so is the whole world. The air looks sharper. It’s as if the shock of the blow has propelled the three of them to a different place.

Grace glances at Marjorie, as though waiting for the order to strike again. Madeleine looks from one to the other and the words slip through her lips like a letter through a slot: “Nyah, what’s up, doc?”

Grace giggles.

Marjorie says, “Quit it, Madeleine.”

“Quit it,” says Grace.

Madeleine bobs and weaves like a monkey: tongue jammed behind her upper lip, eyes bugging out, limp fingers scratching her armpits.

“Stop it!” yells Marjorie.

Grace swings the baton and connects with the back of Madeleine’s calves. It stings and Madeleine feels tears spring to her eyes. She straightens, points her finger aloft. “Of course you know, this means war.”

Marjorie flies at her face, scratching, grabbing handfuls of hair. Madeleine shields her head between her elbows and is suddenly laughing like Woody Woodpecker—it feels automatic, flying from her like bullets from a machine gun: “He-he-HAH-ha!”

Marjorie screams, “Shut up Madeleine!”

Madeleine screams back, “Shut up Madeleine!”

Grace jumps on her before she can straighten, tearing at her raincoat, her schoolbag, trying to yank her to earth. “Do you want us to kill you, Madeleine?!” cries Marjorie.

“Kill you, Madeleine?” pipes back Newton the fawn. “Kill you, Madeleine?” Her legs are heavy with Grace’s weight, as though she were caught in quicksand.
Whatever you do, don’t fall down
. She starts barking like a dog and laughing, growing weak with it. She feels a bright wet spot form under her eye, warmer than the raindrops, then suddenly she is weightless again. Grace has let go of her and started crying. Marjorie runs at her chest with the heels of her hands, but Madeleine stays up like an inflatable clown.

“You’re gonna get it,” cries Marjorie, out of breath.

Madeleine leans forward and shrieks, “Yabba dabba doo!”—hair and blood in her eyes.

Grace and Marjorie back away, lobbing exhausted threats and tearful imprecations. Then they turn and run.

Madeleine stands still to catch her breath. It seems to be taking a long time. Finally she realizes that she is not panting, she is making little sounds. She is crying—that is, her eyes are crying, her body is. She lets it. It’s raining anyway. Her own tired sobbing sounds like a little kid in her ears—one she feels sorry for. Then the pain surfaces
and begins to reverberate like an echo of the blows. Pain is clean and manageable. It allows her to focus her eyes on the houses across the field and start for home. It allows her to stop crying.

“I was chasing a dog and I fell.”

Lying is second nature.

“What dog?”

“I think it was a stray.”

“How did you manage to scratch your face like that?”

“I had my arms inside my raincoat when I fell.”

“Oh Madeleine,
pourquoi?”

“I was being a penguin.”

And, because her mother still looks worried, she adds,
“Ci pa gran chouz.”

“
‘Ci’ quoi? Qu’est ce que tu dis?
What kind of French is that?”

“It’s Michif.”

“‘Mi’-quoi?”

“Colleen taught me.”

“Is that what happened to you? Did Colleen Froelich push you down?”

“No!”

Maman puts on two Steri-Strips, one over Madeleine’s right eye and one under it. There may be the tiniest scar. Then she calls the MPs and reports a vicious stray.

Jack picks up the late edition of
The Globe
for news on the election and uses it to shelter himself for the quick jog home—it didn’t look like rain this morning. Mike’s game will be cancelled. Perhaps he should make the trip into London this evening after all. But the shops will be closed, and how will he find a ride into town at this point?

He rounds his corner to see Henry Froelich out with an umbrella, gazing under the hood of the patchwork car, nursing his obsession. Jack calls out a greeting and Froelich raises his pipe. “Hank, what’s the name of that poison you’re puffing?”

“Von Eicken. You want you should try it?”

“No, thought I might get some for a friend.”

“You buy it from the Union Cigar Store across from the market.”

“Thanks,” says Jack. He turns up his driveway and opens his front door. “Mimi, I’m home.” Trots up the steps. “Boy, something sure smells good!”

“Where are my cherries?” she asks, kissing him hello.

“What cherries?” He smiles down at her, taking off his hat, shaking off the rain.

“Betty asked me where you found cherries and how much they were.”

Vic Boucher
. Jack keeps smiling and says, “I couldn’t find any.”

“Vic told her not to bother even asking about the caviar.”

“What’s Vic up to, anyhow, Missus?” His arms still around her. How much did Vic tell Betty? That he had overheard “Mimi” dictating a grocery list to Jack? What did Betty tell Mimi? Did Betty catch herself when she realized Mimi had no idea what she was talking about? Do Vic and Betty think Jack has a secret from his wife?

He gives her a peck on the lips.

She says, “Well you better not bring me caviar, Mister, I have a
ragoût
on the go,” and turns back to the stove. She doesn’t seem concerned—she seems normal.

“I don’t know where Vic gets his ideas.” He leans over her shoulder, lifts a pot lid and takes a sniff. “Wishful thinking, maybe. Mmm.” She takes the lid from him and replaces it, lifts another and dips in a spoon.

He says, “Caviar’s no great shakes compared to this, I’d rather have a good
bouilli
any day.”

“Cassoulet,” she says, blowing on the spoon, tasting.

“If you want caviar, Missus, all you have to do is snap your fingers.”

She cups her palm under the spoon and holds it out to him. “I know that.”

“‘I know dat,’” he mimics her.

“Don’t be saucy, Monsieur.”

He tastes. “Pinch more salt.”

He pours himself a short Dewar’s and takes the paper into the living room—
RECORD TURNOUT IS PREDICTED
. It looks as though a lot of Canadians are determined their vote will count. He
sips his drink and glances out the picture window. The sky clearing in a blaze of orange—Mike’s game will be on after all. He is doubly glad he put Oskar Fried off till Wednesday.

O
N EITHER SIDE
of the county road, the newly sprouted corn rippled away green and gleaming, black furrows of earth still visible between the rows. The road was baking, bending the air. Too hot for April. A boy in red jeans was on the road, running. Seen from a distance, he was a splash of scarlet, wavering and growing smaller. Heading toward a willow tree that trembled in the visible heat and swept the crossroads where the Huron County road met the road to Rock Bass. Light flashed at the boy’s feet, spun from the steel wheels of his sister’s chair which he pushed before him at a clip. A little friend pedalled beside him, her blue dress rippling at her knees, while his dog kept pace, harnessed to her bicycle.

She never came home. They found her eventually. And although the boy did come home as usual, along with his sister and his dog, he disappeared into that spring day completely, never to be found.