Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

“I’m sorry to have upset the child, Mrs. Frolick.”

“The name is Froelich, and she isn’t a child, she’s sixteen.”

The woman is sloppily groomed. Maybe she couldn’t have children of her own and now she’s on a mission. Imagine choosing to adopt such a child. Not to mention the others…. Bradley looked for Richard Froelich’s birth certificate and found an adoption file.

“Richard and his younger sister are both Indian, is that correct?”

The woman barely hesitates, but he can tell she is surprised. “No, it isn’t, they’re Métis.”

Bradley knows what type the Froelichs are: holier-than-thou. He picks up his hat from amid the mess on the coffee table.

Karen Froelich says, “I’m going to press charges against the arresting officer.”

“What are you accusing him of?”

“He beat my son.”

“Your boy didn’t sustain any real injury.”

“He’s a kid.”

“He resisted arrest. That’s tantamount to an admission of guilt,” and before the Froelich woman can object, he continues, “Are you aware there’s a court order outstanding in the province of Alberta regarding both Richard and his younger sister—” He looks to the constable in the doorway, who consults his notebook and says, “Colleen.”

Bradley watches the woman pale. He isn’t interested in making her life more difficult, but he would appreciate her attention. He seems to have it now. “I suggest you seek your lawyer’s advice. My guess is he’ll tell you to focus on your son’s legal defence, and not go wasting money trying to bring the police to court.”

They leave, making a wary arc around the snarling German shepherd. The constable turns and says, “Control your dog.”

Karen Froelich says, “Control yourself.”

Bradley’s face remains expressionless, but Karen sees the uniformed officer smile and she curses herself. Her remark didn’t do her son any good. Or her daughter — has this inspector already contacted the child welfare authorities in Alberta? Or is he just trying to blackmail her? She wishes she felt as optimistic as her husband—“This is Canada,” he says. They are seeing the lawyer in London this morning, before the bail hearing. He has already told them that the police have very little to go on. Maybe she should keep quiet about the police assault — at least until Rick is out on bail.

She watches the cruiser pull from her driveway. She will let it disappear from sight before unleashing Rex; she is worried he may chase down the car. He’s panting, his gums deep pink, muzzle wet, eyes bright with fear. She kneels and hugs him, only now looking up to wonder why the cruiser, rather than turning up the street toward the PMQ exit, has turned down St. Lawrence in the direction of the school.

Madeleine can see Colleen from the classroom window; she is sitting on a swing, rocking slowly, staring at her feet. Madeleine knows what that’s like. She wishes now that she hadn’t pushed her. Colleen’s bowed head reminds Madeleine of the song “Hang down your head, Tom Dooley.” Why hasn’t the principal come out and given her heck? Perhaps he feels sorry for her because something has happened to her brother. Colleen lifts her head suddenly and looks toward the road. She slips from the swing and runs out of sight, and Madeleine sees a police cruiser pull into the parking lot.

“And what befell the hapless Father Brûlé?” asks Mr. March.

“He was burned alive.”

“Correct.” The grade fours are learning about missionaries among the Indians in the New World. The classroom walls are still decorated with Easter art. Everyone’s is up now, but Grace’s butterflies still reign supreme among the many bunnies and countless Easter eggs.

When the knock comes at the door, Madeleine is not surprised to see a policeman, but Mr. March seems to be. He looks down while the officer speaks quietly, then turns to the class and asks, “Who among you were special friends of Claire McCarroll?”

No hands. It’s a difficult question. Claire didn’t have a best friend, but she didn’t have enemies either. And in some way, the question sounds like one that, in fairy-tale language, would mean “Who among you would care to accompany Claire into the mountain cave?”

Madeleine remembers sharing Claire’s picnic last week, and the day on the swings when the two of them laughed upside down, and puts up her hand. All heads turn and she feels herself blushing as though she has been caught boasting, which was not her intention. Then Grace Novotny puts up her hand. It would be unkind to tell Grace that she was never Claire’s friend. The only thing they had in common was their belief in Santa Claus. It is, however, a bare-faced lie when Marjorie Nolan puts up her hand. Madeleine expects Mr. March to say, “No you weren’t, Marjorie,” but he says nothing.

The policeman leaves, and Mr. March gets his hanky out and presses it to his forehead, then his cheeks. Tante Yvonne always talks about her “hot flashes”—maybe that’s what’s happening to Mr. March. The bell rings. Lunch.

Everyone mobs the coat hooks. Philip Pinder says Ricky’s going to get the electric chair, and Cathy Baxter screams at him to shut up. No one can believe that Ricky has been arrested, but everyone is used to it already. Around and around the schoolyard swirls the story of Ricky’s alibi: the “mystery driver,” the air force man in a car with a sticker from Storybook Gardens. Some kids are saying it was a ghost car, others speculate that it was the real murderer, disguised as someone’s dad.

This is all very different from last week, but is Madeleine the only one who notices the other difference? It has been eight days since Mr. March announced, “The following little girls will remain after three.” Not since last week, when Claire was…. When there was Claire. Last Wednesday she was still here like everyone else. No one knew she was on the edge of a cliff. Who else is walking on the edge, on her way somewhere, her head full of thoughts like arrows pointed at the future, then — blank?

Madeleine looks up; she is halfway across the field but doesn’t remember walking out of the school. She wonders if Mr. March has had enough of exercises. Perhaps he has given them up. Like in the story about the giant who used to eat children but found he would be much less lonely if he befriended them instead.

She sees Grace drawing a hopscotch with a piece of chalk at the foot of Marjorie Nolan’s driveway. She is going to miss lunch. As Madeleine passes, she sees that it isn’t chalk, it’s a piece of old whitened dog poop. Behind her she hears Marjorie’s voice calling from her door, “Go away, Grace. Shoo.”

Lunch is Chef Boyardee. Maman was babysitting at the Froelichs’ all morning and there was no time to prepare a “ben bon déjeuner.” Madeleine finds the canned noodles revolting — like the slipped-off skin of a drowned dead body, although it would be impolite to say so. Maman has heated up some Campbell’s cream of tomato soup with saltines for her instead.

The four of them sit at the table, eating. Mimi has fixed herself a Depression favourite, burnt toast and tea. Good for what ails you. The Froelich house is a depressing place and she would like to get the soiled laundry-old stew smell from her nostrils. The smell of misery. She says a silent prayer asking Our Lord to forgive her should any of her thoughts be uncharitable in that regard, and to guide the police in their search for the maudit crazy who is still out there. Then she drops her bomb. “Where were you yesterday afternoon, Madeleine?”

Madeleine freezes. Lowers her spoon. Yesterday afternoon . “In a field,” she replies to her bright red soup.

“What field? Dis-moi la vérité , Madeleine.” She doesn’t sound angry, she sounds worried, which is worse.