Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

“When are you due to be relieved?”

“I expected the lot of them home before this, what time is it?” She shifts the baby in an effort to glimpse her wristwatch.

“It’s ten past five.” Jack follows her into the front hall. “Hank told me reporters have been sniffing around.”

Her expression says what she thinks of that. “Three of them this afternoon”—indicating with her fingers—“Toronto, Windsor and Detroit, if you can believe it, all wanting to know, did I think our Rick was a”—she glances down at her toddler—“suspect. I told them they wouldn’t find a solitary soul on this station who thinks that boy is aught but a sterling young man.”

“You better believe it,” says Jack.

“Henry—” The baby spits up on her shoulder. Betty dabs her sweater with a tea towel and continues. “Henry called from the courthouse. They were about to go in for the bail hearing.”

Bail hearing. Courthouse. Suspect. None of these terms were on anyone’s lips this time last week — strange how seamlessly they have introduced themselves into neighbourly conversation. Life has stretched to accommodate the bizarre. Life has begun to run around it — the tragedy and now the mistake — like water around a rock, softening it till it’s worn to a bruise on the surface that seems to change nothing. But nothing will ever be the same. The river has altered its course.

“Poor little bugger….” Then, looking past him through the screen door, “Hang on, who’s this then?”

Jack follows her gaze to a taxi rounding the corner, crawling toward them.

“What can have happened?” says Betty. There is only one passenger. Henry Froelich.

He pays the driver and joins them on the porch. Karen Froelich is still at the jail in Goderich. Ricky Froelich has been denied bail.

“Henry,” says Betty, “I’m so sorry, love.”

Jack lingers after Betty leaves. In the Froelich kitchen, Henry has his hands full and Jack is doing his best to help, holding one of the babies — it feels suddenly suspiciously warm against his uniform jacket. Froelich is heating milk. He rolls up his sleeve to test the baby bottle on his forearm and Jack sees the numbers tattooed there. “Where was your lawyer when all this was going on?” he asks.

“He was there.”

“Well, is he any good?”

“He has letters after his name.”

“QC? Queen’s Counsel, that’s good. He’s appealing the bail ruling, right?”

“Oh yes, but he tells me this judge is known for this, so there is little to be done. All of them wait only for this judge to die.”

“What about — the police detained your boy improperly, can’t your lawyer—?”

“He tries but they say Ricky volunteered to talk to them. My lawyer says all he can do is get Ricky’s statement ruled off.”

“What’s the good of that? There’s nothing incriminating in his statement to begin with.”

Froelich shrugs. Rolls down his sleeve.

“Henry, you were in a concentration camp during the war, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” He reaches for the baby and Jack passes him over.

“I wish I’d figured that out sooner. I wouldn’t’ve made so damn many stupid remarks.”

“Which remarks?”

“Ah well, about your work, and you being a typical German, and how it’s such a beautiful country….”

Froelich puts the bottle into the flailing hands and guides it to the mouth. The child begins to suck, gazing up into the dark beard, curling star fingers absently against his own soft cheek. Jack waits quietly. Finally Froelich nods in the direction of the second baby, already asleep in his high chair, head relaxed at an impossible angle, face closed like a flower. Jack picks the child up carefully, knowing it to be a volatile substance, and follows Froelich up the stairs.

They lay the babies side by side in a crib in the master bedroom, which is as messy as the rest of the house. No headboard on the unmade double bed, an unframed painting tacked to the wall — unintelligible blocks of colour — clothes, books, towels. The characteristic smell of the Froelich house — baby powder, urine and tobacco. He tries not to look closely, not wanting to glimpse anything too personal. Karen’s underthings — a slip….

On their way back, Jack notices the two other bedrooms. They are the only tidy rooms in the house. One is obviously Rick’s — guitar in the corner, red bedspread, cowboy boots. And across the narrow hall, a room with twin beds — one with metal rails.

In the kitchen once more, Froelich is feeding Elizabeth, and Jack is trying to avoid the sight without appearing to do so. Froelich puts down the spoon. “You’re not so hungry, bubby?” He wipes her mouth with a tea towel, takes her face in his hand and kisses her on the cheek. “Not too full for dessert, I think.” Elizabeth’s head moves diagonally from side to side. He puts his ear close to her lips, listens, then replies, “Soon, ja , don’t worry, Lizzie, look at Poppy, do I look worried?”

“Yeahh,” she groans, and Froelich laughs. “Okay, dizzy Lizzie”—and the girl smiles—“frizzy Lizzie,” says Froelich, and scoops her up in his arms. Her hands find one another around his back as Froelich carries her from the room.

After a moment, Jack hears him put a record on the hi-fi. He recognizes the throaty alto voice, “Du, du, du, macht mein kleines Herz in Ruh….” A popular German love song. It reminds him of what a beautiful language it is when women speak it. Like a woman in a man’s shirt.

Returning to the kitchen, Froelich reaches into the cupboard under the sink and lifts out a bottle of red wine. He fills two odd glasses and passes one to Jack, who politely raises it to his lips, though he can feel the home-brewed tannins working on his gut already.

“What does your lawyer say?” he asks. “About the chances of this going to a — what are the chances of an actual trial?”

“I think I need a detective.” Froelich leans back in his chair, cradling his wine against the crook of his shoulder. “I think this is a better idea.”

“You mean a private detective? Why?”

“Because the police don’t find this man from the camp.”

Why does Froelich use the word “camp?” Jack wonders. Dora was the code name for an underground factory, wasn’t it?

“Is this the … the ‘war criminal’ you were mentioning last night?” Jack is startled by a hot breath on his hand under the table. The dog has come in.

Froelich begins to speak, staring at the kitchen wall as though describing a scene unfolding there, and he tells the story of seeing Oskar Fried at the marketplace. “If I had told the police immediately,” he says finally, “perhaps the little girl would be alive today.”

“Why?”

“Because he is a killer.”

“You told this to the police?”

“Yes, but they don’t believe me.”

“Why not, why would anyone lie about a thing like that?”

“They think I protect my son’s alibi.”

Jack takes a deep, even breath, willing his face to stay cool, his voice merely concerned.

“Which camp was this, Henry? If you don’t mind my asking?”

“Dora.”

“Dora?” Jack repeats, as though hearing the name for the first time. And in a way he is.

Froelich bites his moustache where it straggles at the corner of his mouth, wine-stained. “The police have not find him — found him”—he reaches for the bottle again, pours—“and they don’t find either the air force man — forgive me, Jack, my English suffers this evening.”

“I wish my German were half-decent, Hank, you must get sick of speaking English all the time.”

“Not so much. I miss my language, but it is dead in any case, nicht wahr?” And drinks.