Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

“I thought you’d be proud,” Mike said.

“Why in God’s name would I be proud?”

Mike had thought his father would be proud the way he had been proud of the comparatively few Canadians who had fought in Korea—

“They fought as Canadians, not Americans, they were part of a U.N. force!”

“They were fighting Communism,” Mike yelled back, “it was the same!”

“You’ve pledged allegiance to a foreign power!”

Madeleine leaned against the kitchen counter, glazed with shock. Her mother didn’t even light a cigarette.

The Few, The Proud —a slogan of the Marine Corps. Canadians were the few among the few. The invisible among the despised. While scores of young American males objected, stayed in college or fled to Canada to avoid an insane war, Mike was one of a hefty handful of Canadians who volunteered. Many came from Québec and the Maritimes — a preponderance of working-class boys, Irish, French and Native Canadians. They enlisted at recruiting centres located deliberately close to the Canadian border. Mike joined up in Plattsburgh, New York. Shit, shower, shave! This time next month he would be “in country.”

Jack’s hands dangled at his sides. “Go on, get out of here.” He turned and walked away.

“Jack,” said Mimi — Madeleine could hear the shock in her voice.

“He’s Canadian, not American, it’s a foreign war and it’s a foolish war. It can’t be won, they’re not fighting it to win it, he’ll be killed.”

Mimi cried out and covered her mouth.

“Maman,” said Mike, “c’est pas vrai, maman, je reviendra, calme-toi, eh?” He looked at his father. “See what you’ve done?”

Jack rolled his eyes.

Madeleine was rooted to the spot. She was wearing a pewter peace sign on a leather string around her neck. Last week she and Jocelyn had joined a protest in front of the American Embassy against the atrocities at My Lai.

Jack pointed at his son and said, “You’re to stay out of it, mister.”

“You’re just jealous,” said Mike.

“What?” said Jack.

Madeleine shared her father’s incredulity, but she could not bear to see her brother’s cheeks inflamed with humiliation. She was terrified he would cry. She bit the inside of her cheek.

“I’m going to be flying.”

“Flying what?” said Jack.

“A chopper.”

“A chopper.” Slow disdain. “Killing a whole bunch of peasants. From a helicopter. I’m impressed.”

Mike turned scarlet. “At least I’m fighting for something. At least I’m not flying a fucking desk.”

Jack struck him across the face for speaking that way in front of his mother. Mike gasped back his shock — Madeleine could see tears in his eyes, what would be worse? If Mike cried? Or if he hit Dad back?

Mike turned to his mother and said, “Excuse-moi, maman . I didn’t mean to swear.”

Mimi was crying. She reached up and put her arms around her son, hugged him and said, “Va avec Dieu, hein? Mon petit homme.” Stroking his back the way she used to when he was a kid. “P’tit gentilhomme .”

Madeleine could see her brother’s jaw and mouth working as he held their mother, but still he didn’t cry. All she could think was, You big idiot. Stay home .

“You’re to stay home,” said Jack.

Mike turned and left.

Nina says, “Is that the last time you saw him?”

Madeleine smiles. “No. I followed him out of the house.”

He is pulling away in a battered Chevy Nova, pockmarked where rust has been sanded off. She runs after him. He sees her in the rearview mirror and stops.

They pick up Jocelyn.

“Are you for real?” Jocelyn asks him, climbing into the back seat.

“Surprise, surprise, surprise!” bleats Madeleine in Gomer Pyle’s voice.

They drive into downtown Ottawa. It’s surreal — Mike’s crisp summer uniform and bean shave in contrast with the jeans, frayed hems and split ends everywhere — the only people with hair shorter than his are the Hare Krishnas with their orange robes and tambourines.

They walk through the airy light of the early June evening, down Sparks Street Mall — thronging now with tourists, civil servants and hippies, past “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” piped from a record store, past buskers and jewellery vendors, through a gauntlet of stares.

Madeleine is in a cold and lucid dream, on a wagon en route to the stake, naked but for her hair and smock, the crowd may spit and jeer, she will not seek to justify herself. She holds her head up and walks in step with the U.S. Marine at her side.

“Where do you hang out?” Mike asks.

“A little place down on Sussex.”

She doesn’t really frequent the place, but the thought of walking in there with her soldier brother is mortifying, so that’s where she will take him. They walk past the Parliament Buildings, turn left down Sussex Drive and come to a coffee house called Le Hibou.

He opens the door for them. “Ladies first.” Jocelyn rolls her eyes at Madeleine, Madeleine rolls hers in agreement.

Jocelyn looks like an Arthur Rackham fairy in blue jeans. Madeleine wishes she could be ethereal too, but she is stuck being strong instead. A gymnast’s body. The difference between a unicorn and a pony.

They enter and sit down; candles flicker in wax-withered Mateus bottles, on checkered tablecloths. Beneath the acrid smoke of Gauloises and Gitanes, an odour — Mike is wearing Hai Karate. It mingles with patchouli oil and incense. Oh God, why did we come here? People stare as they find a table and sit, Madeleine in the middle between Jocelyn and Mike.

Mike leans across and asks Joss, “Are you a women’s libber?”

Jocelyn doesn’t bother to look at him. “That depends,” she says, smoothing her straight blonde hair behind one ear. “Are you a male chauvinist pig?”

Mike grins. “Nope, I’m a hippie, I believe in free love.”

“You’re a Neanderthal,” says Madeleine. “Move over.” Shoving him away.

Mike looks up and says, “Can I get a beer?”

The guy serving them pauses before answering, “We’re not licensed.”

“No problem,” says Mike, “I’ll have a coffee.”

But the waiter lingers. He stares at Mike. “Do you enjoy killing people?” he asks.

Madeleine stiffens, can feel the wooden wheels of the cart rattling beneath her feet, how many more miles to the stake?

Mike chuckles. “I don’t know, I haven’t killed any.” And turns away, unbuttoning his tunic.

“But that’s what you’re trained to do,” says the waiter.

He has no discernible hairline or facial features, he is all black curly fly-away and pasty white skin. He stares at Mike. Mike smiles, big fist relaxed around the car keys.

Madeleine’s long dark hair is parted in the middle; her peace sign, her tie-dyed peasant blouse, faded bell-bottom jeans and water-buffalo sandals — the sartorial reflection of her belief in passive, non-violent resistance. She says to the waiter, “Why don’t you go fuck yourself and, when you’re done, bring us three coffees and a spoon so I can shove it up your ass.”

Mike bursts out laughing.

Jocelyn says, “God, Madeleine,” and sinks in her seat, crossing her arms.

Madeleine has never noticed Jocelyn’s breasts before but she does now, they are perfectly round under her saffron T-shirt.

Mike says to the waiter, “Don’t worry, we’re leaving. Thanks anyhow, what do I owe you for the table?”

“It’s okay,” says the guy, “I’ll get the coffees.”

Madeleine is possessed by remorse for her behaviour. As well as by a yearning to burn something down, blow something up. She often feels this way, and has no idea how to square it with her personal politics.