Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

“Hi Madeleine!”

“Hi Jim,” she calls in return, but doesn’t pause. He has a baby in a Snugli, when did that happen?

Her hands twist as though they could unscrew themselves, she gulps air, just north of Bloor now, still running, the heels of her Quatre Cents Coups sandals pounding — this is the way to feel that your feet will not be chopped off….

There has been enough talking. It’s time to do the right thing.

She runs up the steps of her veranda. Her bike is not there, that’s because she left it locked to a parking meter outside Nina’s. Up the inside stairs two and three at a time. On the carpet in the middle of the empty room, the red light of the answering machine is blinking. She picks up and dials.

It could have been me.

It would have been me.

It should have been me.

She has called 911 this time. “… only for genuine emergencies,” says the female voice.

“This is an emergency.”

“Call your local police division, I’ll give you the—”

“I’ve already called them, they did dick!”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to—”

Madeleine slams down the phone and dials 411.

There are places and moments that are definitive. Like old photos, they can tell us where we come from….

“… thank you, here’s your number—”

She is from a summer afternoon, the late August light that makes the corn glisten in the fields; her mother in the rearview mirror, lips arched to receive a fresh coat of red.

“You have reached the Ontario Provincial Po—”

“Hello, I’d like to report a—”

“If you have a touchtone phone, and know the extension of the department….”

She is from a street of Technicolor houses where she pedals toward a man in a beautiful blue uniform and hat; he leans forward, arms wide to catch her. Do it your way, sweetie .

“I have information about a murder.”

“Go ahead.”

She is from the jab of a coat hook next to her spine.

“… the Froelich case, yes….” She is from a secret. “… a teacher called Mr. March, he’s retired now, but—” How is she to get back there? “I called last week, someone was going to — you should have a file….” To the meadow in springtime. To Colleen and Rex … school-day quiet. “March. Like the month.” As she follows Colleen across the field to the meadow on the other side. Watch for something gleaming in last year’s grass. Something pink and winking back the sun, that will be her streamer.

“I don’t have a record of your call, Mrs. McCarthy, can you hold, please.”

Muzak in her ear. She sits cross-legged, gazing at the geometry on her carpet. She is gathering the facts, she can see them spread like pebbles before her, she wants to collect them in her hands but something keeps interfering, live loose ends of story snap and hiss around her, touching down, singeing the carpet. She hangs up, and stares at the phone as though it were a rat, capable of staring back. Through the beaded balcony curtain comes the sound of drumming several blocks away, the sun pink as Lik-m-aid, fizzing colour, the beads are so many candy necklaces strung end to end on shoelace licorice. She picks up the phone again and dials.

The universal voice: “Information, for what city, please?”

“Crediton.”

“For what name?”

“March. George, I think. George.”

“One moment. Here’s your number.”

It’s that simple. That possible and near. What must it be like to go through your entire adult life with one phone number? She thinks of Mr. Froelich with his “old phone number” tattooed on his arm. His chalky fingers and kind face, blackboard full of hazardous fractions behind him as he bends to touch her forehead, “Was ist los, Mädele?” Why is that man no longer in the world? She keys in the area code, then the number — it plays a tune, “Camptown Races.”

The beauty of the evening finds its way into her empty living room, touches the mouldings of the high Victorian ceiling, medallion at its centre. The phone rings at the other end of the line. So empty. The sound of a chain in a dry well.

“Hello?” An older lady’s voice, tentative.

“Hello … Mrs. March?”

“Yes?”

“Hi, I’m an old student of Mr. March’s.”

“Oh.” The guard drops, Madeleine can hear the smile.

“I wondered if I could speak with him.” She hears her own voice trembling, as though she were speaking into the blades of a fan. She feels herself growing smaller and smaller, will he even be able to hear her when she finally speaks the words? And what will they be?

“Oh I’m sorry, dear,” says the lady, “George passed away.”

There are landmarks we use without thinking. You can never get lost if you can see a mountain. Now Mr. March is gone. And Madeleine no longer knows where she is; or how to get back to where she came from. Oh dear! cried the child when she realized she had lost her way, Whatever will become of me?

She could have got back through him. Through the bad time to the blessed, last good time. Centralia . But the door in the mountain closed before she could reach it, and she can detect no opening or notch in this implacable surface.

“Are you still there, dear?”

“I’m sorry.”

The elderly voice aspirates, “Yuh, yuh,” and there is a cherishing quality to her next words. “Eighteen months ago now.”

Madeleine does not reply.

“What did you say your name was, dear?”

“That’s okay.”

“Oh, I wish he could have talked to you, he loved his pupils.”

Mrs. March is saying something, her voice still fluttering from the earpiece, as Madeleine guides the receiver gently to its cradle and hangs up.

It’s over.

She carefully lies down, curled with her head by the phone. She hears her own voice softly moaning, “Oh no-o-o, oh no-o-o-o,” like poor Grace, poor Grace, poor Grace. She observes herself stroking her own forehead as though her curled fingers belonged to someone else — a grown-up, preoccupied but able to spare some absent comfort. She is grateful to be alone on the rug. She wishes it were the cool Centralia grass. The smell of earth, the tickle of an ant crawling up a curving blade, crackle of countless lives beneath her ear. She wishes she could feel a pink tongue, like a slice of ham, warm against her cheek, Rex panting, dog-laughing. Wishes she could smell the sun on her arm, hear kids’ voices from many backyards away, watch the wheels of her brother’s bike ride up. She would give anything to see his high-tops, one poised on his pedal, the other planted on the ground, to hear him say, “What do you think you’re doing, stunned one?” turning to call, “Maman, she fell asleep in the grass.”

Where are you, Mike? My brother. Gone, gone to grass .

The kind disinterested fingers press against her eyes, because Mike is dying now too, finally, and again. He is part of the earth, part of the lush forest that is slowly healing itself over there. His bones, fragments of his uniform, tattered green, the chain he wore, metal dog tags, one of them his name. I love you, Mike. Rest .

Where have all the children gone?

She lies weightless on the carpet, arms and legs, hands and head like a loose collection. If she got up, half might remain, scattered on the rug.

Once upon a time there was a mountain cave. The Piper led the children into it, all except one who was lame and could not keep up. By the time that child arrived, the door had vanished and she was forlorn, never knowing whether she was lucky or just lonely. Who was that child? The lame one. The one who became a grown-up.

Through closed eyes, Madeleine can hear the voices of children from inside the mountain. Hers is among them. The wool of the carpet bristles her cheek, she keeps her eyes closed, listening.