Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

“Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?” said Mimi when Madeleine returned to her car for her suitcase and the dog.

“C’est une chienne.” Madeleine scrambled to catch the leash as Winnie bolted toward the front door.

“It’s not yours,” said Mimi.

“A friend’s.”

“It’s not coming in the house?”

“Where do you expect her to sleep?”

“Sleep?”

Mimi adhered to a Depression-era view of dogs, according to which, unless they were earning their keep, they were classed as a form of vermin and, in any case, belonged outdoors. Within seconds she was upending dining chairs onto the couch, the La-Z-Boy— “Aide-moi, Madeleine” —in an effort to keep the filthy animal off the upholstery.

“She’s not filthy, I gave her a bath.”

“She’s a dog,” said Mimi, barricading the loveseat. “There. Now she can come in the living room.”

Madeleine turned and called, “Winnie.” Then — zero-to-sixty alarm—“Maman, you left the door to the garage open!” She was halfway out the front door when a shriek drew her back inside to the master bedroom, where Mimi stood frozen in the doorway. Winnie was asleep on her back and snoring in the middle of the white duvet.

“Get it off, Madeleine!”

Winnie rolled over and growled when Madeleine said, “Off, Winnie. Off. Off. Get off, now, there’s a good girl. Off.”

Lip curled. Wet snarl.

Madeleine stepped back.

Mimi put her hands on her hips, raised an eyebrow, and ordered, “Bouge-toi!”

Winnie hopped from the bed and stood gazing up at Mimi, tail wagging, big fleshy grin.

Madeleine sent her mother out to walk the dog.

“I’m not walking that thing.”

“It’s not a thing, Maman, it’s a sentient creature and it likes you.”

Mimi glared at the dog. “Well I don’t like it. Regarde moi pas, toi.”

She heard the door close and got busy, working quickly, packing up as many of her father’s clothes as possible for the St. Vincent de Paul so her mother would not have to do it. She had emptied his hanger rail and was working her way along the closet shelf when she was momentarily defeated by an old V-neck sweater. She stood, face buried in the moth-eaten wool, and breathed in his scent. When she came across his uniform in an old square garment bag, she placed one empty sleeve against her cheek and closed her eyes — the smell of mothballs and wool, its masculine scratchiness like a five o’clock shadow. She allowed her fingers to run down the jacket front, brass buttons embossed with wings.

She lost track of time, folding, sorting, crying, until finally she heard the door — rattle of the leash, clickety-click of Winnie’s nails on the hardwood, clickety-click of her mother’s high heels. Heard Mimi scolding, “Non . Go ’way, va-t’en , I don’t want kisses from les chiens.”

When Madeleine emerged from the bedroom, she caught her mother giving the dog a piece of barbecued chicken.

“Not the bones, Maman.”

“I wasn’t giving it — I was — it’s gone bad anyway.”

“Don’t give her rotten meat.”

“It’s fresh today!”

Madeleine’s reflex impatience melted into something familiar, but not in the context of her mother. It was … amusement. She smiled.

The table was set meticulously for one. For Madeleine. She sat down to a chicken sandwich and asked, “What are you going to do with Dad’s uniform?”

“It would have been your brother’s,” said Mimi and turned away.

Madeleine dropped the subject and picked up the newspaper.

Big Tante Yvonne flew in from New Brunswick with tiny ancient Tante Domithilde, the nun of the family. Together there was enough of them to fill two airplane seats comfortably, with the armrest up. Still, Tante Yvonne arrived with her back in spasm, a martyr to sciatica and her feet “totalement kaput.” She brought a dozen lobsters on dry ice and a shopping bag full of knitted Phentex slippers in various stages of completion. Tante Domithilde started baking immediately. Mimi’s brothers drove up with their wives in a convoy of Cadillacs and Continentals. Everyone but the aunts stayed at the Econo Lodge up the street, in a feat of logistics that had Madeleine on the phone for hours.

Tante Yvonne said, “What’s that thing doing in the house?”

Mimi answered, “Her name is Winnie.”

Jocelyn arrived with her husband and two kids—“We love your show, Madeleine.” Shelly, Tony, Janice, Tommy and Ilsa made the trip from Toronto. They embraced Mimi and stayed up all night in the kitchen, talking and eating with the relatives; learning from the uncles on the first night how to play Deux-Cents, learning on the second night how to cheat. Yvonne had brought her accordion and ordered Madeleine to play while she sang in honour of “’ti-Jack” Swing la bottine! Shelly watched it all keenly, Madeleine could see the wheels turning.

“Don’t you ever stop working?” she snapped, refilling Shelly’s teacup, spiking it with rum.

“I got the money, hon, the network is in.”

A U.S. network commitment to Stark Raving Madeleine , the pilot.

“Really?” said Madeleine. “Who’re you going to get to write it?”

“How come you never told me you were half French?”

“Not French, Acadian.”

“Tell me about it.”

“C’est assez.”

Nina sent a card and flowers; Madeleine had cancelled her therapy appointment, and said why in a brutally curt message on Nina’s answering machine. Olivia called; she had deduced via mental telepathy that something was wrong, and tracked down the phone number in Ottawa when she couldn’t find Madeleine in Toronto. She introduced herself to Mimi over the phone and they chatted for twenty minutes in French before Olivia mentioned that she was calling from Managua. Mimi gasped — not at the thought of political peril, but at the long-distance rates— “Madeleine, viens au téléphone, vite vite!”

Tommy handed Mimi a letter from his parents — the McCarthys and the Czerniatewiczes had never met in person. “Oh how kind,” said Mimi, opening it. “‘May God comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem. In sincere sympathy, Stan and Lydia.’”

Tommy was appalled and blamed Madeleine. Mimi told him he hadn’t changed, “You’re still saucy,” and pinched his ear.

Company is what wakes and funerals are about, especially if the loved one has died “naturally” and was, at the very least, an adult. Noise, love, food, the clatter of cups and saucers — a seawall, notched with perforations to let manageable amounts of grief through at a time. For three days the condo was Grand Central Station. Madeleine took refuge in manning the rented coffee urn, and passing plates of squares to the endless stream of relatives, friends, neighbours and co-workers.

Fran: “We follow your brilliant career, dear.”

Doris: “When are you moving to the States?”

Phyllis: “Don’t be in a hurry to get married.”

Doris: “Phyllis, she’s gay.”

Tante Yvonne: “You’re not still, tsk-tsk-tsk.”

Grizzled Tante Domithilde: “Don’t let the bastards get you down, ma p’tite.”

Fran: “In our day we weren’t allowed to be gay, dear, no one had a lifestyle then. You just keep doing what you’re doing, you’re grand.”

Hugs and more hugs, fat-lady kisses like fresh-baked buns. The lesbian from Mimi’s office showed up with her “partner”—Madeleine will never get used to that word—“We love your show.” The priest, the mailman, the lady from Mimi’s bank, the entire Catholic Women’s League and half of Ottawa paid their respects, thank goodness it was June and people could flow in and out through the patio doors. Nice men in light summer suits smelling of clean cotton, cigars and manly hair product. Firm warm handshakes. Old bomber pilots and retired management executives. Jack would have loved every minute of it.