Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

There is another reason why she is taking off her underpants. It’s difficult to explain, but she is doing this mainly because she knows how. As if there were already a Claire, an invisible one, perpetually in the act of removing her underpants on demand. So this Claire — the one in the meadow — may as well do so too. And it’s not even as though she herself is taking off her underpants, it’s as though this is something that is simply going on.

She slips her underpants to her ankles and steps out of them. Grace giggles. Claire laughs. Marjorie picks up the underpants. They are warm.

“Now bend over, little girl,” says Marjorie.

Grace giggles, Claire laughs and runs through the grass with no underpants on. Oh it is a lovely feeling. So fresh, like when you first go out without your woollen hat in springtime, the free feeling of your ankles flashing along in running shoes for the first time after a long winter in galoshes.

“Get her,” says Marjorie.

Grace runs after Claire, who is delighted to have someone join the aimless race. Let’s run and run until we come to an enchanted clearing. There we will meet a fairy princess who will serve us tea in walnut shells, and her attendants will be wearing acorn hats. Grace runs heavily — the more she chases, the more she is weak with laughter, but excited too, and it’s the excitement that keeps her going, gradually gaining on Claire, who is politely slowing down. They are about fifteen feet from the elm tree.

Marjorie follows, unhurried, tapping the corncob into her palm the way a teacher does with a pointer.

Claire nears the elm and stops for Grace, and Grace grabs her arm. “Ow,” says Claire.

Grace looks back at Marjorie.

Claire scans the ground for her blue egg, which she dropped when Grace grabbed her just now. She spots it in the grass, the shell looks fine, but Grace’s grip prevents her from stooping to pick it up. “Excuse me Grace, could you please let go?”

Grace looks at Claire as though noticing her for the first time. There is a look in Grace’s eye. Excited and scared, as though at the sight of something just beyond Claire’s shoulder. Claire turns to see what’s behind her, but behind her are the woods.

Grace hollers, “Hurry up, Marjorie!”—too loud, because Marjorie has almost caught up. Huwwy up!

Marjorie is not laughing. She has a grown-up expression on her face. Like when grown-ups are past the end of their tether, they are not even angry any more, but you know that means that you are in even more trouble than if they were. They are just sick to death of you, that’s all.

“I’m sick to death of you, little girl,” says Marjorie, a worn-out disgusted look on her face.

Claire giggles, because what game are we playing now?

“Bend over and touch your toes,” says Marjorie.

“Um,” says Claire, “I don’t — I want to play — let’s pretend—”

“Are you deaf, little girl?”

Grace gives a delighted shriek and holds tighter to Claire’s arm, with both hands.

Claire whimpers, “Can I go home now? Want to come to my house and play?”

Grace pushes Claire down.

“I warned you,” says Marjorie.

She tosses Claire’s underpants onto Claire’s face. Grace jumps onto Claire before she can get up. She holds the underpants stretched over Claire’s face and hollers, “Smell your bum!” Shrieking with laughter.

Marjorie stands over them, watching. She sees the outline of Claire’s nose and open mouth through the taut fabric. It’s not enough. “Get off her.”

Grace gets up, grinning, her tongue working the chafed corners of her mouth. Claire lies motionless.

Marjorie removes the underpants from her face with the tip of the corncob.

“Get up.”

Claire gets up. “I have to go now.”

“It’s okay, Claire,” says Grace.

“Put your hands around Grace’s throat,” says Marjorie.

Claire obeys.

“Squeeze. Harder.”

Grace says, “Mar—!”

“Shut up.”

Claire lets go of Grace and waits for the next instruction.

Marjorie tells her, “Pee.”

Claire’s forehead wrinkles. “I can’t,” she says, and begins at last to cry.

Marjorie says, “Hold her still.”

Grace takes Claire by the elbows, locking them together from behind, and Marjorie puts the cob of corn up Claire’s dress, and presses.

“Ow,” says Claire, biting her lip. “Don’t do that please, Marjorie.”

Marjorie presses harder and Claire yelps. The scene resembles agreement, for Claire is not writhing, despite pain, despite fear. It’s terrible. The only thing that it isn’t is surprising. To any of them.

“Ow-hahoww….” Claire is not screaming, just whimpering. Like a child who knows she is going to be punished.

“Don’t hurt her, Marjorie,” says Grace, still holding Claire.

Marjorie’s arm thrusts upward with a twist, because it can. Claire screams and jolts forward, but Grace prevents her from falling and hurting herself. Marjorie watches. Isn’t it strange that someone right in front of you can be screaming about something that you don’t feel? Like rain falling two inches away and you stay perfectly dry. “What are you screaming about, little girl?”

Marjorie takes the corncob out from under Claire’s dress. There’s blood on it. Claire is sobbing.

Grace lets go of her. “It’s okay, Claire — hey Claire — Claire, can I see your charm bracelet?”

Marjorie tosses the corncob away, into the grass. A crow drops down to investigate. Claire raises her wrist, hiccuping, and shows Grace her bracelet.

“Oh, that’s the prettiest one I’ve ever seen,” says Grace, fingering the charms. “Can I try it on?”

Claire shakes her head, and Grace says, “Okay I won’t, Claire, it’s yours.” Grace lets go of the bracelet.

“Lie down, little girl,” says Marjorie.

Claire doesn’t move.

“She doesn’t want to,” says Grace.

Marjorie sighs and says, resigned, “Strangle her, Marjorie.”

Grace obeys. She doesn’t shriek with laughter at Marjorie’s mistake in calling her by the wrong name, because she doesn’t notice. She squeezes and squeezes.

Now Claire looks surprised. That’s how people look — as though they have just remembered what it was they meant to say. Marjorie watches.

It’s all very quiet. Grace isn’t grinning, just staring, and it ceases to be funny, ceases to be anything at all. Not anything, just doing this, quiet quiet like under the ocean, the air has slit open. What was there all along, behind the air and woods, and grass and the sky, that painted sheet, is Nothing. You can’t stop. You aren’t doing anything.

It goes on, it goes on, Grace not doing anything, just not stopping. Marjorie watches.

Falling so fast, all is still, so empty there is no change. It goes on, it goes on, it happens, nothing happens, doing nothing doing nothing doing nothing.

And finally, Claire pees.

Grace lets go and Claire drops to the ground.

It’s a sunny day again. They are in a field. Claire McCarroll is there. Insects are there, and from the dirt road beyond the woods, the sound of a car going by. It’s Brownies tonight. We are flying up.

“Get up, Claire.”

Marjorie will remember that the grass was yellow, but it is newly green. Grace will remember that they were in a cornfield, but there is no corn here. There is the long pale grass. There is the high elm. The corn-syrup sun. All around them is the month of April. It’s twenty-five to five.

“Stick your tongue back in.”

Claire does not obey.

“Get up.”

She will not do as she is told.

“Marjorie …,” says Grace, going wavery. “Ohhh,” moaning, “ohhh nooo….” Oh no Marjowieeee… .