Ann-Marie MacDonald: Way the Crow Flies

She rounds the house. The curve of rock obscures the shore, so that the granite’s pink is juxtaposed with the open water that stretches to meet the horizon. In between, the blue expanse is dotted with stone islands flat as pancakes, their pine trees permanently wind-tilted and shimmering in the heat like northern palms. A far-off ferry boat inches along, plying the route between the mainland and Manitoulin Island. Beyond where the eye can see lie Michigan and the U.S.

Colleen is tending the barbecue and doesn’t look up. Madeleine walks to the crest of the smooth stone, and a dock comes into view below. Water laps at the wooden posts and glitters with the intensity of early evening. She can almost hear the ting of light rippling gold and silver, like notes on a xylophone. A battered aluminum outboard rocks against the dock, bleached-out life-jackets mildewing in the bottom where a sawed-off plastic Javex bottle floats, purpose-built for bailing. On the shore, a few feet above the waterline, a canoe rests overturned, casting a longboat shadow on the stone.

There is a wheelchair at the end of the dock. A woman is sitting in it, facing the water. It’s not Elizabeth. This woman has long gleaming black hair, straight and loose. A head pops out from under the dock — a child. He hauls himself up, water sliding in gleaming sheets from his bare chest. He flops naked onto the dock, a long braid slicked down his back, and stands up. He is a girl.

“Mom, everybody, watch!” she shouts, bounding up the dock, turning to pelt back down again, splashing the silvery wood with ragged black footprints, past the woman in the wheelchair and off the end, cannonballing into the water. The dog rockets down the slope, onto the dock and in after her. They both emerge, one panting, one laughing. Madeleine looks over at Colleen, who is watching the child from her post at the grill. Mom .

Down on the dock, the wheelchair is turning. Madeleine can see from here the sinews in the forearms, tanned and strong like Colleen’s, red cotton sleeves rolled up, faded jeans over thin legs. Cowboy boots. The person looks up, a hand raised to shade the eyes. Beautiful smooth face, high cheekbones, cords in the neck rising from the hollow between the collarbones. His hand goes up in greeting.

Madeleine walks tentatively, hat in hand, down the warm stone, feeling through her sandals how welcome it would be to the soles of bare feet.

“Hi, Ricky.”

She takes his outstretched hand. He pulls her down to him — there is not as much strength and substance to his arms as was suggested by the slanting light. He hugs her. “How you doing, Madeleine?”

“I’m okay,” she says. “How are you?” There is no question that is not inadequate.

“Can’t complain.” His voice has thinned, but it’s clear. Light. How is that possible? “You’re beautiful,” he says.

She has no reply.

He is beautiful.

His brow is smooth, the only signs of aging the slight hollows under his black eyes. He is both older and younger than he was. What happened to him? She wants to touch his face. She sees him notice the hat in her hand.

He says, “How are your folks?”

She swallows back tears. She was unprepared for kindness. Why can’t he be more like Colleen?

“You staying for supper?” He wheels himself up the dock toward the stone, where a ramp traverses the far side. As he rolls past, his black hair swings and the sun catches streaks of silver. He is three years older than her brother would have been.

Feet plunk along the dock behind her; the little girl runs past, droplets flying, followed by the dog, who sideswipes Madeleine with his wet fur, his good wet-dog smell. The girl grabs a crumpled piece of cotton from the rocks, slips it over her head and suddenly she is wearing a dress.

She looks up at Madeleine. “Hi.” Ice-blue eyes; the downward tilt at their corners lends them a permanently amused expression. Sharp like Colleen’s, but unsuspicious.

“Hi,” says Madeleine. She pauses. “I’m Madeleine.”

“I’m Vivien.”

The girl runs back to Rick, grabs the handles of his chair and hurtles them both forward.

“Mush,” he says.

“I’m mushing, I’m mushing!”

Madeleine follows them. They stop up near the house at a picnic table under which sits a cooler. Rick slowly, carefully rolls a cigarette from a pouch of Drum tobacco.

Vivien asks, “Are you the one on TV?”

Madeleine is taken by surprise. “Sometimes, yeah.”

The little girl laughs and hurls herself at Rick’s lap.

Rick puts the cigarette between his lips and looks up at Madeleine. “Everyone thinks you’re funny now but they didn’t know-you-when, eh?” He uses both hands to light it with a lighter.

Madeleine puts the hat on the picnic table.

As Rick exhales, the smoke mingles with the freshness of the evening, the charcoal from the grill. Colleen is cooking something in foil. It smells wonderful.

Madeleine says, “That was my dad’s hat.”

Rick says, “What can I get you to drink?” Vivien announces, “We have beer, Dr Pepper, Mountain Dew and chocolate milk.”

“I’ll have what you’re having.”

The child bounds toward the house. The dog flops, still wet and grinning, at Rick’s feet. Madeleine sits facing the lake and says, “He’s the one who waved at you that day.” It feels so small. The words are tiny. Not difficult to say. Not hard at all.

Rick looks away, following the smoke with his eyes as it drifts toward the water. His profile is so pure, cut with the finest instruments, eyes gleaming like jet. He raises the heel of his hand and wipes them. He could have been anything he wanted to be.

A sizzle behind her as Colleen turns the foil package. Madeleine is weeping now too. Because the pines smell so vivid. Because his face is so familiar. Because it’s summer and the evening sun is all the clothes you need and school doesn’t start for a long time.

“I know what happened …,” she says. And down in the schoolyard a boy on a red motor scooter is giving everyone rides. “And I think I know what happened … to your dad.” But that’s too much. What happened to Mr. Froelich and the children he loved … is too much.

“I’m sorry,” she says, getting up. “I’ll put it in a letter.”

She is about to leave but the child is there, offering her an iridium-blue tin cup.

“How come you’re crying?”

Madeleine takes the cup and replies, “Aw it’s okay, it’s….”

Rick says, “Her daddy died.”

The child puts her arms around Madeleine’s waist. When will Colleen turn from the grill and drive a knife into Madeleine’s back?

Madeleine says, “It’s okay, hey, cheers Vivien.”

They clink cups and Madeleine drinks. A dreadful candy clash. “It’s great, what is it?”

“My secret recipe,” she replies, moustached now in mauve. “Mountain Dew and Dr Pepper and then you put in a bit of real pepper.”

“Wow.”

The child disappears back into the house.

“Max,” says Rick, “get Papa a cool one.” The dog gets up, walks to the cooler, opens it with his nose, lifts out a can of Moosehead beer and brings it over. “Good boy,” says Rick, popping the tab.

“How did you get him to do that?”

He points his thumb at Colleen. “I’m just the guinea pig, she’s the genius. Guide dogs, eh? ‘Special skills for special needs.’”

“You train dogs to get beer for blind people?”

Rick laughs, and Madeleine sees the side of Colleen’s mouth rise. The same thin scar at the corner. Same rusty thatch of hair.

He has multiple sclerosis — MS. Diagnosed a few years after he got out of prison. He had been working with horses again up until then. “Out west,” he says.