Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Madeleine is up in her room before lunch, surrounded by her worldly goods: books, toys and games, and her — she refuses to call them dolls — what’s the word for dolls that aren’t sissy? Bugs Bunny is in pride of place on the bed, his ears currently arranged in two chignons on either side of his head. At his right, she places a sock monkey named Joseph — she can’t remember why he is called that, she only knows that when he was a sock he was pinned round her neck the time she had strep throat in Germany and she miraculously recovered. “Guten Tag, Joseph,” Madeleine says, and he smiles back with his button eyes.

Standing on a chair to reach her closet shelf, she stows the tattered game of Snakes and Ladders, then Monopoly — the British version, with pound notes and London street names — and the mystical game of Chinese checkers, with its precious store of coloured marbles, Do not play with them outside . She lines up her Narnia books on the shelf in the correct order. Given to her by a second cousin of her father’s who is a Jesuit priest in Toronto. “Thank you Father What’s-His-Name, these are the best books I’ve ever read.”

She is perfectly happy thus employed, whiling away the time until Auriel and Lisa return from their baseball tournament, so she is surprised when her mother calls from downstairs, “Madeleine, there’s a friend here to see you.”

Surprise gives way to alarm as she tries to imagine who might be calling on her. Colleen? Elizabeth? Both? She slowly descends the stairs.

“Hi, I’m Marjorie Nolan,” says the girl at the bottom of the three kitchen steps. “Welcome to Centralia, Madeleine.”

“Marjorie’s maman told her there was a little girl her age just up the street.”

Madeleine looks at her mother. I’m not a little girl .

Her mother takes Madeleine’s face between her hands and kisses the top of her head. “Go on out and play, chérie , it’s a beautiful day,” and pats her on the bottom. Marjorie Nolan smiles up at her, but Madeleine is doubtful. Marjorie has blonde ringlets and is wearing a dress in the summer holidays. Her hair and her short puffed sleeves give her a strange outdated look, like Pollyanna. Madeleine doesn’t wish to be mean but she can tell right away that Marjorie is not her type.

“Would you like me to show you around, Madeleine?”

“Okay.”

“Have fun, girls. Nice to meet you, Marjorie.”

They walk, and Marjorie proceeds to give a guided tour of the PMQs. “Over there is the CO’s house.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Madeleine. Everyone knows that the detached house with the biggest lawn — the one with the flagpole — is the commanding officer’s.

Marjorie gestures. “And across the street, just behind the purple house, is the park with the swings and teeter-totters and things.”

“I know, I went there already.” She isn’t trying to be rude, but it’s hot and she would rather be reading or running through the sprinkler. It’s too soon to leave Marjorie, however, so she says, “Want to run through the sprinkler?”

Marjorie giggles and looks down at her dress, “I don’t think so, Madeleine.” She sounds as though she’s imitating a grown-up who is amused by something a kid has said.

“If you look to your right, across the highway and the railroad tracks,” says Marjorie, “you’ll see Pop’s Candy Store. It’s not part of the base. Teenagers hang out there. I don’t advise it.”

Madeleine gazes with longing at the bottle of Mountain Dew emblazoned across the screen door of Pop’s. Then she looks back at the yellow ringlets bobbing on Marjorie’s shoulders. At Marjorie’s smile, pursed and waxy like a doll’s. It comes unbidden to her mind: Margarine . “What do you want to do now?” she asks Margarine.

Margarine replies, “We’re doing it, silly.”

Madeleine resigns herself to walking one more loop of houses before making her escape.

“That’s where Grace Novotny lives.” Marjorie has stopped to stare at a pale pink duplex. They are in the far section of PMQs, on the opposite side of the school from Madeleine’s house, an area laid out in mirror image to her own. This is where the noncommissioned ranks live, not that it matters. It’s about skill, not rank. “We all depend on one another,” says her father. “A pilot may outrank his ground crew, but his life is in their hands.” This isn’t the army, “where all you have to have is a pulse.” So Madeleine is taken aback when Marjorie says, “Grace’s dad’s just a corporal.” She has never heard anyone compare ranks before. The dads are always introduced as Mr. So-and-So, never by rank.

Marjorie says, “My dad’s a squadron leader.”

Madeleine doesn’t reply, “Mine’s a wing commander,” because it would sound as though she were showing off. She can’t help it if the only rank on the base higher than her father’s is the CO’s, and anyway, what’s the big deal?

The pale pink house and lawn are the same as all the others, decently mown. A jumble of bikes and trikes leans against one wall, and in the driveway sits a big Mercury Meteor convertible with white leather seats and a pair of dice hanging from the rearview mirror.

“It belongs to one of Grace’s sisters’ boyfriends,” says Marjorie. “She has four older sisters and they’re all sluts.” The word slits the air. Madeleine looks at Marjorie — perhaps she won’t be so boring after all. She looks at the Mercury and pictures a greaser in a muscle shirt smirking behind the wheel, his arm draped around a chick, the speeding convertible piled high with girls in beehives and tight sweaters. Sluts .

“There are entirely too many children in that family, if you want my opinion,” says Marjorie.

Madeleine’s mother would say, “That’s like saying there can be too much love. Each child— chaque enfant —is a gift from God.” But Madeleine is secretly grateful that it is just she and Mike.

“Grace Novotny failed grade four last year, so she’ll be in our class even though she’s already ten, and if you want my advice, Madeleine, you’ll steer clear of her. In fact”—and she chuckles—“that’s an order.”

That settles it, Marjorie is a stupid idiot. Her saying the word “slut” cannot make up for that.

“I’m not trying to be mean, but”—Marjorie cups her hand around her mouth and whispers into Madeleine’s ear—“Grace smells.” She giggles and looks expectantly at Madeleine. Madeleine obliges with a slight smile, then Marjorie squeals, “There she is! Run away!”

Marjorie runs off down the street, but Madeleine stays and looks at the pink house. Behind the screen door stands a girl. Her features are obscured by the mesh, but Madeleine can see a mass of curls, honey-coloured, down to her shoulders. She can’t see anything weird about Grace, anything worth running away from — although she isn’t near enough to smell. Even so, smell is nothing a bath won’t fix. Unless your house smells, or you wet the bed. But the next moment, Madeleine does see something weird. It looks as though Grace is raising her hand to wave so Madeleine waves too. But Grace just puts her thumb in her mouth, and stands there sucking it. Perhaps Marjorie is right — best to avoid Grace Novotny. Don’t make fun of her, the way Marjorie does, but don’t befriend her either.

Marjorie is waiting at the bottom of the street, where a paved pathway leads between the houses to the rear of the school. “You’ll be sorry,” she chants.

“What for?”

“You shouldn’t wave at her, Maddy, that’s like petting a stray dog.”

Maddy? “I don’t care,” says Madeleine.

They walk in silence, the asphalt changing to grass as they approach and then round the sleeping school.