Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

“Margarine!” laughs Lisa, and Madeleine says, “Shhh.”

“Yeah, Ridelle,” says Auriel, “don’t be so mean,” then whispers, “Margarine,” to fresh gales.

Madeleine laughs along politely. It’s okay, Auriel and Lisa aren’t the type to call Marjorie that to her face. Still, it’s sad to have your name turned into margarine.

Mimi finishes washing the dishes. Jack dries. “That wasn’t so bad,” he says.

She doesn’t look at him but smiles, dries her hands and reaches for a squirt of Jergens.

Mike comes in and opens the fridge. Mimi puts her hands on his head, kisses his crown and says, “T’as faim? Assis-toi, là.” He sits at the table and, as Mimi pulls leftovers from the fridge, takes a tiny green army tank from his pocket and proceeds to repair the treads.

“Mike,” says Jack, and shakes his head. No toys at the table.

“But Dad, it’s not supper or anything.”

“It’s still your mother’s food.”

Mike pockets the tank. Jack returns to his Time magazine. Mimi places a heaping plate in front of her son. “Et voilà, mon p’tit capitaine .”

“Merci, maman.”

She lights a cigarette, leans against the counter and watches her son eat. This will be his last year in children’s sizes. He has his father’s head, his father’s way of eating steadily, neatly, the working of the jaw, the set of the shoulders and something about the eyes — though her son’s are brown — the same long lashes, and that open quality, the focused unawareness that is masculine innocence. She can almost see the face of the man emerging from that of the boy. Her gaze is a thing of substance. Between a mother’s eyes and her son’s face, there is not air. There is something invisible and invincible. Even though — or because — he will go out into the world, she will never lose her passion to protect him. Girls are different. They know more. And they don’t leave you.

From upstairs, Madeleine’s voice, “I’m ready!”

Mimi moves toward the stairs but Jack gets up. “That’s okay, I’ll tuck her in.”

“‘And the children disappeared into the mountain, never to be seen again. All except for one child who was lame and could not keep up.’”

Jack closes the book. Madeleine gazes at the illustration — the yellow and red diamonds on the Piper’s cloak, his pointed hat, his solemn beautiful face. He doesn’t look cruel. He looks sad, as though at the prospect of performing a painful duty.

“What was inside the mountain?” She always asks this when he has finished, and he always considers for a moment, before replying, “Well no one can say for sure. But I think maybe it was like a … whole other world.”

“Was there a sky?”

“I think there might have been, yeah. And lakes and trees.”

“And they never grow up.”

“You’re probably right. They run around and play, happy as clams.”

Meanwhile, in the outside world, their whole family gets old and dies, thinks Madeleine. She doesn’t say this, however, because she does not wish to ruin the story for her father. It’s the first time since Germany that she has asked him to read to her. She is getting a bit old for it, but it makes her new room feel cozier. And no one has to know.

“You almost ready to fall asleep?”

She hugs him around the neck. “Dad?”

“Yeah, old buddy?”

“Was Elizabeth born retarded?”

“She’s not retarded, sweetie.”

It’s been bothering her. How can Ricky have a retarded sister as well as a delinquent one and yet be perfect?

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She has cerebral palsy.”

“What’s that?”

“She can’t control her muscles, but there’s nothing wrong with her mind.”

Madeleine blinks. Inside Elizabeth’s head, she is perfectly normal. What must it be like to watch your hands try to pick something up? To hear your mouth slurring words when you know perfectly well how to say them? Like living in a very small room with a very big window.

“Can you catch it?” she asks.

“No, no, you’re born with it.”

“Oh.”

“It doesn’t mean you can’t have a good life,” he says. “She’s a pretty happy gal, don’t you think?”

“… Yeah.”

Grown-ups are never frightened by things like that — horrible things that people are born with. Whereas, when you are going on nine, it’s as though things from before you were born could still reach out and grab you by the ankle. You can feel the whoosh of how they just missed you.

“Have a good sleep, old buddy.” He kisses her forehead.

“Kiss Bugs,” she says, and he does.

She does not ask him if Mr. Froelich is a Nazi. It’s a rude question to ask so late at night, after such a nice day. And she knows what he’ll say: “No-o-o, what gave you that idea?” And she will have to answer, “Mike did,” and Mike will get in trouble. Still, she would like to hear it from her own father that there is not a Nazi living across the street. “Hitler’s still alive, you know,” said Mike. And he told her how Goebbels killed his children with poisoned cocoa. Goebbels . It’s what turkeys say. “Mr. Froelich could be a Nazi hiding out here,” he said. “You can tell if he’s SS, ’cause they have tattoos.” But you can’t see any tattoos on Mr. Froelich because of his long sleeves.

Dad switches off the light. “Sweet dreams.”

“Dad, is Hitler dead?”

“Dead as a doornail.”

She slides down under her blanket, savouring the smell of grass stains on her knees and elbows. A summer holiday night; she rode on a red motor scooter with a real live teenager, Hitler is dead, Elizabeth Froelich is not retarded, and school starts next week.

ONCE UPON A TIME, in a country that no longer exists, there was a mountain cave. And inside the cave was a treasure. Slaves worked to mount up more and more and more treasure. They worked day and night in the bowels of the earth, and fashioned the things of the earth into something celestial. They used the products of the earth: animals that had died billions of years ago were exhumed and refined; chemicals that had hidden in earth and air were caught, distilled and carefully recombined — these became its fuel. Minerals that had been harvested from the earth were purified by fire until they were strong and stainless, then forged into many shapes — this became its skin, its brain, its vital organs.

Everything has come from Mother Earth in this way. Cars, ploughs, televisions, clothes, electricity. Ourselves. Gathered, processed, moulded, ignited. If all this had happened in a flash, we would call it magic — lions freeing themselves from the clay, soldiers springing up from serpents’ teeth, lightning snaking from the tip of a wand, language from our mouths.

But it did not happen in a flash. It happened over time. The age of the earth was necessary to create it all, and the minds and bodies of many people, and so it is called science. Humans can only work the magic in reverse. Returning it all to the earth and atmosphere in one great flash.

THE LITTLE ORANGE TENT in the Bouchers’ backyard casts a magic glow in the afternoon. It’s almost like being in a movie. The canvas smell, the close-up sound, full of promise, the frisson of truth-or-dare. Strewn with Archie Comics and Classics like Water Babies , and the jewel of Auriel’s collection: the stack of True Romance comics which she inherited from her babysitter at their last posting, worn but intact, with their lavish drawings of blondes, brunettes and men with brutal jaws and sleek automobiles. The illustrated women cry gushy white tears. “It looks like Jergens,” says Madeleine.