Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Vic Boucher orders a plate of fried scallops. “Who’s going to join me?”

Ted Lawson says to Jack, “How about it, sir? Einmal Bier?”

A fresh round is bought, they move to a table, work is discussed along with plans for the next formal event — a dinner and dance in honour of the Air Vice Marshal from Air Training Command Headquarters, who is flying in from Winnipeg for Battle of Britain day. Jack groans inwardly at the thought of squeezing into his formal mess kit — his monkey suit. McCarroll will have no such problem; lean and anything but mean, he reminds Jack of a young seminarian. The kid is probably steady as a rock in the cockpit, perfect reflexes uncorrupted by bravado — the machines these lads fly nowadays are hair-trigger. Nothing like the old beasts Jack piloted.

Hal Woodley joins them, removing his hat, loosening his tie; the other officers straighten up and make room, greeting him, “Sir.” A waiter brings him a clean ashtray and a Scotch.

Jack leans back again in his bucket chair amid the kibitzing. He watches McCarroll listening politely. It’s an odd feeling, knowing something about another man that he is unaware of himself. Especially when it affects that man’s family, thinks Jack. There’s no harm in it, of course — both he and McCarroll have a special, if simple, job to do. But McCarroll doesn’t know it, and won’t need to know it until Simon gives Jack the word. McCarroll and his wife will eat, sleep, perhaps conceive a child here on this station. Their daughter will go to this school instead of another, and McCarroll doesn’t know why. Yet. It doesn’t sit perfectly well with Jack, this secret knowledge. Something about it — an inappropriate intimacy. The odour of someone else’s tousled sheets.

“What’s the word, Jack?” asks Woodley.

“Well, things are ticking over pretty good. I got Warrant Officer Pinder on side, I figure my job’s halfway done.”

Woodley chuckles. “Don’t get him too far on side, he’ll fill your icebox with deer meat and it’s all you’ll eat for a month.”

The topic turns to fishing. Jack weighs in on New Brunswick salmon and Hal Woodley tells a story about an Indian guide up in northern British Columbia. It’s not right . Jack shifts in his chair. Woodley should not be in the dark about why McCarroll is here. Like everyone else at this cocktail table, McCarroll is under Woodley’s command, and any orders he follows while stationed here should come through Woodley. Jack is sitting next to an American officer who is not strictly subject to the chain of command. This is wrong .

“… and he said, ‘Aw, you should’ve been here yesterday, Mr. Woodley, they was bitin’ then.’” Laughter erupts. Even McCarroll has relaxed enough to join in. Jack feels a smile stretched across his face. My problem, he thinks, is that it never seemed as though I was going behind Woodley’s back until McCarroll showed up and put this whole thing in uniform. It was supposed to be “unofficial.” He sips, mildly relieved to have at least analyzed his discomfort. No, none of this is by the book, and Jack is unaccustomed to that. But the fact remains, we’re all on the same side. This favour will be over and done with soon enough, and no one need ever be the wiser.

He bends to rise from his chair and experiences an uncomfortable sensation around his throat. As though he were carrying a little excess weight and, in the act of bending, the displacement of extra flesh had exerted a slight pressure on his neck. He lifts his glass of Scotch for a toast. “Here’s to being above it all.”

He feels the Scotch open his throat, says, “Cheers,” by way of leave-taking and heads for the doors.

Knowing more about other people’s lives than they do themselves — Jack reflects that, after all, it’s nothing new for him. In Germany, at 4 Wing, he often had advance notice of exercises and drills, even postings. He knew whose leave would be cancelled, whose wife would be disappointed, who would get his preferred posting and who would be going to a radar base in the Arctic. It was part of his job to know and, sometimes, to decide. It never gave him a moment’s pause. How different is this, really? He reaches the doors and glances back at the lounge full of officers. In a far corner is Nolan, alone at a table — not unusual in and of itself, there’s no law that says a man always has to be “all in together, fellas.” What is unusual is that Nolan is eating supper here again. At first Jack assumed Nolan’s wife was away, but he was told earlier this week, by Vic Boucher, that Mrs. Nolan is some kind of invalid. Jack pushes through the big oak doors and fills his lungs with fresh air. He exhales the cigar and cigarette atmosphere, the aroma of liquor and beer and uniforms. He enjoys the company of his fellow officers, he enjoys his work, but all that is only a means to an end. Real life is what his wife is cooking up for him at home, this very moment.

When Madeleine emerges from the side door, she sees that Lisa and Auriel have not waited but are halfway across the field, walking slowly so she can catch up with them. She has already started running across the playground when Marjorie calls from the swings, “Hi Madeleine.”

Madeleine doesn’t stop. “Hi.”

“Wait up.”

“I can’t.” But she slows down, not wanting to catch up to Auriel and Lisa with Marjorie in tow.

“How come you had to stay after three?” Marjorie is breathless with the effort to keep up.

“’Cuz,” says Madeleine.

“’Cause why?”

“To do exercises.”

“Do you get to be a monitor?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“Can I play with you and Auriel and Lisa?”

Madeleine shrugs. “It’s a free country.”

Marjorie looks down.

Madeleine says, “Here,” and hands her a chocolate rosebud.

Marjorie gazes at it and with an intake of breath says, “Oh Maddy, where did you get it?”

Madeleine mutters, “Mr. March.”

Marjorie pops the rosebud in her mouth and, before she can say thank you, Madeleine takes off like the Road Runner, leaving Marjorie in a cloud of cartoon dust.

She catches up with Auriel and Lisa. “What happened?” Auriel asks.

Madeleine looks at them solemnly. Tucks in her chin, unhooks her eyeballs from their moorings and says, “‘Mm-bedea-bedea, that’s all folks!’” As they zigzag toward home, she steals a glance over her shoulder at Marjorie trailing behind them. Madeleine didn’t want the rosebud anyway.

“How was school, old buddy?”

They are on the couch, reading the paper before supper; Madeleine is snuggled under his arm.

“It was fine. There’s a new kid.”

“I figured as much.”

“She’s American.”

“Mm-hm.” They read “The Wizard of Id.” Then he asks, “What’s the situation report?” Jack has decided not to bring up the subject at the dinner table, he knows she feels private about it.

“I got put back up to dolphins,” she says.

“There you go, this time next week you’ll be a rabbit again.”

“Hare.”

“Did you do like we said?”

“Yes.”

“Did you look him in the eye and not miss a trick?”

“Yes.”

“Good stuff.”

Madeleine waits for him to ask if she had to stay after three again, but he doesn’t. And why would he? The whole point was getting out of tortoises, and she has done that. Why would he suspect she might have been kept after three again? And anyhow, it was her own fault. She stepped on another land mine, she has to learn where they are. A bad teacher is a gift. Do you really want to tell Dad how you disrupted the class due to mirth? After we talked about winning the war of concentration? You know what you must do. You have your mission. Operation Concentration.