Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

“Turn to page twenty-five in your Macmillan speller….”

At recess there is the minor annoyance of avoiding Marjorie Nolan, who has yet to settle with any one girl or group. “Want to come to my house for lunch, Madeleine?” Why can’t she find her own friends?

There are many girls like Marjorie: girls with pursed lips and opinions on other girls, and clothes that are clean at the end of the day, let her find them. Why is she not in Cathy Baxter’s group? They skip double-dutch and have no shortage of lesser girls willing to be ever-enders — Marjorie could start out as one of those, then move up through the ranks. The bossy girls. They always have an important secret that’s “for me to know and you to find out.” They throw underhand in baseball and have their art put up on the wall on Fridays. They are perfect for Marjorie. But although Marjorie is an excellent skipper, makes perfect paper fortune-tellers and gets hares in almost every subject, when she agrees with them or says, “I love your sweater, Cathy,” they merely pause and Cathy rolls her eyes; then they all go on with what they were talking about before they were so rudely interrupted by no one. Madeleine has begun to feel a creeping responsibility. Am I going to have to be her friend because no one else will?

“Turn to page twelve in your Canadian Treasury of Song books.” Mr. March sounds a note on his pitch pipe, raises a thick finger, brings it down, and the class sings: “‘Land of the silver birch, home of the beaver, where still the mighty moose wanders at will….’”

As the day progresses, Madeleine watches the felt animals on the bulletin board carefully.

“The following little girls will remain after three….”

Once or twice a week. Sometimes all of them, sometimes just some of them. What did those other girls do wrong today? Beautiful sad Diane Vogel, intelligent Joyce Nutt, and Grace Novotny. Not even Grace is capable of being a total reject all the time, yet she is always required to remain.

They line up at the back of the room where the coat hooks are. When it is Madeleine’s turn, she walks down the aisle and he looks at her in that unseeing way that makes her think, maybe I am just a pigment of his imagination. Auriel and Lisa don’t ask her about it any more, no one does. They are simply the little girls who are required to remain. The exercise group. No one in the class wonders what the exercise group is any more, it just is.

It’s easy to get home by twelve past three because Mr. March never keeps them more than ten minutes, so no one gets in trouble for being kept after three; because no one is late enough for their parents to notice.

“If you don’t tell them, I won’t,” says Mr. March. “Of course, that all depends on how well you do after three.”

That’s nice of him. Bad enough to get in trouble with your teacher, but who wants to get in more trouble with your parents?

A few weeks into school and it feels like months, the unstructured days of summer having given way to lessons and sports and Brownies. Madeleine and her friends are taking ballet, tap, jazz and highland dancing over at the rec centre, from a tall bony lady called Miss Jolly who looks exactly like a licorice Twizzler in her leotard. Miss Jolly laughs her toothy laugh at Madeleine’s most gracefully intended efforts. “You’re remarkably supple, Madeleine, but I’m not sure dance is your forte.” When she gets them to do the twist, Madeleine feigns a stomach ache. The thought of writhing sexily around with all the other little girls gives her a queasy after-three feeling.

The grown-up social whirl is likewise in full swing. There are cocktail parties on Friday nights and a do at the mess every Saturday. Madeleine’s parents have started curling Saturday mornings, and during the week the ladies get together for coffee parties and bridge parties. The latter are the best because they happen on school nights, and involve a cornucopia of snacks and baked goods that translate into treats the following day.

One Thursday evening in late September, Mimi hosts four tables of four players each and permits Madeleine to stay up and say hello to the ladies. Madeleine looks longingly at the crystal bowls of bridge mix on every card table, at the tiered plates of gooey Nanaimo bars and buttertarts. An orange sunset chiffon cake sits proudly on a pedestal dish, and there are hot and cold hors d’oeuvres — wiener bites, Swedish meatballs, pickled things on toothpicks. The living room is bright with laughter, conversational clusters throwing off sparks like the combination of cashmere and freshly washed hair; on the buffet, the silver service glitters along with tiny glasses of crème de menthe; lipstick adorns the rims of teacups, patent-leather purses are parked on the floor like miniature cars; it all mingles with the scent of perfume and cigarette smoke, to heady effect.

Madeleine is in her polo pajamas and quilted robe. “Hello Madeleine, sweetheart, how is school treating you?” Kind, elegant Mrs. Woodley. “It’s very good, thank you.” Mrs. McCarroll is over by the fireplace listening to Mrs. Lawson, who is patting her hand — Gordon’s mother is almost as inviting as Mrs. Boucher, a comfortable-looking woman. Mrs. Noonan is nice but a bit cross-eyed. Madeleine hears Mrs. Ridelle’s voice in the kitchen, “Come on, Betty, live a little!” She is shaking an aluminum Thermos. Johnny Mathis sings on the hi-fi about wanting to have children. Madeleine is mesmerized by the scene. If she stands perfectly still and unfocuses her eyes and ears, she can see and hear everything at once:

“… cheap at half the price—”

“… get out, really?!”

“… knows how to put on the dog—”

“… posted to Brussels—”

“… hasn’t joined.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Sylvia Nolan, she still hasn’t joined the Wives’ Club.”

“… case of nerves—”

Sylvia Nolan . Marjorie’s mother, the one with headaches. Madeleine’s eyes dart about — is Mrs. Nolan here? Is she going to tell about the exercise group? Of course not. She still hasn’t joined the Wives’ Club . And what exactly is there to tell, anyhow? Suddenly Mrs. Baxter is there, beaming down at her — a big-boned woman with big-boned blonde hair and bold red lips. “You must be friends with my Cathy.” Madeleine half smiles, at a loss how to reply. Mrs. Nutt, a slim woman at Mrs. Baxter’s side, says quietly, “You’re in Joyce’s class, how do you like grade four, dear?” “Fine, thank you.” Mrs. Nutt takes her place at a card table and says something to Mrs. Vogel, who looks like Judy Garland — beautiful and on the verge of crying from happiness. Have Joyce Nutt and Diane Vogel told their mothers about the exercise group? Are Mrs. Nutt and Mrs. Vogel talking about it right now? Are they going to tell Madeleine’s mother?

“Madeleine.”

“Oui, maman.”

It’s bedtime. Mimi wraps a chocolate ladyfinger in a cocktail napkin and gives it to Madeleine, saying, “Now straight to bed, or the bonhomme sept heures will come and get you.”

Her mother has been to the beauty parlour today. Her hair is perfectly and simply formed, like her green and black sleeveless dress. Madeleine walks slowly upstairs, and watches Maman thread her way through the room and take the needle off the record. She turns, claps her hands twice and announces, “Allons, les femmes , let’s get down to business.” Everyone laughs and obeys. Madeleine lingers, her eyes on Mrs. Vogel and Mrs. Nutt, willing them to move to separate tables. They do. She is relieved that Mrs. Nolan is not here, but wonders at the absence of Mrs. Novotny. Then she recalls Marjorie’s words, “Her father’s just a corporal.” Mrs. Novotny isn’t an officer’s wife, so there would appear to be no danger that Maman will hear about the exercises from her.