Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

“Madeleine, vite, vite. Bonne nuit, ma p’tite .”

“Do you know the capital of Borneo, little girl?”

Madeleine only tells her father the good stuff. She doesn’t mope in front of him any more. She doesn’t want him to think their plan isn’t working. It’s working. She is only ever a tortoise for a couple of days, then gets promoted back to dolphins. But never to hares. It would be sad for him to think he hadn’t fixed the problem. He has fixed it. And when she is with him, the after-three exercises become a very small and separate thing.

She helps him mow the lawn, with her hands next to his on the bar, and they discuss things over the roar of the motor. She tells him about the kids in her class — the bossy girls and the Philip Pinder boys and the rest except, of course, the exercise group — and he teaches her new words, “peer pressure” and “group dynamics.” He helps her write a speech on the topic of humour, laughter as the great “panacea.” She is mercilessly mocked in school for her use of such a big word, and responds by using it as frequently as possible, regardless of context. She and her father speculate as to why God allows war and cancer and the suffering of innocent dogs, they discuss what she will do when she grows up, going over the pros and cons of various professions — conducting what he calls a cost-benefit analysis. He asks where she wants to be in five years, they assess short-term versus long-term goals and how they can all lead to Ed Sullivan. One Saturday they pack a lunch and hike for miles on dirt roads far from the base, just the two of them with a Thermos of Nestlé’s Quik and a supply of peanut-butter sandwiches. Times like this become memories almost instantly, part of a gilded past that somehow coexists with the present. Remember-whens to look back on even as they are happening, bittersweet and aglow with sunshine fading to sepia — the late September dust suspended in the wake of a single passing car, leafy smell in the air, blue sky reflected in his sunglasses.

She keeps meaning to ask him what the capital of Borneo is, but she always forgets.

“The following little girls will remain after the bell. Diane Vogel, Grace Novotny, Joyce Nutt, Madeleine McCarthy and Marjorie Nolan.”

Marjorie looks around proudly and her dimples appear. When her eyes meet Madeleine’s she looks away haughtily. Only Margarine Nolan could possibly be proud of being chosen for the exercise group. Madeleine feels her face grow hot at the realization that Marjorie has no idea what the exercise group really is. What if she tells on us? Tells what?

They line up along the coat hooks. Madeleine leans back until she feels the hook grind against her spine, then slip sideways to find a spot between her ribs. Like a chicken carcass.

You stand against the coat hooks until he calls you. Or until he tells you to sit back down at your desk and write a spot quiz. Then he lines up the rosebuds on his desk and you all go up and take one, and leave. “Side door, little girls.”

Diane Vogel is up there behind the big oak desk with him. Madeleine watches and waits. I wonder what kind of exercises he makes the other girls do? Do they do the same ones I do? Do they think they’re in the smart group, or the stupid group? Or the bad group? Which group am I in?

Grace Novotny does backbends behind his desk while he spots her, holding her steady between his knees so she won’t fall. He doesn’t want any foolish accidents.

Joyce Nutt does backbends too, but beside his desk, never behind it. And he doesn’t spot her. Doesn’t he care if she falls?

Madeleine glances down the line. There are five of us now in the exercise group. Almost enough for a six in a Brownie pack. And we are all Brownies, although we will certainly get our wings and fly up to Guides this spring. Except for Grace — she may have to walk up.

No one talks, not even Marjorie. Her lips are compressed as though to prevent herself from talking. She has figured out that this is a rule, and once Marjorie knows something is a rule, she goes around like a monitor.

Everyone waits while Grace does her exercises. All you hear is the sound of the gerbil burrowing in his cage and the sound of Mr. March breathing — it’s hard work for him.

Three minutes past three. The cutout turkeys are up on the wall in anticipation of Thanksgiving. Smiling and dressed like the people who are going to eat them. Happy pilgrims on their way to get their heads chopped off. There are also horns of plenty with squashes and corn tumbling out.

Grace Novotny walks back up to the coat hooks.

“Come here, little girl,” says Mr. March. No one knows who he is talking to until he says, “The one in the white blouse,” and Madeleine proceeds to the front of the class.

“Do you know the capital of Borneo, little girl?”

“No, Mr. March.”

“What were the names of Columbus’s ships?”

“The Niña , the Pinta and the Santa María.”

“Correct. Let’s see if you can get two out of three. What is the word for a female peacock?”

“I don’t know, Mr. March.”

“The answer is peahen. Say peahen.”

“Peahen.”

“Say peacock.”

“Peacock.”

“Pea.”

“Pea.”

“Cock.”

“Cock.”

“Come closer. Closer. That’s it. I want to see if you’re getting any stronger. I want you to keep up with your exercises, otherwise I won’t be able to give you a passing grade in health, stand still.”

We don’t even have health as a subject; he is crazy.

“Let me feel your muscles, little girl. Oh that’s a big one. I’m not hurting you.”

His cheeks jiggle and he stares at her but it’s as if he were looking at nobody at all. Where is Madeleine? The man is touching her freshly ironed blouse; it has a brooch of the Acadian flag, white red and blue, Maman pinned it there this morning, poor Maman.

“Let me feel your chest muscles. They’re growing aren’t they, do you rub them every day? And your tummy muscles, and your — oh you’re sweating aren’t you?” Mr. March touches her underpants. It feels good.

“Do you know what will happen if your parents find out what a bad child you’ve been?”

Her head is terribly hot. She shakes her head, no.

“They’ll send you away.” Into the forest . She feels her heart beat against her ribcage, sees it huge and red pulsing against the bars of bone.

“Here, little girl, feel my muscle — that’s it — squeeze it, it’s strong.” It is rubber, there is a smell. Blank it out or you’ll throw up.

“Are you strong? Let me feel how strong you are. How hard can you squeeze?” It is loose skin on the outside and hard on the inside, it is raw.

“Rub it.”

He puts his hand around Madeleine’s and it must hurt him to rub it like that, the skin pulls away from the top of it like on a turkey neck, the hole is where he pees.

Then he pushes her away, and maybe he will call the next little girl up to his desk and maybe he won’t.

Madeleine walks back to the coat hooks. It takes a long time and yet her feet have not stopped walking from Mr. March’s desk, so probably it has taken the normal amount of time. She presses her spine against the hook, and the next thing she notices is that Marjorie Nolan is up behind his desk, but she doesn’t remember Marjorie being called or leaving the coat hooks; Marjorie is just there at his desk all of a sudden. Her legs feel heavy, tired, as if she had been standing for a long time. But it’s only seven minutes past three.

Marjorie has her hands out and Mr. March is filling them with candy — that’s not how we usually do things in the exercise group.

“I’m the candy monitor,” says Marjorie, suddenly back at the coat hooks. She struts along the line, and when she gets to Madeleine she says, “You only get it if you’re good and not stupid, so forget it, Madeleine.”