Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Madeleine wants to say, “I don’t give a care,” but her lips are dry.

Marjorie licks a red Smartie, applies it as lipstick, then pops it into her mouth and crunches it. “You’ll be sorry, Madeleine.”

Out the side door with the others. Once again Madeleine is thankful for the side door, because imagine meeting the principal, Mr. Lemmon, or Mr. Froelich, and having them wonder what it is you have been doing in the classroom after three — behind the door with the turkeys taped over the window.

They disperse. Silent as usual, except for Marjorie, who tries to chitchat as though she were a member of a keen new club. Madeleine avoids her.

“Hi,” says Claire McCarroll. She’s riding her bike around the schoolyard, her pink streamers glittering in the breeze.

Madeleine’s head feels swampy, her underpants feel dank, she pictures their yellow butterfly pattern but remembers that those are Claire’s, not hers, hers have a ladybug pattern, Maman bought them at Woolworth’s, no one ever imagined that a teacher would touch them, that’s what happened today. Also, usually you just feel his thing poking through his trousers when you do your backbends, which are otherwise just normal backbends and the poking could be an accident or a pocket knife. Now you can never say to anyone, “Oh we just do backbends.” You can’t say anything.

“Where did you get these bruises?” asks Mimi, examining Madeleine’s upper arm.

“Just hacking around,” says Madeleine. “Auriel and I were giving Indian sunburns.” Which is not a lie, they have done so on occasion.

Mimi narrows her eyes. “Vraiment?”

Madeleine blushes. Does Maman notice that the bruise is the shape of a grown-up’s hand? But Mimi says, “Are you sure you haven’t been playing with that one across the street?”

“Who?”

“Colleen.”

“No.”

“Well just remember, Colleen Froelich is too old for you.”

Mimi turns back to the stove in time to save the Hollandaise sauce.

“How was school today?” asks Jack over supper.

“It was good.”

“What did you do?”

“Turkeys.” Madeleine reaches for her glass of milk and knocks it over. “Woops!” Mimi catches the glass before it tumbles to the floor, and Jack shoots his chair back to spare his trousers.

“Butterfingers,” says Mike.

“Michael, help your mother,” says Jack.

Tears spring to Madeleine’s eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t cry over spilt milk, sweetie.”

Mimi takes a tea towel, goes down on one knee and dabs at Madeleine’s blouse. Her daughter bursts into tears. Mimi puts her arms around her and pats her back, and Madeleine covers her eyes and wails. “Madeleine, qu’est-ce qu’il ya?” Mimi takes her gently by the shoulders and looks at her. “Eh? Dis à maman.” But her little girl turns away and goes to her father. He has his arms open. She climbs onto his lap and begins immediately to calm down. Jack winks over Madeleine’s head at Mimi. Mimi smiles for him, and turns back to the sink.

Mike rolls his eyes as he wipes up the milk. Madeleine’s humiliation is compounded by the knowledge that her brother is right; she’s crying for no reason, proving what a girl she is.

“What’s wrong, sweetie-pie?” asks Dad.

She answers, “I don’t want you to die,” triggering fresh sobs.

Jack chuckles and ruffles her hair. “I’m not gonna die!” He makes her box him to show what a tough old rooster he is. “Tough old roosters don’t die in a hurry, that’s it, hit me right here.”

After supper he plays with them — her favourite game from when she and Mike were little. Dad is the spider. His spider fingers curl slowly in the air, the suspense builds, you wait for him to strike, wanting to run away, wanting to wait till the last second, “Gotcha!” Then he tickles you until your stomach aches from laughing, and the only way to make him stop is for whoever is free at the moment to give him a kiss.

“Mike, Mike! Kiss Dad!”

But Mike won’t, he’s too old to give Dad a kiss.

“No fair!” she cries, “I kissed him for you!”

“So?” says Mike from the couch, “C’est la guerre,” and he flips through The Economist .

The spider has her by the ankles, she’s trying to get out of the quicksand, clawing the rug, “Maman! Donne un bec à papa! Vite!”

A moment’s respite. Then, oh no! The spider is tickling again — it’s great, it makes you crazy—

“Mike!” Now the spider has her by the arms—“Maman!” Laughing — Now he pulls her into jail—“Somebody!” Now he clamps her between his knees in a vise grip. Madeleine stops laughing. She keeps the smile on her face but her stomach has dropped. Dad is tickling and she writhes and laughs, acting normal, but she is feeling hot and not very well, she cannot move. His knees are pinned on either side of her hips.

“The woolly spider’s got you now,” he growls, as usual.

Let me go .

“Maman!” she calls, laughing like a girl who is playing with her dad.

Those are Dad’s trousers right in front of her. What if she bumps into him? The hot smell is around her, the living room is getting dark. He leans forward and gives her a whisker rub.

“What’s all the commotion?” Maman appears in the doorway, her yellow rubber gloves dripping.

“Kiss Dad,” Madeleine says, quiet now, making a smile.

Maman kisses him and the spider lets go. Madeleine smiles at him in appreciation of her favourite game. He laughs, pats her on the head and picks up his newspaper again. Madeleine heads for the front door.

“Madeleine, attends une minute,” says Maman, looking down from the top of the three steps.

“What, Mum?”

Mimi walks down the steps and says gently, “You’re too big to play like that with your father.”

Madeleine runs across the street and cuts through the Froelichs’ yard to the park beyond, with the swings and the merry-go-round. She sits against a big tree. An oak. It hears her. She is too big. Maman knows there was something bad about that game. If you play with your dad and he bumps against you and you feel his thing, it’s because you are too big to be playing with your father.

But Madeleine didn’t bump against him. It’s up to her, however, to make sure it never happens, because it would not be his fault. She would have only herself to blame. Her mother knows what Madeleine knows. Games where you are trapped between his knees are not good. Her father is too innocent to know it’s a bad game. Dad doesn’t know what could happen. He doesn’t know what you know. He would be helpless while you bumped against his trousers, he would be bewildered with a thing in his pants. Madeleine presses her back against the good bark and cries with her forehead on her knees. The tree hears her. Poor Dad. Poor Dad .

“Jack,” says Mimi in bed that night.

“Yeah?”

“Madeleine’s too old for those games.”

“What games?” he asks, scanning his Time. The U.S. policy of merely trying to isolate — or contain — Cuba has had dismal results… .

“Tickling games, I saw the look on her face.”

He lowers his magazine. “You mean the old woolly spider?”

“Yes. She’s too old, she was embarrassed.”

“Was she?”

“Oh yes, I think she only plays to please you.”

Jack blinks. “Really?”

She smiles at him. “I hate to break the news, Papa,” she says, “but your little girl is growing up.”

“You think I embarrassed her?”

“A little bit, yes.”

He takes it in. “But it’s okay to play with her otherwise,” he says.

She smiles. “You don’t have to lose your old buddy. But you want to leave some room for your young lady.”