Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

She scoops soggy bread and bits of shell from the drain and pushes back a strand of hair with her wrist. Mimi stopped working when she got married, and what woman would choose to work once she had a child? At first she wondered how Karen Froelich managed, what with the babies and a handicapped child, but now she suspects that the woman simply doesn’t manage. Has chosen not to. Poor Henry.

One morning, Mimi saw their girl Colleen heading up the street in the opposite direction from the school. Mimi lifted the phone receiver with her soapy glove, only to recall that the child’s mother was not at home. She dialled the school instead and asked for Mr. Froelich, embarrassed but feeling responsible even if the mother did not. Henry answered that Colleen was home from school today, not feeling well. When she delicately informed him that his daughter had left the PMQs along with her dog, Henry had said not to worry, the fresh air would do her good. Well, chacun à son goût . But it’s not surprising that the child goes around like a ragamuffin. Mimi sweeps the floor.

What is surprising is that Ricky Froelich is so well turned out. Vimy has joked that she and Hal can’t find a thing wrong with him, although she was a little concerned when he and Marsha started going steady. He comes from a “different” sort of family, said Elaine Ridelle over a hand of bridge, to which Vimy replied, “Don’t we all.” But in any case, the Woodleys will be posted this spring and that will be that. Another advantage of living on the move.

Mimi puts the broom away and turns to the calendar on the fridge, where each square is packed with her tiny writing — the Oktoberfest dance at the mess, the church bazaar, hockey and figure skating, volunteering at the hospital in Exeter, Vimy’s cocktail party in honour of the visiting air vice marshal, dentist appointments, Brownies, Scouts, Jack’s trip to Winnipeg, Jack’s trip to Toronto, the first curling bonspiel, hair appointment…. She circles Thanksgiving and jots down “Bouchers,” because Betty has confirmed that they’ll be coming. She hesitates, and adds “McCarrolls?” then picks up the phone to call her young next-door neighbour, Dot Bryson. The girlish voice answers and Mimi hears the baby screeching in the background. She tells the young woman to bring the child and come keep her company: “You’ll be doing me a favour.” Mimi smiles into the phone — she can almost hear tears of relief in the voice at the other end.

She puts the kettle on, then bends to the cupboard under the sink where she keeps her hideous hausfrau clothes and begins to pull out Mason jars and line them up on the counter. She will can for five days. Chow-chow, red chili, corn relish, dills, bread-and-butter pickles and Jack’s favourite, mustard pickles. Next week is confitures .

Thanksgiving falls on October 8 this year, and there will be a turkey draw at the mess as usual, with so many birds on hand that everyone is bound to go home with a Butterball. The social highlight of October, however, is Oktoberfest. The strong local German immigrant flavour, combined with the fact that so many personnel and their wives are veterans of German postings, means that Centralia’s is bound to be something special. The officers’ mess has been gearing up for weeks. Jack has tried to persuade Henry Froelich to bring his wife and join the party.

“Ach , I don’t have—”

“You don’t need a tuxedo,” said Jack, adding with a wink, “Besides, it’s Oktoberfest, you can wear lederhosen.”

Henry Froelich smiled and shook his head. “I think no.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot,” said Jack. “You’re from northern Germany, you wouldn’t be caught dead in lederhosen.”

They were having an after-supper glass of Froelich’s homemade wine in the McCarthys’ driveway. Henry had Jack’s lawnmower in pieces.

“What’s your better half got to say about it?”

“My …?”

“Your wife, Karen. Does she like to dance?”

“She prefers the less formal occasion.”

Jack nodded. “Like this,” breathing in the early autumn evening.

“Just so,” said Henry, and bent to his work, wiping grass and grease from the blade. Jack watched him for a while, his immaculate cuffs turned up once at the wrists, fingers stained with grease, shirt and tie protected by the old apron.

“Tell me, Henry, are you ever going to drive that thing or are you planning to donate it to the Smithsonian?” Jack nodded across the street to the Froelich driveway, where a litter of auto parts was growing around the hybrid chassis now recognizable as a ’36 Ford Coupe; its doors and fenders, its broad running boards and low-slung front end, all scavenged from different wrecks and welded together. In the midst of it all was Henry’s son, bent over the engine. “Like father like son, eh?”

Froelich smiled, obviously pleased. “It’s for my boy, when he is sixteen. That is when I go completely grey, when he will be driving.”

“Hank, I’m getting worried; that car is like the loaves and fishes, every time I look there’s more of it. I just hope you don’t get as interested in my lawnmower as you are in that car, or I’ll be up to my knees in grass next summer.”

“Don’t worry, Jack, your Lawn-Boy is very much less interesting than the Froelich-wagen. You maybe like to know that when finished, this car will contain parts from many other makes of automobiles, as well as a secret ingredient from a washing machine to improve fuel efficiency.”

“Wow, really?”

“Nein.”

Jack laughed.

“I will work on your car next,” said Henry.

“Nein , yourself!”

Jack sipped the wine and blinked at the taste — terrible stuff.

Henry asked, “How do you like the wine? We pick ourselves the chokecherries at the Pinery.”

“Chokecherry, eh?” Jack nodded. “Not too shabby.”

“‘Shabby’?”

“That’s the highest compliment you can get from an air force type. It means just great.”

“Good, good, I bring you a bottle, I have plenty.”

Jack said casually, “Henry, why don’t you let me treat you to the Oktoberfest dance. You and Karen come as our guests….”

Froelich slipped the blade onto its axle, reached for his wrench, tightened the bolt but didn’t reply. Jack feared he might have made a faux pas, implying a money problem, which had not been his intention. “You’d be doing us a favour. It’s just what the party needs, an honest-to-goodness German, and you wouldn’t believe the food. How long since you had a good bratwurst, eh?” Again he sensed that he’d said the wrong thing. Perhaps Henry thought he was criticizing Karen’s cooking.

Henry tossed the wrench aside and fished in his toolbox for a screwdriver. “You are very generous, Jack, and I would like on another occasion to accept your gift, but I am not German.” He snapped the lid on over the engine.

Jack flushed. What had he missed?

Henry twirled the wing nuts into place. “I am Canadian,” he said, and smiled. He pulled the cord and the motor roared to life.

On the Friday before Thanksgiving, Jack came home from beer call at the mess with an immense frozen turkey. “Mimi, I’m home!”

“Oh Jack,” she cried, “you won!”

“Yup,” he said, thunking the thing down on the kitchen table.

The young woman from next door rose with her baby. “Hi Jack. Mimi, I better run.”

Jack said, “How are you …,” and hesitated.

“Dot, you must stay,” Mimi put in, tactfully supplying the girl’s name.

“How are you settling in, Dot, okay?” Yes, her husband was in the accounts office, name of Bryson.

“Just great, Jack, thank you,” she said, blushing, then left, in keeping with domestic etiquette. Mimi saw her to the door, then returned to kiss her husband — he was so proud of that turkey, shrugging, saying, “It’s over to you now, Missus, I only dragged it home.”