Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

She poured him a beer and teased him about forgetting the neighbour’s name, gratified that a pretty young thing like that should get barely a glance from him. He took a second glass from the shelf and poured half his beer into it for her. “I already had two at the mess. You don’t want to bring out the beast in me, do you?” He winked.

“Ça dépend.” She clinked glasses with him.

There are men who, if they make it home for Friday night supper at all, are too “happy” or too belligerent to sit at the table and eat with their children. Snoring in their uniforms on the couch or glazed in front of the television set. Perfectly nice men, and thank goodness Mimi isn’t married to one of them. Her older sister, Yvonne, is, though; married to one of those men whom other men find harmless.

Madeleine watched her mother slide the huge turkey into the oven at noon, and when Maman said, as she always did, “Bon . There goes Monsieur Turkey,” Madeleine could not help but see the pallid flesh in a whole different way. Like someone’s bare backside — ashamed and curled to hide their face. And when Maman had taken the loose skin around the neck and tucked it under the body, Madeleine felt somehow that the turkey was embarrassed to be dead and naked. “I’ll call you when the neck is ready,” said Maman.

The McCarrolls were coming to Thanksgiving dinner. American Thanksgiving was not until November and, as Mimi told Sharon over the phone, “We can’t let you be the only ones in the PMQs without a turkey dinner next week.” The Bouchers were supposed to join them, and the women had pooled their card tables for the occasion, but at the last minute Betty phoned to say they were in strict quarantine. “Steve Ridelle’s threatened to paint an X on our front door if we don’t sit tight all weekend.” Their youngest, Bea, had come down with mumps.

Twenty-four pounds of turkey and only four adults and three children. “What a feast!” said Jack.

Madeleine passed around a plate of Ritz crackers with smoked oysters, and celery sticks with Cheez Whiz. Jack lit the first fire of the season in the fireplace and poured a rye and soda for Blair. Mike joined them in the living room with a ginger ale while the women saw to the kitchen. Jack was grateful for his son’s presence, because McCarroll had not become more loquacious with the passing weeks — like pulling teeth, getting the fellow to talk. Mike kept up a steady stream of questions about flying, and it occurred to Jack that McCarroll appeared more at home chatting with the boy than he ever did at the mess with his fellow officers. Pity he didn’t have a son.

“What’s in store for you next, Blair? I take it you’re only here for the year.”

“Ohio, sir.”

“Call me Jack.” Blair nodded and flushed. “Wright-Patterson air base?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“They got some pretty good R&D going down there, eh?”

“That’s what I’ll be doing. Human factors testing.”

“What the heck is that?”

Blair became almost animated. “I’ll be testing high altitude full and partial pressure suits. Space suits.”

“Wow!” said Mike.

“’Course I’m aiming for Edwards, then … who knows, maybe Houston.”

Jack raised his eyebrows appreciatively and nodded — McCarroll is gunning for astronaut training.

Mike said, “I’m going to start flying lessons in the spring.” He looked at his father.

“That’s right, Mike, I’ll wander over and check out the civilian flying school next week.”

In the kitchen, Mimi made gravy and Sharon heated up the pan of candied yams she had brought.

“That smells so good, Sharon, I’ll have to get the recipe from you.”

“Okay,” said Sharon. The entire conversation had been like that: Mimi’s gambits followed by Sharon’s shy non-starters. It wasn’t so noticeable around a bridge table, but it was a tad difficult one on one. Mimi’s impulse was always to hug Sharon, but you could only hug someone so many times without getting to know them. Mimi had prepared for the Thanksgiving meal well ahead, so that, other than gravy, there was little to do, but she set Sharon to work carving radishes into rosettes in order to make the silence less obvious. “Why don’t you put on a record, Jack?” Charles Aznavour would be a great help.

Claire had brought a box of animal crackers as a hostess gift for Madeleine — it came with a string attached so that you could pretend it was a purse or a briefcase.

“Wow, Claire, thanks.” Upstairs in her room, Madeleine showed Claire her books and toys and the beautiful green glassie Elizabeth had given her, as well as a plastic bag containing bread mould that she was incubating under her bed. At their age there was no social embarrassment over silence; Madeleine pulled out Green Eggs and Ham and read aloud, although she had it mostly memorized. They sat on the floor against the bed and Claire leaned against her — which felt perfectly normal somehow — and listened, and laughed.

“Madeleine! Claire! Venez , come get a treat,” called her mother.

In the kitchen, Mimi lifted the neck and giblets from the sauce, put them on a plate and offered them to Mike and the two little girls. Madeleine’s parents always say these are the best parts of the bird, perhaps because you get to eat them straight out of the pan when you’re starving and tantalized by the roasting smells. Or perhaps it’s because during the Depression you were lucky to have anything at all — gizzards for supper, fried bread and molasses for dessert. Still, Madeleine has always savoured these bits, so when Maman offered her a morsel on a fork she took it willingly. But she declined a second one; she had become suddenly aware of chewing someone’s stomach. And when Mike offered to share the neck, she said, “No thanks.” She folded her hands and watched while Claire McCarroll daintily picked the meat off it and ate.

They sat down at the table and Jack poured from a bottle of good Qualitätswein that Blair had brought. “That schmecks , eh?” said Jack.

Oddly enough, Madeleine found she wasn’t hungry. Her parents had mercy on her and, apart from some minor encouragement, she wasn’t forced to empty her plate. She ate a slice of Mrs. McCarroll’s excellent pumpkin pie in order to be polite, and a piece of Maman’s wonderful chocolate pound cake in order not to hurt her feelings, and when the guests left, went to bed with a stomach ache.

Maman said, “Well that’s what happens when you only want dessert.” But she gave Madeleine a glass of ginger ale and stroked her forehead until she fell asleep.

In bed finally, Jack and Mimi laughed. “Not exactly the life of the party, eh?” Lovely people, the McCarrolls, but mon Dieu , sometimes silence wasn’t golden. “Do you think they talk when they’re at home?” Well it was a good reminder: next time they had the McCarrolls, they’d make sure to invite not just one other couple but two — in case of mumps.

They stretched out gratefully and reached for magazine and book.

Hers: How to Tell Your Child about Sex

His: Decision in the Case of Dr. J. R. Oppenheimer

On the Tuesday after the long weekend, Madeleine walks down the empty school hallway with her cut-out turkey. Thanksgiving is over and the next special art they do will be for Halloween. The turkeys and the horns of plenty have come down, including those over the window of the hallway door, but Mr. March has replaced them with a patriotic collage of red maple leaves in Saran Wrap.

It’s ten past three. Mr. March said as usual, “Side door, little girl,” but Madeleine said without turning back, “I have to go to the bathroom,” and exited by the hallway door. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even call her back to complete her sentence: I have to go to the bathroom, Mr. March . She didn’t have to go to the bathroom, she simply wished to avoid Marjorie handing out the candy. So she automatically lied.