Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Marsha comes up behind Madeleine and says, “Hi.”

“Hi. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Marsha rolls her eyes, and says with an interrogative inflection, “Of course not.”

Madeleine is tingling. Please, Marsha, please say yes.

“Ricky,” says Marsha, in a tone both teasing and warning, “I’m babysitting.”

He grins. “I can read bedtime stories.”

Mike arrives at the top of the kitchen steps. “Hi Rick,” he says in his deepest voice.

“Hi Mike, how’s she going?”

“Good. Wanna watch a movie?”

“Sure, but that’s verboten , eh?”

“How come?”

“Boss won’t let me.”

“Aw come on, Marsha,” says Mike.

“Yeah,” says Madeleine.

Marsha turns to them. “Okay you guys, skedaddle.”

They do. And watch from the window on the upstairs landing as Marsha steps out onto the porch with Ricky. They can’t make out all of what is being said, but they watch intently the subtle dance unfolding below. Marsha, arms crossed over her chest, looking down, hovering just within the arc of Ricky’s arm, raised and leaning against the door now. His head is bent close to her ear. She shakes her head, they hear her giggle. The next moment Ricky glances to either side, then kisses her. Her head tilts back and he leans into her. Then he leaves, jogging back across the street to his own house. Marsha rests her back against the door, hugging herself, biting her lower lip.

“Marsha, the movie’s starting,” calls Madeleine.

They watch Thomasina . Madeleine tries hard not to cry and feels better when Marsha does. Mike does not once make fun of the movie, and when it’s over he says, “Not too shabby.” Madeleine wants to scream at him.

Later, from the bathroom window, Madeleine sees Ricky Froelich sitting in the light of his front porch, strumming his guitar. She opens the window and strains to hear the soft chords and his easy voice singing a lonesome Hank Williams tune. She kneels on the toilet lid, folds her arms on the windowsill, rests her chin and stays for a long time, listening. He sings song after song, some in a strange-sounding French. Sad ones, so as not to wake the neighbours.

Shortly after midnight, Mimi slips into her daughter’s room. Madeleine is sound asleep hugging that filthy old Bugs Bunny. Mimi places a little cocktail umbrella, striped like a rainbow, into Bugsy’s plastic-gloved hand.

The next morning, Madeleine runs into the kitchen with her prize. “Maman, look what Dad brought me!”

Mimi picks up the whistling kettle, about to say, “Maman brought you that.” But she catches herself. “You have the nicest papa in the world.” She pours the tea.

Madeleine twirls the tiny umbrella, “‘Singin’ in the rain—’”

“Help me set the table for after church, ma p’tite.”

Madeleine groans. “How come Mike never has to help?”

Mimi says sharply, “Don’t ‘how come’ me, Madeleine, just get the move on.”

Aunt Jemima smiles jovially from the box of pancake mix. Why can’t she be my real mother?

After Mass, Jack relaxes with the paper until Mimi calls him for brunch. “Boy, something sure smells good,” he says, turning to call, “Mike, come and get it!” Mike comes in with the sports section, and he and his father sit behind headlines while Madeleine and Mimi put plates of bacon and eggs and pancakes in front of them. Soviet Forward Base in Cuba. Hockey Record: Sunday — Toronto at Boston, Montreal at New York .

Madeleine slouches in her chair. Why is her mother suddenly turning her into a slave? A scullery maid, as in fairy tales of wicked stepmothers. She picks up her fork, noticing that Maman has taken the broken egg as usual.

Mimi says brightly, “All right, that’s enough news at the table.” Both Mike and Jack blink and look up innocently, then obediently fold their papers, put them aside and start eating. Mimi winks at Madeleine, who stretches the ends of her mouth sideways in a technical smile meant to fool no one.

Mimi sips her coffee and resists the urge to light a cigarette. She takes a forkful of egg, a bite of toast, reminding herself that it’s important to eat with her family even though her appetite is often suppressed by cooking, leaving her hungry and prone to snack between meals. That’s how women gain weight. Although she wonders if her slimness has something to do with her inability to get pregnant. Maybe if she were more like her own mother, or her sister Yvonne…. But there is nothing to say that she won’t get pregnant. She simply hasn’t yet. She smiles at her daughter. There are times when Mimi too would love to sit back on the couch with a magazine and have someone cook her a meal. Iron her blouse. Occasionally it does feel like drudgery. That’s normal. It’s important, however, not to communicate those feelings to your daughter — that’s a recipe for future unhappiness. It’s important to foster pride in what is, after all, the most important job in the world. There is just one problem: she’s too much like me.

“‘THERE WAS A TURTLE and his name was Bert

and Bert the turtle was very alert

When danger threatened him he didn’t get hurt

he knew just what to do!

He’d duck! And cover….’”

Duck! And cover.

The chorus of voices sounds like the Walt Disney Singers on a story record. Bert is a cartoon turtle, and after he retracts into his shell several times, the cartoon part ends and real kids appear in freshly ironed clothes, running from a playground to a doorway where they duck and take cover. Then a serious man’s voice says, “Don’t look at the flash.” The kids cover their eyes.

Mr. March is showing this film because the free world is in grave peril.

At seven o’clock last night, Madeleine watched her father’s profile when President Kennedy came on the television. “Good evening, my fellow citizens….”

He’s handsome, thought Madeleine. Our prime minister, Diefenbaker, is not — his hair looks like a plastic bathing cap.

“… This government, as promised, has maintained the closest surveillance of the Soviet military buildup on the island of Cuba….”

It was Monday night and she was disappointed, because Lucille Ball was supposed to be on but the announcer had said, “Tonight’s program has been pre-empted in order that we may bring you a message of extreme urgency from the President of the United States.” Her father’s mouth had become a line, his whole profile had become a line. The family was on the couch, watching.

Cuba is where Ricky Ricardo is from. Lucille Ball is actually “a great beauty,” Dad has said, but you can’t tell because she is so funny. Would you rather be beautiful or funny?

“… Within the past week unmistakable evidence has established the fact that a series of offensive missile sites is now in preparation on that imprisoned island….”

“What’s the matter?” asked Madeleine. Had they built another Wall?

“Shhh,” said Mike.

President Kennedy continued in his clear Boston accent. “The purposes of these bases can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the western hemisphere, ranging as far north as Hudson Bay, Canada—”

“Time for bed,” said Maman.

“It’s only seven o’clock!”

“Allons!” She took Madeleine by the hand. Mike got to stay up.