Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Madeleine waited until Maman’s footsteps retreated down the stairs, then she crept out of bed and to the landing, where the television sounded even louder than in the living room. President Kennedy was still speaking. “… the Soviet government stated on September 11 that, and I quote, ‘The armaments and military equipment sent to Cuba are designed exclusively for defensive purposes….’” She inched toward the edge of the landing and crept down one stair. Now she was able to observe her family through the railings and imagine what it would be like if she were not alive.

“… That statement was false.”

The President’s voice continued, a hollow backdrop to her reverie — what if she was actually invisible? What if she was dead now and didn’t know it?

“… Nuclear weapons are so destructive and ballistic missiles are so swift….”

What if she was a ghost?

“Our own strategic missiles have never been transferred to the territory of any other nation under a cloak of secrecy and deception….”

What if she spoke and they didn’t hear her? Then she would know she was dead.

“… and our history, unlike that of the Soviets since the end of World War Two, demonstrates that we have no desire to dominate or conquer any other nation or impose our system upon its people….”

She opened her mouth but refrained from making a sound, suddenly reluctant to find out.

“… In that sense, missiles in Cuba add to an already clear and present danger….”

She was unable to move. Growing cold, lips parted, unable to make a sound.

“… the costs of worldwide nuclear war in which even the fruits of victory would be ashes in our mouth….”

She was turning into a statue. If someone in her family did not look up at her soon, it would be too late. They would try to revive her and her arm would break off.

Her mother looked up. “Madeleine.” I’m alive . “What are you doing up?”

Madeleine was surprised not to be scolded. Instead, Maman tucked her in and sang softly, “Un Acadien Errant.” Madeleine knew she was supposed to feel better and fall asleep. Feel better about what? She closed her eyes.

An hour later she snuck into Mike’s room.

“Mike, what’s the big hairy deal?”

“The Russians have got nukes in Cuba and they’re aimed at us.”

“Oh. So?”

“So. It means World War Three.”

“Oh. Is Dad going to have to fight?”

“We’ll prob’ly just all get incinerated unless we have a bomb shelter.”

“Do we have one?”

“Nope, but I’m going to build one.”

“Can I help?”

“It’s not a game, Madeleine.”

“I know that.”

At breakfast the radio was on as usual, men’s voices, dark and shiny like black suits. “… who is going to blink first? Castro has said that any attempt to—” Maman switched it off.

“Dad, is there going to be a war?”

“Who told you that?”

“Mike.”

He got a look from Dad. “I doubt that very much.”

Silence.

Mimi poured more coffee. Jack turned a page of his Globe and Mail . Madeleine saw the headline, U.S. NAVY WILL BLOCK ARMS FLOW TO CUBA .

“Kennedy’s no fool,” said her father.

“He’s a good man,” said her mother, and Madeleine was surprised to see her make the sign of the cross and turn away with her lips moving — praying. President Kennedy is Catholic, of course he’s good.

Mike asked, “Are we going to go on alert?”

Dad said from behind the paper, “Why would we do that, Mike?”

“The Americans’ve gone to defcon 3.”

“What’s that?” asked Madeleine.

“It’s routine,” replied her father.

Maman buttered toast. Sliced it.

Mike said, “Is there still going to be a game tonight in Exeter?”

“Of course, Mike, why wouldn’t there be?” Dad sounded annoyed, but maybe it was just his man-to-man voice.

After a moment, Mike said, “Dad, when can I go up in a Chipmunk?”

Dad sounded distracted, as though he had never heard of a Chipmunk. “What?”

Mike slouched. “Nothing.”

Madeleine contemplated her father’s newspaper, imagining eyeholes cut out in President Kennedy’s face for spying. Her eyes wandered down the column … proclaimed a quarantine . That is when someone in a house is sick and you put a mark on their door so no one can go in or out. There was a quarantine in Cuba. She recalled a fascinating picture she had pored over in Mike’s grade six history book of the Black Death. Shrivelled people in cloaks, with no teeth; the blue-bonnet plague. “Is the plague in Cuba?”

Her father lowered the paper. “What? No … well, that’s one way of putting it.” Her mother glanced at him and he added, “Naw, the U.S. is just makin’ sure Cuba doesn’t get any more weapons, that’s all.” Then cleared his throat.

Madeleine ate her Cheerios. Her crunching sounded very loud. The newspaper stayed perfectly still. Mike sprinkled sugar on his Sugar Crisps.

After a while Dad said, “We were more worried when the Wall went up.”

Maman lit a cigarette and said, “That’s for sure.” And everything felt normal again.

Mr. March puts away the projection screen and pulls down the map of the world. “Here is Cuba”—he uses his pointer—“and here is Centralia.” He taps again. “Anyone who thinks the Russian missiles could not reach Centralia is sorely mistaken.”

They are doing a special grade four air-raid drill: when Mr. March smacks his desk with the pointer, they all duck under their desks and cover their heads with their hands, like Bert the turtle in his shell.

“Good,” he says, adding, “This is one exercise where I expect you all to be tortoises.”

Obliging laughter.

Jack walks to work. It looks like a normal day. Children on their way to school, fresh laundry on the lines. When he kissed Mimi goodbye she asked him if he was worried and he said, “Naw, not really. It’s a whole lot of sabre-rattling.” She smiled and asked what he wanted for supper tonight, and he left feeling better for having reassured her. Able to concentrate on what lies ahead. He is eager to get to work. To do something. That’s the best remedy.

And there will be plenty to do. Centralia is a primary flying school where cadets earn their wings. A place where officers are trained to improve their leadership and management skills. Hardly a tactical centre. But it is a military base. U.S. and Canadian aircraft could be dispersed here to get them away from target areas. He fully expects to be advised by the commandant of an increase in the military alert status — virtually routine and in accordance with the NORAD agreement. Merely one stage in a series of flexible conditions geared toward an orderly transition from peace to war. He takes a deep breath. Merely good management.

As he leaves the PMQ patch and crosses the Huron County road toward the Spitfire, he is as close to marching as he ever gets, speaking his thoughts in his mind to the rhythm of his footfalls— logistical support, air transport, aid the civilian population in the event of an attack, in the event of an attack, in the event of an attack —He touches the brim of his hat in response to the guard on duty, who has delivered an uncharacteristically stiff salute.

In the space of a day, the world has changed. The ordinary has begun to look precious. It’s a familiar feeling. He felt it in Europe last summer when the Wall went up. And yet, for all the imagined horror, nuclear and conventional, there was the sense that Europe had been through many wars. This is different. This is home. A foreign attack on North American soil…. Nothing would ever be the same. He glances up at the old air-raid siren. Naive relic. Not much use except to the crows who have built their nest there. Our early warning will come from the DEW line high in the north. We’ll have fifteen to eighteen minutes to hide. Where?