Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

… risk war unless Khrushchev agrees to dismantle all offensive weapons… .

Madeleine pulls her jumper off over her head, undoes her strangulating school blouse, pausing only to smell her hands — they smell fine — and hollers from the top of the stairs, “Can I go fishing?!” Colleen has not invited her but she doesn’t want to be with Auriel and Lisa yet, so—

“Madeleine, don’t yell!”

If she were allowed to watch TV right after school, all her problems would be solved, but she is not. She could be watching The Mickey Mouse Club , or Razzle Dazzle , with Howard the Turtle and beautiful Michele Finney, and the after-three feeling would ebb away. “Can I?!” She hurtles down the stairs, jumps the last five steps, whips perilously around the banister—

“Doucement, Madeleine!”

She stands stiffly in front of her mother, feeling like a collection of hard sticks in her play clothes, this is what a wooden puppet must feel like—

“Permission to go fishin,’ ma’am.” She salutes, banging her head, crossing one eye.

Mimi laughs; Madeleine takes it as a yes and turns to flee.

“Attends, Madeleine! Where do you fish?”

She stops and turns. “Rock Bass.”

“C’est où , Rock Bass?”

“It’s down a dirt road, you can almost see the airfield, it’s close.” She doesn’t mention burnt-out campfires, she doesn’t mention Colleen Froelich.

“Who are you going with?”

“Um. Can I call on Colleen?”

“You know what I said about Colleen Froelich.”

Madeleine suppresses a groan, because she senses that her mother may be about to relent on the Colleen issue.

“All right. But I want you home in one hour.”

“Yabba-dabba-doo!” She races from the kitchen.

“And no TV over there,” calls her mother behind her.

Madeleine jumps down the three steps to the front door — she would like to burst right through the screen, the way the Cartwrights burst through the Shell sign at the beginning of Bonanza . She runs like a hard puppet across the street, but slows and turns back into a real live girl when she sees Ricky Froelich. He’s drinking from the hose. He is in red jeans and a sweaty white singlet. The water runs down the front of his shirt, pasting it to his chest; his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his collarbones rising and falling with his breath.

“Hi pal.” He holds out the hose and she sips, ice-cold; then he offers it to Rex, who bites the water, pink gums and white fangs. The best drink in the world.

“Hi Elizabeth,” says Madeleine.

“Ay Ademin.”

She walks up to the Froelichs’ front door and knocks on the glass panel above the screen.

“Go on in,” says Ricky. But Madeleine doesn’t. It’s as though there were an invisible force field around other people’s front doors, you can’t just walk up and open them. Just as you can’t open someone else’s fridge.

Mrs. Froelich appears. “Hi Madeleine, come on in.”

Madeleine doesn’t have time to say, “Can Colleen come out and play?” She follows Mrs. Froelich in and back to the kitchen. There are dirty dishes on the counter. Breakfast things still on the table.

She says, “Mrs. Froelich?”

“Call me Karen, kiddo.”

Madeleine opens her mouth to say it but cannot. Now she can’t call Mrs. Froelich anything. She watches silently as Colleen’s mother feeds the baby boys, each in a battered high chair. There is a splotch of crusty baby gunk on her vest. It’s a long plaid wool vest, loose and groovy. Madeleine slowly, deferentially sits down on one of the chairs, a tear in its vinyl pad, and wonders what will happen next. Mrs. Froelich has long straight hair parted in the middle with silver streaks. Her face looks different from the other mothers’. You can’t picture her sitting at a vanity table. No offence, but Mrs. Froelich looks like a young witch — a good one.

Colleen walks through the kitchen, mutters “Hi,” then goes out the back door. Madeleine is unsure whether to follow so she stays put. Ricky comes in with Elizabeth and starts talking on the phone. He makes a peanut-butter bender and eats it in one bite. He makes another and hands it to Madeleine. He is talking to Marsha Woodley.

Even when he’s all sweaty, Ricky Froelich looks freshly showered. He shaves too, she can see a patch of stubble at his chin and along his jaw, his cheeks are stained red with air and exercise. His legs are long and lean, one foot crossed over the other. His hands do everything casually and perfectly, such as make a sandwich and hold it for Elizabeth to bite. Even if his house smells like old stew and Elizabeth is drooling peanut butter, Ricky Froelich is clean. Like a teenager on TV, he seems carefree. He seems … American.

Mr. Froelich comes in, smoking a pipe and carrying a German newspaper.

“Madeleine, wie geht’s, hast du Hunger?”

“No, I just had a peanut-butter sandwich, danke.”

“Good, fine und dandy, komm mit mir, wir haben viel Lego in den living room.” His dark eyes twinkle, his red lips moist around his pipestem, like Santa.

She follows him into the living room and sees a mountain of Lego piled next to the playpen. And sitting on the floor next to it is Claire McCarroll. It’s like discovering an elf under a mushroom cap, Claire in the Froelichs’ living room. With her bracelet full of lucky charms. She is building a house out of Lego.

Madeleine sits next to her and starts hunting for wheels to make a car to go with the house. Mr. Froelich puts on a record. A woman with a deep voice sings a tune that Madeleine recognizes, but with French words, Qui peut dire, où vont les fleurs …. ? Madeleine hums along.

Mr. Froelich says from his armchair, “You like Dietrich?”

Madeleine nods politely, yes. Who is Deetrick?

There is the soft sound of Lego clicking together and the occasional rustle of Mr. Froelich’s newspaper. Madeleine sings along softly in English, “‘ … gone to soldiers, every one. When will they ever learn? When will they e-e-e-ver learn? …’”

Maman needn’t have worried. The Froelichs don’t even have a TV.

Jack follows the curve of the cul-de-sac that is Morrow Street and parks at the foot of the manicured lawn of the yellow brick lowrise. … in other developments, U.N. Secretary General U Thant sent identical letters to Mr. Khrushchev and President Kennedy —He switches off the radio.

He gets out and walks up to the front doors beneath the porte cochère. He enters the empty vestibule and sees a house phone. Through a glass wall to his right is a small lobby, likewise deserted. Couch, leather armchair, coffee table with three or four magazines fanned out. A potted benjamina gathers dust in one corner.

He scans the framed directory on the wall and finds what he’s looking for: O. F. apt. #321 . As he dials the number he glances at the wall of small metal mailboxes: the discreet typed initials reappear there, O. F. O ur F riend. Of course! Jack shakes his head. Simon.

The line rings a third time. There is a brief pause followed by a reedy voice. “ Ja? ”

“Hello, Herr Fried? This is Wing Commander McCarthy, sir. I’m here to welcome you.”

There is no reply. Instead, Jack is startled by a loud buzzer. He hangs up in time to grab the handle of the glass door. Two steps lead up to the elevator. He takes them in one stride.

After a sluggish liftoff, the elevator stops at the second floor and an elderly lady gets on. Jack nods but she seems not to register his presence. When the doors close and the elevator rises, however, she looks up at him. “Down,” she says accusingly.