Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Madeleine is on her feet. “Aren’t you gonna slug her?!” Shouting after Marjorie, “Mange d’la marde, Margarine!”

“ Ci pa gran chouz,” says Colleen. And, as though she has just tossed back a fish, “She’s not worth it.”

Madeleine looks down at her smashed worm, bluish in the middle, still writhing at either end. Colleen takes the Popsicle stick, scrapes the worm up off the ground and drops it into the can.

“Still good,” she says.

Jack has sent his admin clerk out on an errand. Now he leans over the man’s typewriter and pecks out Oskar Fried’s name and address onto an envelope. He folds an empty sheet of foolscap into the envelope, licks the flap, seals it and affixes a stamp. He adds it to two others of different sizes and shades and heads out to mail them. Oskar Fried must be seen to receive a normal amount of mail. Oskar Fried must be seen to be normal in every way, and therefore not seen at all. Jack tucks the letters in his inside pocket and steps into the rain.

Cars drive slowly past, careful not to splash him; the parade square is shiny black. In spite of himself, Jack is comforted by the drizzle, the sky blanketed in grey. A groundless comfort, he knows — today’s aircraft and missiles don’t need visibility to do their work. Tensions have not eased, but they have not worsened. Khrushchev has diverted some ships from the blockade zone but has speeded construction on the missile sites. The Canadian air force and navy are tracking Soviet subs off the east coast. The U.S. has intercepted its first Soviet cargo ship without incident. Jack stops in at the phone booth.

“How’s the view from Washington, Si?”

“Well, from what I can see out my window through the welter of monuments, I’d say no one’s letting out their breath quite yet.”

“We’re all just waiting for Khrushchev to blink.”

“He’s batted his eyelashes once or twice, but who knows, he may just be flirting with disaster.”

It’s odd how quickly we become accustomed to crisis. We ought not to be capable of desultory conversations to do with imminent annihilation. But we adapt. Blessing or curse? Jack wonders.

“You Canucks certainly took your time,” adds Simon.

Jack knows he is being needled. “Hail to the chief, eh?” Dief has finally gone public with the alert, and made a statement in the House supporting Kennedy. “It’s hard to believe that in this day and age a Canadian prime minister waits to take his orders from Whitehall.”

“Yes, but you lot are always caught in the middle. And the Americans have an unhealthy obsession with Cuba.”

“I’d be obsessed too if I had a whack of nukes parked ninety miles off my coast.”

“Perhaps, but this crisis is a predictable outcome.”

“You sound like my neighbour,” says Jack.

“Really? Intelligent chap.”

“At least Kennedy’s got the guts to go eyeball to eyeball with this character.”

“He’d do better to put a leash on his brother,” says Simon casually.

“What’s that? How do you mean?”

“It’s not just Robert, of course, they’re all irrational when it comes to Cuba. Almost a form of hysteria, really. Fidel turned down the New York Giants when they scouted him and the Americans never forgave him.”

Fidel . “You’re kidding me.”

“Pukka gen, mate.”

“Holy Dinah!” Jack laughs as much at Simon’s use of the old expression as at the thought of Castro pitching for the Giants. Pukka gen —very RAF.

“And any self-respecting Latin American leader would take offence at plots aimed at making his beard fall out.”

“What?” A cadet is waiting politely to use the phone. Jack turns away — out of lip-reading range. “Who’s making his beard fall out?”

“Who do you think would come up with a cockamamie scheme like that? The CIA have had a mongrel assortment of agents down there, spookin’ about for ways to discredit and/or kill Castro and trigger an uprising, for years. The Americans lost a cash cow, they want it back.”

Jack can hear him inhale — he’s smoking one of his Camels. He leans against the glass. “What’s going to happen, Si?”

“Oh, I think it’s happening. Khrushchev will back down and Kennedy will look good at home and to NATO. It’s one for us, mate.”

“You old cynic.”

“I’m utterly sincere.” Simon’s tone is breezy. “Kennedy will remove the worthless Jupiter missiles from Turkey so Khrushchev can save face, but it’ll mean a tremendous loss of prestige for the Russians. Brilliant stroke of realpolitik on Kennedy’s part. If we don’t all go up in flames over the next twenty-four hours, chances are we won’t any time soon.” Simon exhales. Jack can almost smell the smoke. “Before I forget, Fried’s going to need mail—”

“Done.”

“Oh, had I mentioned—?”

“No, but I figured.”

“You’ve got a feel for tradecraft, old man,” says Simon, in a send-up of his own accent.

“When are we going to see you up our way? Mimi would love to meet you.”

“Is she aware of our little operation?”

“No, but she knows I ran into you the summer before—”

“How’s the Deutsches Mädchen?”

“Oh she’s grand, she’s a spitfire.”

“Chip off the old propeller, eh? Cheers, Jack.”

“Cheers.” Jack hears the click, and hangs up. He heads to the mailbox outside the grocery store and posts Fried’s “letters.”

Tradecraft.

The next morning, Jack picks up the paper from the front steps. He walks slowly back up to the kitchen, eyes on the front page: SOVIET, U.S., AGREE TO HOLD PRELIMINARY TALKS ON CUBA .

“Didn’t the milk come?” asks Mimi.

“I guess not, I didn’t see it,” says Jack. Mimi slips past him, down to the porch, and gets the milk.

At the table, Madeleine reaches for a fresh-baked banana muffin. Her father lifts his paper to turn a page. She freezes. Towering over the breakfast table on the front page is a photograph of children ducking and covering under their desks. It’s the exercise group. Her stomach closes.

“Madeleine, qu’est-ce qui va pas?”

“Nothing.”

“Then pass your brother the butter.”

“I only asked you twice,” says Mike.

She has the odd sense that if she reached for the butter her hand would stay where it is, and that a phantom hand would reach out. She lifts her hand and it works perfectly, but before picking up the butter she obeys the impulse to sniff her fingers quickly. Mike bursts out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“Old Smeller.”

“Stop it!”

The newspaper comes down.

Mike is still giggling. “Well she’s always doing that.” And he imitates her, furtively sniffing his hands, fingers curled.

“Quit it!”

“Simmer down now,” says her father. “Mike, don’t tease your sister.”

Madeleine’s face feels like a heating pad, she has to go to the bathroom. Her parents are looking at her. “That’s Diane Vogel,” she confesses, pointing at a girl with her head buried in her arms, on the front page of the newspaper.

Her father says, “Those kids are down in Florida.”

American kids. That’s not a picture of our class at all.

He clicks air through his teeth and gets up. “Well, looks like tensions are easing, eh? Have a good day, fellas.”

The grade four class recites in unison, “‘For want of a nail the shoe was lost, for want of a shoe the horse was lost, for want of a horse the rider was lost….’” Art is always on Friday afternoons. The best pictures have been selected for the wall and for the window in the door. “‘ … for want of a rider the battle was lost, for want of the battle the war was lost….’” Madeleine has her eyes on the clipboard on Mr. March’s desk, as though her gaze could fix it there, preventing him from picking it up and reading off the names. “‘ … and all for the want of a horseshoe nail.’”