Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

From the teeter-totters in the park, it seemed as though the deer might not be real. Or at least you could say, “That’s a deer that Philip’s father shot,” and feel almost normal about it, because hunting is normal. But when Madeleine came closer and saw the deer slowly rotating by its hind ankles, legs stretched so that it seemed they must snap and recoil any second, it was different. It did not feel normal. But Philip, his older brother, Arnold, their father, their mother and their Uncle Wilf are all out in the yard, working on the deer and behaving normally; although with an added air of seriousness, the way a person might if they were, for example, practising backing their new Airstream trailer into the driveway: “It’s not that I’m trying to show off. This is work.”

A neighbour comments, “That’s quite a deer, Harve.” But Madeleine can see that the neighbour is a bit embarrassed, trying to be polite, saying something about a dead deer that you would normally say about a garden. “That’s quite a rhododendron, Harve.”

As Colleen and Madeleine linger, however, a couple of other dads arrive and smile openly, wanting to know the whole story. They have a look in their eyes that Madeleine has seen on television shows — the look just before the wolf whistle at the pretty girl walking down the street. Philip’s father keeps working and more or less ignores the other men. He tells the story briefly, quietly, accepting a beer almost as an afterthought. “Son of a gun!” they say and gaze at the deer. “She’s a beauty, Harve.” Philip is grinning in a strange way, fetching things for his dad. He picks up the pail of guts, pretend-vomits into it and offers it to Madeleine and Colleen.

“Philip,” his dad warns softly. Philip puts the bucket down and looks up at his father, who has begun to chop meat off the deer. “Are you giving me a hand or are you playing with the girls?”

Philip turns red and proceeds to ignore Madeleine and Colleen. So do all the other men and boys — there are no women out here now that it’s getting dark. The sky is sad and beautiful, stained orange where the sun splashed down. Someone’s hi-fi is playing, music drifts from a window two or three doors away, “Bali Hai” is calling….

Arnold Pinder is up in the tree now, with an extension cord, positioning a light bulb over the deer. The men have forgotten that Madeleine and Colleen are present. Spying.

Madeleine knows that no girls are allowed here. No women either. They will cook the meat and serve it, but it is not decent for females to be out here. Not because of the hacked-up deer — they’re taking off its head now—“Hang on. Got it, okay…. Weighs a ton”—but in the way it’s not decent for an older girl or a woman to go into a barbershop. Never mind a tavern. Those are men’s places. Madeleine knows that her days of accompanying her father to the barber are numbered. This backyard has become a men’s place.

They let out a short whoop as they cut down what’s left of the deer, take the weight and lay it on a tarp. Philip’s dad leans over the carcass with a hacksaw. The girls can’t see past the men and boys, gathered and relaxed now around the tarp with beers and Cokes, but they see Arnold Pinder come around the side of the house. He’s got his dog, Buddy, by the collar, and Buddy is practically walking on his hind legs, pulling Arnold toward the tarp. Mr. Pinder straightens up and tosses a stick to Buddy, who lunges and carries it off. It is not a stick, it’s a leg.

Madeleine pokes Colleen, but Colleen just shrugs. Madeleine knows that deer was murdered. But Colleen would never say that. She rarely gives her opinion — even though it is clear to Madeleine that she always has one. Not just an opinion, but the right answer. Trouble is, she refuses to say it. “If you don’t know, what’s the use of me telling you?”

“That’s a stupid answer,” Madeleine recently got up the nerve to say.

To which Colleen raised her eyebrows and smiled slightly with a corner of her mouth.

Colleen can fire a neat and tidy round of spit off the tip of her tongue. She does this after she has given an opinion, silent or otherwise. She does so now, and says, “My brother shot a deer once.”

For a moment Madeleine wonders who Colleen means, because the images of Ricky Froelich and shooting a deer don’t go together.

“Ricky?”

“How many brothers do I got?”

Madeleine knows that Roger and Carl don’t count. They’re babies.

She swallows. “How come?” Colleen doesn’t answer. Madeleine asks, “For food?”

Colleen has risen and is walking off. Madeleine follows. They slip into the chill of deeper shadows, up the gentle incline through grass that has begun to feel sinewy underfoot with the coming of frost.

She follows Colleen to where the monkey bars and merry-go-round glint glamorous and strange in the night. Through the gloom, the bare patch in the oak tree glows white, and she reaches out to stroke the wound as she passes— Get well soon .

The darkness makes the swings look bigger — giant metal A’s at either end supporting gallows in between. The teeter-totters tilt astride their hitching post like bucking broncos, the slide gleams sly and skinny, everything says, “I dare you.” Madeleine experiences a thrill at the lateness of the hour, only now realizing that she has stayed out long past when she is allowed. Her parents must have left by now for the Woodleys’. She lost track of time, what with the sunset and the electric light in the tree, the music, the men, the boys. And the deer.

“He had to shoot it,” says Colleen, walking up the teeter-totter till she is balanced at the centre.

Madeleine follows. “Why?”

“It was suffering.”

They stand back to back at the fulcrum of the teeter-totter and walk slowly toward opposite ends, as though about to fight a duel, trying to keep the board perfectly stable. Then they turn carefully and face one another. The object is to jump off with no warning, causing your opponent, should she not be quick enough, to come crashing down. They take turns. The darkness shines around them. The only light is from the houses and street lamps beyond — and from a wedge of moon that looks more remote than ever in the black sky. Certain questions may now be asked that would be impermissible during the day. Madeleine hears her own voice in the cold clarity of night — like the sound of a rifle being broken open. “Are you guys Indian?”

Colleen appears not to have heard the question. She stands at her end.

Madeleine swallows and says, “I don’t care if you are, ’cause anyhow I like Indians.” She cannot read Colleen’s expression. Her skin is darker, blue eyes paler in the night.

Colleen says, “We’re Métis.”

Madeleine waits for more but Colleen is silent, watching her. Playing the game.

“What’s that?”

“You know what a half-breed is?”

Madeleine nods.

Colleen says, “Don’t ever use that word.”

Madeleine waits.

“Ever hear of Louis Riel?”

Madeleine shakes her head.

“He was a rebel. He fought the settlers.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got hanged.”

Madeleine is poised with the keen anticipation of a hunter, or a deer, about to jump—

“Dieu merci!”

She turns at the sound of her mother just as Colleen jumps, sending her slamming to the ground, but she doesn’t yelp. She is instantly caught up in a tight embrace. She feels her mother’s chest, soft and cushiony, heart pounding beneath silk, she smells hairspray and perfume. The next instant, she is swung out at arm’s length, spun round, whacked on her bottom and yanked by the hand toward home. Her mother crying and promising Madeleine “a good beating from ton père” —an empty threat, as Madeleine well knows, but one that gauges the degree of her mother’s upset—“sick with worry!” Her ivory high heels sink into the earth with every step, spearing little clumps of mud and grass.