Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Silence.

“But you were at the market yesterday, Oskar, why didn’t you pick some up?”

Fried says nothing and Jack can almost see him shrug. What’s he playing at? Last week Jack found himself carting the guy’s laundry down to the basement of the apartment building — Fried claimed not to understand how to use the coin-op washer. “It’s not rocket science, Oskar.” Jack had to time his shopping for Mimi’s gift to coincide with the rinse cycle.

“I’ll bring some by tomorrow,” he says, and hangs up. He has to go into town anyway — for an honest-to-goodness meeting with an actual guest lecturer — he’ll drop off the tobacco on the way.

The phone rings again. He grabs it, irritated. “McCarthy.”

“Jack.”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

She asks him if he is going into London and at first he says no, then maybe, then “Do you need me to pick something up?” She needs marzipan for a torte she is baking for the Wives’ Club charity bazaar, but it can wait. She asks him what he wants for supper and he responds genially, “Macht nichts.” It’s a normal conversation, but he can’t help wondering if she has called to check up on him. How many times has she phoned when he has been away from the office? How many times has she told his admin clerk, “It’s not important, no need to tell him I called”? How many times has his admin clerk said, “I believe he’s in London this afternoon, Mrs. McCarthy”?

He tries to focus on a stack of course reports. He will be taking work home again tonight. This is not what he’s getting paid for. He has begun to feel as though he is cheating the government, not working for it.

Jack’s Christmas leave starts next week. It has been a logistical nightmare tending to Fried under the cover of office hours; it will be virtually impossible during the holiday week. Something has to give. He doesn’t bother to slip on his rubbers over his shoes. He walks out over a fresh dusting of snow, across the parade square toward the phone booth.

The last day of school before the Christmas holidays. The classroom is gaily decorated, windows are stencilled with aerosol frost, Rudolph’s nose gleams at the head of Santa’s sleigh, and cut-outs of children celebrating Christmas in other lands adorn the wall above the blackboard. Mexican children flail blindfolded at a piñata. Dutch children overturn their wooden shoes in search of gifts. German children in lederhosen and dirndls light candles on a pine tree, normal-looking British children decorate a yule log and, somewhere in Canada, Indian children kneel reverently over a luminous manger in the forest.

Mr. March conducts with his pointer as the class sings “The Huron Carol.” “‘’Twas in the moon of wintertime when all the birds had fled, the mighty Gitchee Manitou sent angel choirs instead….’”

The song is beautiful, haunting, and happily Madeleine will not have to sing it with the school band. She prevailed over her mother in the battle about joining the Christmas choir, explaining that they practised with the band on Wednesday afternoons, thereby adding to the burden of Brownies in the evening as well as taking valuable time away from her accordion. She backed this up by practising tirelessly three days in a row. The result is that she is slated to play “Jingle Bells” in the Christmas concert, but it’s a small price to pay.

“’Jesus, our king is born, Je-sus is born.

Madeleine is being assailed faster and more furiously than ever by unbidden thoughts. For example, the word “ass” is in Christmas — unavoidable. What if she went home and threw the Baby Jesus in the garbage? Such thoughts are shocking, and she buries her face in her hands at her desk.

“Sleepy, little girl?”

She looks up sharply and turns to the assigned page.

“‘O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie….’” What if she took the Baby Jesus and touched her bum with it? What can she do about these thoughts? Pray. She tries, while singing, to ask God to remove the evil thoughts, but instead of white clouds and angels, the image of herself smashing a baby’s head in with a hammer appears. Rudolph saves her. The sight of his bright red nose like a clown’s; the memory of his fearless stand against the abdominal snowman, his humility and triumph on Christmas Eve…. She knows it is not right to pray to Rudolph, but the thought of him calms her mind, soothes it like Vaseline on a burn and renders it impervious to the assault of terrible thoughts.

“You should join the choir, little girl, you have good pitch,” says Mr. March.

Jack was surprised how good it felt to hear Simon’s voice. He put it as casually as possible — careful to keep any hint of complaint from his tone — that it might be wise to brief McCarroll at this point. Make Fried feel a little more secure, knowing there was a second car on hand, another number to phone. Or if not McCarroll, it might be time to bring Mimi into the loop — in fact she could help. She could visit Fried during the day, do a little shopping, cooking … as Jack spoke he began to like this idea more and more.

Simon said, “Bugger’s driving you mad.”

Jack laughed.

“I didn’t warn you, Jack, because I didn’t want to prejudice you, but I’m not surprised. He’s working you like a bloody housewife.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Look, you don’t need to put up with it, I’ll have a word with him and—”

“Forget it, Si, I think I know what his game is.”

“Oh? What’s that, then?”

“He wants a goddamn car.”

“Christ.” Simon groaned. “It’s what he’s been after from the start.” Fried had asked Simon for a car when he defected. “I told him, forget it. Too risky, too complicated. He could drive it into a ditch—”

“Or get pulled over for speeding.”

“It opens up a whole new can of worms. An expensive one.”

Jack surmised a series of false documents: driver’s licence, registration, ownership, insurance, plates. “Who will you register it under?”

“I won’t, simple as that.”

“What about—?”

“Not your headache.”

“Look Si, why don’t I brief McCarroll? It’s what he’s here for anyhow, and between the two of us—”

But Simon preferred to take on the chickenshit task of wangling a car for Fried, rather than allow the Americans in a moment before it was absolutely necessary. He said it was because he wanted the operation to remain airtight. Briefing McCarroll would mean making it porous. That would mean air pockets. “And you know what that means.”

“Turbulence,” said Jack.

“Don’t say I never gave you a Christmas present.”

Midweek, Jack catches a quick flight on a Beechcraft Expediter to Toronto. He has lunch with his counterpart, the OC of the Staff School up on Avenue Road, and makes plans for an exchange. Then he takes a taxi out to Toronto International Airport. Following Simon’s directions, he walks to the far northeast corner of the parking lot. Simon has worked quickly as usual. The 1963 metallic blue Ford Galaxy coupe is there waiting, just as Simon said it would be, with a brand-new set of Ontario plates. Jack opens the door, lifts the mat and finds the keys. It’s a spiffy set of wheels, the kind he would like to buy for Mimi when they can afford a second car.

He gets in, puts on his sunglasses and pulls into the brilliant December day. He makes good time back to London, and when he arrives at Fried’s apartment at dusk and drops the keys into the man’s open hand, Fried actually forms a small smile and says, “Danke.”

“Fröhliche Weihnachten, Oskar.”

“Fröhliche Weihnachten, Herr McCarthy.”

He has the taxi drop him in the village of Centralia, just beyond the station and out of range of inquiring eyes, and gives the driver a decent tip.