Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

A half-hour later, they are in the middle of a spelling exercise, working quietly at their desks, when Grace gets up to sharpen a pencil and Madeleine sees blood on the back of her skirt.

“Grace,” says Madeleine, out loud.

Mr. March looks up.

Grace turns around to face Madeleine. “What?” And Mr. March sees what Madeleine saw, so does the front half of the class. A gasp goes up.

“You hurt yourself,” says Madeleine, trying to be polite.

“Little girl,” says Mr. March. Grace knows he is talking to her so she turns to face him, and the whole back half of the class gasps. She turns again quickly, as though stung by a bee, loose pleats flying; craning her neck, she sees the back of her skirt and screams. Wails. Some other girls start crying too and a couple of boys start laughing. Everyone else just stares. Blood. From someone’s bum. Lisa Ridelle has dropped her head between her knees — her father is a doctor, he has told her what to do when she feels faint. Grace sobs, her mouth wide open, clear saliva spilling down the corners, eyes veering from the bloodstain to Madeleine, as though Madeleine had something to do with it.

“Silence,” says Mr. March, then a shocking smack! — the yardstick across his desk. Grace is silent. “This little girl belongs at home,” he says. “Hands?”

He is asking for someone to walk Grace home with her bleeding bum, why doesn’t he just call an ambulance? Grace is staring at Madeleine as though Madeleine were a speck on the horizon, a ship. Oh no. Madeleine can feel it. She is going to raise her hand. See? You should have given up Bugs for Lent, now you must make a sacrifice and walk Grace Novotny home . Madeleine feels her hand rising from the desk—

“Marjorie Nolan,” says Mr. March. “Walk this little girl home.”

Everyone looks at Marjorie. She doesn’t move. No one does. Grace is whimpering, walking slowly toward the coat hooks, clutching the back of her skirt to hide the spot.

“Slow as molasses in January,” says Mr. March. Grateful laughter from the class. “Miss Nolan?” says Mr. March.

Marjorie gets up and walks briskly to the back, puts on her jacket, zips it up and waits with folded arms while Grace removes her cardigan from its hook and ties the sleeves around her waist so it will hang down and hide the stain.

“All right grade fours, the show is over, turn to page forty-one in your Macmillan spellers.”

Madeleine sneaks a look back. Grace will freeze with not even her cardigan on. Madeleine gets up without permission, gets her own jacket and gives it to Grace. Grace puts it on without a word, like a sleepwalker, and leaves.

Madeleine walks back to her desk. Now everyone is looking at her.

Mr. March says, “Behold the good Samaritan.”

Laughter. Everything feels normal again. Madeleine takes a bow.

“Thank you Miss McCarthy, you may sit down now.”

He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds the way he always does. As though compelled to mock something that makes him very weary indeed.

Grace returns to school after lunch with a different skirt on. At recess she stays in and feeds the gerbil a piece of lettuce — Sputnik almost died because Philip Pinder drove him across the floor like a Dinky Toy. Grace has been looking after him ever since. At two minutes to three, Mr. March picks up his clipboard. “The following little girls….” They have all started to fish out their homework from their desks — everyone except Joyce Nutt, Diane Vogel, Marjorie and Grace. He has started calling them “monitors.” No one wonders any more what they do, it is just a fact of Mr. March’s class.

Madeleine puts away her speller and hauls out her arithmetic book, dreading tonight’s homework — they have progressed from the purgatory of word problems to the hell of integers. “Joyce Nutt”—gone the friendly disguise of narrative. How could a word story describe what these numbers do? They go through the looking glass. The ghosts of real numbers, they live underground—“and Diane Vogel.” Madeleine looks up. Something is different. Mr. March sits down. The bell goes. Ecstatic scraping of chairs—

“In an orderly fashion, boys and girls.”

Madeleine zips up her jacket and sees that Marjorie and Grace have remained at their desks. Mr. March didn’t read out their names, that’s what is different. Still, Marjorie waits with her hands folded in front of her. Grace’s mouth hangs open slightly, she is twirling her hair and looking at Marjorie.

Madeleine is pulling on her rubber boots when Mr. March says, “Little girls, did you hear your names?” Grace giggles. Marjorie’s profile turns pink.

“Well?” says Mr. March, his voice droll. “Run along then. Your presence is not required.”

Madeleine watches Marjorie rise slowly from her desk. Grace follows. As Marjorie turns, her gaze meets that of Madeleine, who is surprised to see that Marjorie’s customary smug expression has deserted her. In its place is a look of pure bewilderment. Madeleine experiences a pang of sympathy, but the next instant Marjorie’s eyes narrow maliciously and she sticks out her tongue. Madeleine leaves quickly by the side door.

The sun feels so warm, suddenly it’s like summer. Over on the swings is Claire McCarroll. She has folded her pink raincoat on the ground next to her schoolbag. She is swinging, not high but happily. Madeleine ditches her own jacket and schoolbag on the ground. She has made a decision. Do not try to be nice to Marjorie, and do not try to be mean. It all backfires. The trick is not to be anything to Marjorie Nolan. Something slips away as Madeleine climbs onto the swing next to Claire’s.

“Hi Madeleine.”

“Hi Claire.”

Madeleine swings higher, and as she does she kicks off one of her red boots. Claire laughs and kicks off one of her pink ones. Madeleine kicks off her other boot. Then so does Claire.

Grace and Marjorie scuttle past, looking pointedly at Madeleine over their shoulders, whispering behind their hands. Marjorie has her Brownie notebook out and is writing in it, but Madeleine doesn’t care. Why did she ever? She tilts back and hangs upside down, pumping her swing higher and higher, feeling her hair flying at the nape of her neck like grass. Claire McCarroll follows suit, and soon they are laughing, because it is so easy to laugh when you are upside down.

“DORA!” HENRY FROELICH cries out the word that springs, not to mind, but straight to his mouth. The man turns and looks at him, past him, unrecognizing, searching the crowded marketplace for the source of the single word that forced him round. Froelich was showing his baby boy the puppies asleep in a heap in the window of the pet store when he turned and saw the face. “Dora!” Again the word flies from his throat, as though dislodged by force. This time the man looks straight at him. No flash of recognition, but fear in the pale eyes. Then he turns and hurries away.

Froelich follows but loses him in the crowd — no matter, he knows where the man must be heading, so he hugs his baby closer to his chest and fights his way upstream toward the wide entrance of the Covent Market building in London. By the time he gets there, the man is already across the street, head down under his fedora, getting into a blue car — a 1963 Ford Galaxy coupe. Froelich can tell that much without his glasses, but what about the licence number? He grabs for his glasses, clawing his breast pocket, the left, the right, frantic at the inside one — and almost drops his child.

Across the street, he sees the car climb the sidewalk in reverse and come to a sudden stop against a parking meter before jolting forward again. Froelich gives up on his glasses, leaves the building, trots along the sidewalk parallel with the traffic and the car, which is gathering speed. The baby starts crying. Froelich runs faster, slipping in his shoes on the icy sidewalk, cupping his hand around the child’s head — screaming now — straining for a glimpse of the licence plate. Cars pass, punctuating his view like frames in a reel of film, making him dizzy. He glimpses a blur of blue numbers and letters — an Ontario plate — is that an O, an X? or is it a Y? — and next to it, folded in the brand-new dent, is a bumper sticker. He doesn’t need his glasses to recognize it. Bright yellow, etched with the silhouette of a castle. Storybook Gardens.