Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Through open doors Jack sees aircraft parts laid out on tables, blackboards scrawled with meteorological terms and, in another room, the good old Link Trainer — sawed-off little simulator with its hood for blind approach training. Not all that much has changed since Jack’s day. He stops at McCarroll’s office door and taps on the glass.

An admin clerk looks out of the next office. “Sir, if you’re looking for Captain McCarroll he’s gone till Wednesday.”

“Gone, eh? Where’s he gone to?” What’s the good of having an opposite number if he’s not here when you need him?

“He’s in Bagotville, sir.”

“Bagotville?”

“I believe he’s getting his time in on the Voodoo, sir.”

Of course. Bagotville is an operational station with a training unit. McCarroll is keeping his flying skills honed at a thousand miles per hour. A great deal has changed since Jack’s day.

“Good enough,” he says to the clerk.

Back at his own building, Jack walks down the hallway, hearing the blunted sound of his heels along the linoleum. He could be anywhere. No doubt the halls of the Pentagon are paved with the same drab flecked squares. Not to mention the Kremlin. Someone has made a fortune.

He is no longer in a hurry, and as he tosses his hat onto the hook he’s aware of feeling slightly crestfallen. He had looked forward to briefing McCarroll. Seeing the young man’s eyes light up at the mention of rockets; his sense of vindication when he realizes that this posting was not in fact a lateral move, but an honour. It will have to wait till Wednesday.

He calls Fried and the man sounds calmer, having just spoken with Simon. Jack asks if he can possibly wait till Wednesday to get his groceries — Jack has remembered his son’s first baseball game of the season this evening, and tomorrow he has back-to-back meetings followed by a bridge night out for Mimi. Besides, McCarroll will be back and he can take him to meet Fried. Kill two birds….

“Yes, Wednesday is fine,” says Fried.

Jack is taken aback. Fried sounds not just polite but friendly. He is either tremendously relieved, or scared silly.

He leans back in his oak swivel chair, rests a foot against the edge of his desk and looks out the window. High above, a jet stream coils and comes undone. McCarroll is somewhere up there. Getting his time in.

Grace is not the quiet type any more. Ever since she and Marjorie were kicked out of the exercise group, they have been thick as thieves. Marjorie no longer even attempts to skip with Cathy Baxter’s group, and Grace has acquired the disgusting new habit of sucking her fingers, stroking her tongue and smearing the wetness around and around her mouth. Her lips look permanently sore, too red, as though they would taste tangy to her, and her eyes swerve as though she has been caught at something and is in a panic to pin it on someone else. She cries if a grown-up so much as says, “Grace,” in a questioning tone of voice.

Marjorie has her Brownie notebook and pencil out. “We’re reporting you, Madeleine.”

Madeleine replies scornfully, “Reporting to who, pray tell?” “None of your beeswax,” replies Marjorie with a toss of her stiff yellow ringlets. Grace giggles. She is carrying Marjorie’s baton.

By noon the clouds had rolled in and by three o’clock it had started to rain. Everyone else has run for home, but Madeleine doesn’t want to give the impression that she is running away.

“I’m warning you, Madeleine McCarthy.”

Just ignore them.

“Yeah,” says Grace.

Madeleine is taken aback at that. How can someone you felt sorry for, and were recently so kind to, suddenly be so disrespectful of you?

“You stink, Madeweine.”

“Do you hear me?” says Marjorie.

“Do you hear me?” repeats Madeleine.

“You’re in big trouble, Madeleine.”

“You’re in big trouble, Madeleine.”

“Shut up!”

“Shut up!”

Madeleine knows she should resist the temptation to torment Marjorie. Poor Margarine, with a sleeve full of Brownie badges and a retard for a friend. If you really want to be a good person, you will seek out those you can’t stand and befriend them. That’s what Jesus did. Bad women, and money-changers. Madeleine is contemplating the radical notion of turning and extending her hand with a holy smile on her lips when she hears Marjorie behind her, “Get her, Grace.”

The blow strikes her across the shoulder blades, knocking the wind out of her and causing her to stumble forward. She turns to see Grace holding the baton like a baseball bat, swervy eyes lit with excitement. Marjorie stands with her arms folded, a resigned, even regretful expression on her face. “It’s your own fault.” Madeleine’s mouth is open but she is silent, and for an instant so is the whole world. The air looks sharper. It’s as if the shock of the blow has propelled the three of them to a different place.

Grace glances at Marjorie, as though waiting for the order to strike again. Madeleine looks from one to the other and the words slip through her lips like a letter through a slot: “Nyah, what’s up, doc?”

Grace giggles.

Marjorie says, “Quit it, Madeleine.”

“Quit it,” says Grace.

Madeleine bobs and weaves like a monkey: tongue jammed behind her upper lip, eyes bugging out, limp fingers scratching her armpits.

“Stop it!” yells Marjorie.

Grace swings the baton and connects with the back of Madeleine’s calves. It stings and Madeleine feels tears spring to her eyes. She straightens, points her finger aloft. “Of course you know, this means war.”

Marjorie flies at her face, scratching, grabbing handfuls of hair. Madeleine shields her head between her elbows and is suddenly laughing like Woody Woodpecker — it feels automatic, flying from her like bullets from a machine gun: “He-he-HAH-ha!”

Marjorie screams, “Shut up Madeleine!”

Madeleine screams back, “Shut up Madeleine!”

Grace jumps on her before she can straighten, tearing at her raincoat, her schoolbag, trying to yank her to earth. “Do you want us to kill you, Madeleine?!” cries Marjorie.

“Kill you, Madeleine?” pipes back Newton the fawn. “Kill you, Madeleine?” Her legs are heavy with Grace’s weight, as though she were caught in quicksand. Whatever you do, don’t fall down . She starts barking like a dog and laughing, growing weak with it. She feels a bright wet spot form under her eye, warmer than the raindrops, then suddenly she is weightless again. Grace has let go of her and started crying. Marjorie runs at her chest with the heels of her hands, but Madeleine stays up like an inflatable clown.

“You’re gonna get it,” cries Marjorie, out of breath.

Madeleine leans forward and shrieks, “Yabba dabba doo!”—hair and blood in her eyes.

Grace and Marjorie back away, lobbing exhausted threats and tearful imprecations. Then they turn and run.

Madeleine stands still to catch her breath. It seems to be taking a long time. Finally she realizes that she is not panting, she is making little sounds. She is crying — that is, her eyes are crying, her body is. She lets it. It’s raining anyway. Her own tired sobbing sounds like a little kid in her ears — one she feels sorry for. Then the pain surfaces and begins to reverberate like an echo of the blows. Pain is clean and manageable. It allows her to focus her eyes on the houses across the field and start for home. It allows her to stop crying.

“I was chasing a dog and I fell.”

Lying is second nature.

“What dog?”

“I think it was a stray.”

“How did you manage to scratch your face like that?”

“I had my arms inside my raincoat when I fell.”

“Oh Madeleine, pourquoi?”