Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

“I was being a penguin.”

And, because her mother still looks worried, she adds, “Ci pa gran chouz.”

“ ‘Ci’ quoi? Qu’est ce que tu dis? What kind of French is that?”

“It’s Michif.”

“‘Mi’-quoi?”

“Colleen taught me.”

“Is that what happened to you? Did Colleen Froelich push you down?”

“No!”

Maman puts on two Steri-Strips, one over Madeleine’s right eye and one under it. There may be the tiniest scar. Then she calls the MPs and reports a vicious stray.

Jack picks up the late edition of The Globe for news on the election and uses it to shelter himself for the quick jog home — it didn’t look like rain this morning. Mike’s game will be cancelled. Perhaps he should make the trip into London this evening after all. But the shops will be closed, and how will he find a ride into town at this point?

He rounds his corner to see Henry Froelich out with an umbrella, gazing under the hood of the patchwork car, nursing his obsession. Jack calls out a greeting and Froelich raises his pipe. “Hank, what’s the name of that poison you’re puffing?”

“Von Eicken. You want you should try it?”

“No, thought I might get some for a friend.”

“You buy it from the Union Cigar Store across from the market.”

“Thanks,” says Jack. He turns up his driveway and opens his front door. “Mimi, I’m home.” Trots up the steps. “Boy, something sure smells good!”

“Where are my cherries?” she asks, kissing him hello.

“What cherries?” He smiles down at her, taking off his hat, shaking off the rain.

“Betty asked me where you found cherries and how much they were.”

Vic Boucher . Jack keeps smiling and says, “I couldn’t find any.”

“Vic told her not to bother even asking about the caviar.”

“What’s Vic up to, anyhow, Missus?” His arms still around her. How much did Vic tell Betty? That he had overheard “Mimi” dictating a grocery list to Jack? What did Betty tell Mimi? Did Betty catch herself when she realized Mimi had no idea what she was talking about? Do Vic and Betty think Jack has a secret from his wife?

He gives her a peck on the lips.

She says, “Well you better not bring me caviar, Mister, I have a ragoût on the go,” and turns back to the stove. She doesn’t seem concerned — she seems normal.

“I don’t know where Vic gets his ideas.” He leans over her shoulder, lifts a pot lid and takes a sniff. “Wishful thinking, maybe. Mmm.” She takes the lid from him and replaces it, lifts another and dips in a spoon.

He says, “Caviar’s no great shakes compared to this, I’d rather have a good bouilli any day.”

“Cassoulet,” she says, blowing on the spoon, tasting.

“If you want caviar, Missus, all you have to do is snap your fingers.”

She cups her palm under the spoon and holds it out to him. “I know that.”

“‘I know dat,’” he mimics her.

“Don’t be saucy, Monsieur.”

He tastes. “Pinch more salt.”

He pours himself a short Dewar’s and takes the paper into the living room— RECORD TURNOUT IS PREDICTED . It looks as though a lot of Canadians are determined their vote will count. He sips his drink and glances out the picture window. The sky clearing in a blaze of orange — Mike’s game will be on after all. He is doubly glad he put Oskar Fried off till Wednesday.

ON EITHER SIDE of the county road, the newly sprouted corn rippled away green and gleaming, black furrows of earth still visible between the rows. The road was baking, bending the air. Too hot for April. A boy in red jeans was on the road, running. Seen from a distance, he was a splash of scarlet, wavering and growing smaller. Heading toward a willow tree that trembled in the visible heat and swept the crossroads where the Huron County road met the road to Rock Bass. Light flashed at the boy’s feet, spun from the steel wheels of his sister’s chair which he pushed before him at a clip. A little friend pedalled beside him, her blue dress rippling at her knees, while his dog kept pace, harnessed to her bicycle.

She never came home. They found her eventually. And although the boy did come home as usual, along with his sister and his dog, he disappeared into that spring day completely, never to be found.

THERE IS A YELLOW BASKET on Mr. March’s desk, brimming with bright foil-wrapped eggs on a bed of paper straw. Even to see such a thing before Easter, while it’s still Lent, is like peeking under your parents’ bed to see your Christmas presents. It’s exciting, you want to play with them, you want to laugh. Then by the end of the day you wish you had not looked.

Easter is not as crucial, still you look forward to it. Painting the hard-boiled eggs the night before, and there, in the morning, the giant chocolate bunny waiting on the coffee table, smiling merrily with his beady candy eye, a basket on his back. Madeleine always gets a bunny and Mike gets a rooster. Hidden throughout the ground floor are chocolate eggs — in shoes, in the fold-out speakers of the hi-fi, under the base of the lamp…. Then the great hard-boiled egg battle to see whose egg can crack the others while remaining intact. But remember, all these treats are because, on Good Friday, Jesus was crucified, died and was buried, and on the third day He rose again. The idea of having Easter treats in class before He has even been nailed to the Cross is just not right.

It seems, however, that the grade fours are to have an Easter party despite the fact that today is only Wednesday — not even Holy Wednesday, there is no such thing. Things don’t get holy until tomorrow, Thursday.

But first, a spelling test. Mr. March reads out the words, clearly, ponderously, giving each syllable a chance. “Crocodile … butterfly … danger … nap … hatched … awfully … swamp … group … surface … honey … escape … taste … puff … quiet.”

The only difficult word is “quiet.” Madeleine writes “quiet,” then remembers the little devil symbol pointing his pitchfork at the word on the page to indicate difficulty, and amends it to “queit.”

Mr. March collects the spelling tests, then pretends to be surprised at the sight of the Easter basket on his desk. “It would appear the Easter bunny has been here early.”

An obliging “ohh” from the class.

“Who knows how to hop like a bunny?”

Hands shoot up. Who cares if hopping like a bunny is a kindergarten thing to do, everyone wants to control the basket — most of the girls, that is, and Philip Pinder. Once he puts up his hand, other boys follow suit, because if Philip is doing it, it’s not sissy.

Mr. March raises his eyebrows. “I wish I could count this many hands when it’s time to name the ten provinces and their capitals.”

Even Auriel and Lisa have their hands up. So does Gordon Lawson, elbow resting politely on his desk. Madeleine is the only one without her hand up. And Claire. And Grace. That’s because Grace knows she’ll never get picked.

“Bunnies are nothing if not quiet and small,” says Mr. March in a story-time voice, not at all sarcastic, which is how you know that he can be nice sometimes. “Who is quiet and small enough to be a bunny?”