Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

They never do see whether Rick stops, unhitches Rex from Claire’s bike and turns left with his sister and his dog; or whether he turns right down the dirt road to Rock Bass with Claire McCarroll.

On either side of the Huron County road, the earth sprouts green beneath the brash April sun. Light flashes at the boy’s feet, spun from the steel wheels of his sister’s chair. Beside him runs his dog, harnessed to the little girl’s bicycle, her light blue dress and pink streamers lifting in the breeze as they head for the willow tree that sweeps the intersection where the county road meets the road to Rock Bass.

It was shortly after four, judging from the sun, but no one was ever able to say, for sure, the exact time.

By the time Jack has passed north of Lucan on Highway 4 and is nearing Centralia, he has thought better of driving the Ford Galaxy to the station. It would only draw attention. He can hear Vic Boucher now: “That a new little bomb for the wife, Jack?” He decides to carry on past the air force station up to Exeter, call a cab and have it drop him at Centralia Village, a quarter-mile from home. He’ll walk back from there. He has enjoyed the drive — it’s a sporty rig, too bad about the dent Fried managed to put in the rear bumper.

The afternoon sun tilts over Rick’s shoulder. He and his sister and his dog are travelling alone once more, along one of the dirt roads that criss-cross the county. The vibrations from the handles of the wheelchair travel up his arms. He can smell Elizabeth’s hair, freshly shampooed. Rick knows she is smiling. Rex trots in front, his tongue slipping to one side — Rick will stop in a minute and give him a drink, it’s too hot for a fur coat today.

He turns onto Highway 4 where it veers east a couple of miles from the station — he will enjoy the jet-smooth pavement for a hundred yards or so, then find another back road above Lucan and make a big circle back to the PMQs. Rick likes the dirt roads, less traffic and better scenery. Often he doesn’t see a single vehicle — like today. But he is on the highway at the moment and here comes a car. He can tell right away that it’s a Ford. The car veers toward the centre of the road as it approaches in order to give Rick and his chariot more room and, as it passes, the sun bounces off its windshield, obscuring the face of the man behind the wheel, who raises a hand and waves. Rick waves back. Even though he isn’t able to recognize the man, Rick knows it can’t be a stranger. He recognized the outline of an air force hat.

Rick stops, pulls off his singlet and wipes his face and chest. He takes the canteen that is looped over the back of the wheelchair and shares the water with his sister and his dog. He could turn north and head for the quarry. Kids are sure to be swimming there today — it’s against the law but everyone does it. Elizabeth is tugging at his arm. She has a problem. She has had a bit of an accident.

“That’s okay,” says Rick. He turns the chair around and they head for home the way they came. The dirt roads weren’t such a great idea after all, he realizes — shook the piss right out of her. “No big deal,” he says.

“Oh bih geal,” she says.

That was around 4:45, judging from the time it took Rick to jog home. But this was never proven.

Jack walks into the PMQ patch just this side of five-thirty. Normally he arrives closer to five, but there is nothing too out of the ordinary about a difference of half an hour. As he turns from Columbia onto St. Lawrence, he makes a mental note to arrive at work an hour early tomorrow and catch up on this afternoon’s paperwork. Between the multicoloured houses, he glimpses laundry billowing white from clotheslines. The grass is greener than it was this morning. The walk from Centralia Village has been quite pleasant, although he wishes he’d had his sunglasses. The air is fresh but the sun beats with an exuberance that is almost belligerent. He turns up his driveway and wonders if there is time to have a word with McCarroll before supper. He thinks better of it when he approaches his own front door and smells supper cooking — let McCarroll reunite with his wife and enjoy his dinner. Plenty of time to talk over a cup of coffee later.

Jack opens the screen door stealthily and enters his house like a thief, not pausing to flip his hat onto the halltree, three silent steps up to the kitchen. There she is. Lipstick-kissed cigarette drifting in the ashtray, CBC on the radio, she is doing something at the sink. He sneaks across and slips one arm around her waist, she jolts, yelps, turns— “Sacrebleu! Don’t do that!”—laughing, whacking him on the chest.

He brings his other hand out from behind his back—

“Oh Jack, c’est si beau!”

“I got them in the village.”

“You walk all the way to Centralia Village to get me flowers? T’es fou.”

“Think how far I’d walk to get you into bed.”

She presses against him. “I’m making the supper, go away.”

“No.”

She kisses him. “You think you can burst in here and get your way in the kitchen?” Taking his tie in her hand.

“Just give me a little taste of what you’re cooking—” her hips between his hands, the flowers slipping headfirst to the floor.

“You have to wait till after supper, then you get the dessert—” stroking his tie, slipping her finger in the knot.

“No way.”

“Lâche-moi les fesses.”

“Oh yeah? Make me. Say it in English, come on.”

“Get your hands off my ass—” sliding her hands over his.

He kisses her. “Where are the kids?”

“Out playing.” She tucks her hand behind his belt buckle, pulling him. “Come on.” She heads for the stairs, reaching behind to unzip her dress on the way up.

Look at what she’s got on underneath. White but perfect, the right amount of lace, the right amount of everything. Jack probably thinks all wives wear exquisite underwear. He follows her up the stairs, drops his uniform jacket in the doorway, undoes his pants, she pulls him down, opens his shirt, lifts his undershirt, presses her palms against his chest. He slides her panties down, her fingernails in his biceps, draws up her legs, spreads her knees. She is every girlfriend, every picture in every men’s magazine — he’s fast and she wants it that way — she is the woman who seduces you from an open car and doesn’t ask your name, the one you can forget you love or even know — he is going to come like a kid, she makes it so hard, so easy — she is the woman you love more than yourself, she has had your children, she always wants you—

“Oh Jack, oh … oh baby, oh, you’re big, oh give me….”

Oh God.

“Oh God,” he breathes, and eases off, rolling away, slow motion. “Man,” he says.

Lying on her side, her fingers trailing across his chest, perfect red nails— “Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime, Mimi ,” he replies.

He floats. Soon the screen door will bang. The kids will be home. Suppertime. “Something sure smells good,” he says, turning his head to face her.

“You got an appetite now?” She smiles. “Passe-moi mes cigarettes.”

He reaches to the bedside table and takes a cigarette from the pack. Lights it, passes it to her. He gets up and she watches him change into civvies. She exhales and winks at him, her bra straps halfway down her arms. Kicks her panties off her right ankle and crosses her legs. “I’ll be right down. Turn the heat off under the potatoes.”

She doesn’t want to stand up right away. She wants to stay lying down, help what’s inside her to do its work. She is reminded of what the fast girls— les guidounes —in her hometown used to say: “If you do it standing up, you won’t get pregnant.” Her own sister Yvonne was caught that way, and it would be interesting to know how many eldest children were conceived vertically. But although Mimi knows it’s nothing but an old wives’ tale, she waits a good half-hour before getting up, until she hears the screen door bang downstairs — the kids are home.