Way the Crow Flies (54 page)

“You ready to roll, Lizzie?”

“I Rek umming?”

“I don’t know, think it’s too hot for Rex?”

“Ing sah wah.”

“Good idea,” says Ricky, heading into the house for a canteen which he fills with icy water from the hose.

It takes Claire ten minutes to make her way up the street and around the corner to the Huron County road, because after she leaves Ricky and Elizabeth, she stops to watch some boys and dads
trying to make a miniature go-cart go. She can smell gasoline and see little puffs of white smoke every time they start its engine.

She stops again just out front of the Bouchers’ house, at the corner of St. Lawrence and Columbia, because she thinks she hears someone softly call her name. She looks down in the direction of the voice, but all she sees is the ditch and the metal drainpipe. So she gets off her bike, carefully lies on her stomach and peers into the darkness of the pipe to see if anyone, perhaps an elf or a small creature, might be caught in there and in need of her help.

“Hello,” she whispers into the gloom. But there is silence. She speaks a little louder, “Is everything okay?” But there is no answer. She sees a ladybug crawling up her wrist. She bends close and whispers, “Was it you?” And by the way Claire listens, it’s clear that she has received some sort of answer, for she says in reply, “Don’t worry ladybug, your children are safe. Now fly away home.” And it does.

That was at 3:45.

By the time Claire reaches the Huron County road she has forgotten that she is not permitted to leave the PMQs alone. She was not intending to leave alone, it was her intention to go for a picnic with Ricky Froelich, and so convinced was she of this plan that, when it turned out he couldn’t come, she saw no reason not to continue on alone. It’s important, however, to return home in time for supper and to change into her Brownie uniform. She begins pedalling with all her might. She has passed the first farm and entered the corridor of tall trees when Ricky Froelich catches up to her, jogging along with Elizabeth and Rex. She is a little out of breath from her exertions. Ricky stops, removes his belt and hitches Rex up to her bike, and the little convoy gets underway again, proceeding at a good clip up Huron County Road Number 21, toward the willow tree that marks the intersection where if you turn left you head for Highway 4, and if you turn right you head for Rock Bass. If you keep going you hit the quarry—it’s warm enough to swim today.

Madeleine and Colleen have decided to head for their willow tree. They have opted to travel cross-country, which means cutting through people’s lawns and farmers’ fields. Darting from poplar to
poplar, over a fence and across the railroad tracks—stopping at Pop’s to buy a grape pop. Colleen pays and Madeleine asks if she gets an allowance.

“My brother gives me spending money from his paper route.”

They don’t pause to use the bottle opener on the Coke machine; there is no time for that, their lives are at stake. They escape into the open field and hit the dirt flat on their stomachs, cautiously peering through the grass to see if they have been followed by enemy agents.

“Phew, that was close.”

“What’ll they do if they catch us?”

“Arrest us.”

“Throw us in the clink.”

“Firing squad.”

Colleen pries the cap off the bottle with the blunt edge of her knife and hands it to Madeleine. Madeleine takes a sip, wipes the spout with her T-shirt and hands it back to Colleen, who likewise drinks but doesn’t wipe, because it’s her drink and her germs.

“Coast is clear.”

“Come on, we gotta keep moving.”

They hike parallel to the Huron County road, over rough terrain, watching out for land mines—patches of hard gritty snow persisting in shade.

“Duck!”

They roll into the ditch and Madeleine aims her imaginary rifle at the enemy convoy: Ricky is pushing Elizabeth in her wheelchair and Rex is pulling Claire on her bike. “Hold your fire,” says Colleen.

It looks as though the wheelchair is a chariot and Ricky the charioteer in his Roman red jeans, Rex a horse out in front, Claire in her sidecar. Madeleine and Colleen lie unseen, mere feet from the road, and when the little party arrives level with Madeleine she lobs a pebble that twangs off the spokes of Elizabeth’s wheelchair. Colleen punches her in the arm.

“Ow! I wasn’t aiming.” And she wasn’t. “Now I’ve seen everything,” says Madeleine.

“What?”

“Claire really was going for a picnic with Ricky. A Ricknic,
nyah dat’s de ticket.”

“Doubters,” says Colleen.

“There’s one way to find out,” says Madeleine. “We just wait and see if he turns down the road to Rock Bass with her or not.”

“I got better things to do.” Colleen gets up, picking off the straw.

“I’ll bet you a nickel he turns down the Rock Bass road.”

“Jealous, eh?”

“No! I just betcha, that’s all!”

“I don’t take money offa small fry,” says Colleen.

“I’m not a small fry.”

“Plus you got a crush.”

Madeleine turns beet-red. Colleen snickers,
“T’an amor avec mon frer com tou l’mand,”
corks the half-empty bottle of grape soda with her thumb and takes off, dodging cow-pies, following a gully to the next woodlot. Madeleine lingers. It’s true, everyone
is
in love with Ricky Froelich. The dust still hangs in the air behind him and Claire and their little gang, and they are far enough up the highway now that they have begun to shimmer in the unseasonable heat. She watches the splash of red that is Ricky’s jeans as it pulsates and recedes toward the willow tree at the intersection. Then she turns and runs off after Colleen.

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.

She pulls on her skirt, buttons her blouse and picks up Jack’s uniform trousers, in a heap on the floor. Before folding them over a hanger, she removes his keys, change—a fortune in dimes—pencil stubs, paperclips, chalk—the amount of debris he manages to accumulate in the space of a day, he is still like his boyhood hero, Tom Sawyer—and a crumpled piece of paper. She is about to place it on his dresser—God knows it might contain one of his diagrams, a plan for restructuring the COS—but first, on impulse, she smooths it and reads:
cherries, cognac, caviar…
. She feels her face grow hot and places a hand at her neck.

She doesn’t try to create a story for herself to explain the piece of paper. She puts it in her jewellery box. Part of being a wife is knowing when to say nothing.