Way the Crow Flies (62 page)

Jack hesitates, then gets up carefully. But Blair has done this a hundred times now, so has his wife; their movements are practised, her grief is shocking and intimate only to an outsider. Jack waits for an appropriate moment to exit. Why does the earth open and take some lives and leave others intact? The earth opened and took their child. My child happened not to be taken. He reaches for his hat on the couch—

“Would you like some coffee, Jack? I was just going to make some,” says Blair.

Jack is taken by surprise, uncertain how to answer—surely he should not stay a moment longer. But Sharon blows her nose, looks up and, with a smile to her husband—“I’ll make it, hon.”

Jack has an interview with the police at ten-thirty, but he is not about to run out on these two if company is what they want. Sharon turns and walks toward the kitchen, only a step or two away in the tiny bungalow, and Jack hears the tap go on. He sits down again. The police have everyone filing one by one into various offices at the mess, the language school and the curling arena—something to do with the investigation. Whatever it is, it must be pretty straightforward; the interviews are spaced a couple of minutes apart. He checks his watch discreetly—it’s five past ten.

From where Jack is sitting he can glimpse Sharon’s movements, bare arms, dark A-line dress, hair falling back from her face as she reaches up to the cupboards. McCarroll’s wife is so pretty it breaks your heart. He feels his throat constrict, he leans forward, coughs. “So Blair, you’ll be joining Sharon soon, I take it.”

“That’s right, her folks’ll meet her and I’ll join her later with Claire.”

The fragile refraction of a normal conversation.
With Claire
. A man joining his wife, bringing their child. Jack is very careful. Blair is very careful.

“It’s a decent flight she’s on,” says Jack.

“Yeah, thanks Jack.”

“Oh don’t thank me, you’re lucky, that’s all,” and so that his foolish words don’t hang in the air, he adds quickly, “Virginia is beautiful, I hear.”

“It’s God’s country.”

Silence.

There is a packing box in the corner of the room. Labelled “Toys” in red felt-tip pen. Soon the McCarrolls will be gone. Jack sees the room empty, white and waiting, the way it was before they arrived. The way it will be when the next family moves in, their temporary things anchored to the walls, the floors.

Their conversation is in disguise. It drapes itself in the tones and emphases of a different type of conversation—one you might have at the water cooler—in order to give manageable shape to … what? A ghost. Grief.

“Keepin’ us informed,” says Blair, nodding.

“What’s that?” says Jack.

“The police. They’ve been real good about keeping us informed.”

The disguise is slipping.
Keeping us informed
. Jack can’t think what to say. Behind the mask of their conversation is what has been in this room all along: absence. They are keeping her alive with their chat, with the promise of coffee in a moment, with the box marked “Toys.” The police, the investigation, all the tasks—even accompanying her body down to the States—it all amounts to a busy scaffolding, a sturdy context for her continued existence. Soon the tasks will be finished, and the whole skeletal structure will stand empty. Silent.
Keeping us informed
. Impossible for the father to talk about what the doctor found—what the police informed him the doctor found. And yet impossible for the father not to talk about his daughter. Last week she baked brownies for show-and-tell, she got eight out of ten on her spelling test and he helped her with a book report on
Black Beauty
—the teacher has not yet marked the book reports but the father is sure she did well. Two days ago she exhibited vaginal bruising and bleeding sustained just before she died, as well as thumb marks on her neck; she was listed as a “healthy normal prepubescent female” on her autopsy report. That’s what’s new. That’s what she has done lately. He has to talk about his child. He has to be careful, that’s all.

“They’ve got some good men there, the OPP,” says Jack.

“Oh yeah.” Blair nods. “They’re sharp.”

“That’s for darn sure.”

“I just hope they find their damn war criminal so they can get on with finding….”

Jack has been feeling slightly disoriented. He realizes it now as he blinks at McCarroll and says, “What’s that?”

“Police told me the Froelich boy saw a car on the road that afternoon, a blue Ford, and Henry says it belongs to some war criminal he saw last week, or—I can’t make it out, it doesn’t matter.” His voice drops off and his head droops.

Jack parts his lips—they stick as though with glue. “I haven’t heard anything about a war criminal.”

“I think it’s on the QT.”

From the kitchen comes the sound of the fridge door opening, something being poured, milk.

Blair says, “I thought Henry might’ve mentioned it.”

Jack’s face is on fire. He looks down at the smear on the coffee table from Sharon’s tears, and clears his throat. “What’s Hank saying exactly?”

“Well,” says Blair, relaxing back in his chair—it’s a relief, this part of the story, it’s clean, not obscene, interesting even. “He’s saying this car, this brand-new blue Ford—you know the new Galaxy coupe—came down the road the boy was on—he was out running like he does with his sister and his dog, you know? And he says this car comes along with an air force man in it who waved, but the boy couldn’t tell who it was on account of the sun was on the windshield—”

“How do you take your coffee, Jack?” Sharon is here with a tray. Her eyes are puffy but she’s smiling. Jack makes a move to help but she sets the tray down. “You men just sit and relax.”

Claire would have grown up to be just as pretty, thinks Jack, just as much that rare find, a sweet and happy wife. They will have more children, surely. Jack says, “Cream, two sugars, thank you Sharon.”

“Thanks hon,” says Blair.

Both men watch Sharon fix the coffees, her wrist stirring, fingers clinking the spoon against the rim. They each take a mug and she turns and walks back toward the kitchen with the tray, but pauses halfway, as though she has forgotten something. She stands for a moment, her back to them, unmoving. They watch her. After a moment she continues into the kitchen.

Jack says, “What about this—war criminal? Is that what you said?”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” says Blair. “Henry Froelich says he saw this character in London a couple of weeks ago, same car, same dent, right down to the bumper sticker and a number or two on the plate. Told the police about it, that’s how come I know. Said this fella was a Nazi. Knew him in a camp in the war.”

“Poor bastard.” Jack’s heart is pounding but his tone is even.

“Yeah,” says Blair, and sips his coffee. “So he doesn’t know who it was waved, but he knows it was an air force type ’cause of the hat.”

“Then they’ll find him.”

Blair shrugs. “I don’t know. All sounds a bit funny to me. Like they’re after frying bigger fish, what with looking for some damn war criminal. What would he want with a child?”

“They’re just doing their job, they got to follow up every lead. Every stranger in the area,” says Jack, reaching for his hat. He has a foul taste in his mouth.

Blair gets up to see him out. They walk to the front door.

“I don’t want to disturb Sharon. Would you say goodbye for me?” Blair nods. Jack puts on his hat, glancing, as he does so, at his watch. Twenty past ten.

“Jack, I want to thank you for everything.” Blair offers his hand; Jack shakes it. “You know, I was only supposed to be up here for a year.”

Jack nods. Waits.

“I can’t help thinking, if we’d never come here—” He breaks off, takes three or four quick gasps, but manages not to cry. He says instead, with a force and bitterness that shock Jack, “I hate this goddamn useless country.” He squints, his chin trembles and he smacks away tears first with one hand, then with the other, and gets hold of himself. “I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean that.”

“Blair, I’m sorry. We all are.”

Jack walks quickly from the PMQs. It was Froelich. Jesus Christ. And why is he calling Fried a war criminal? A Nazi? Froelich was in a concentration camp—the number on his arm proves that; Fried was a scientist in a rocket factory; how is it possible they even crossed paths? And yet Froelich called out the name of the factory, Dora.
He wants to put a rope about my neck
. Jack recalls how Fried looked when he spoke those words: blanched.

The sun is glaring again today, its harsh light unmitigated by heat. Jack marches up Canada Avenue; he has five minutes. He’d assumed the police were asking for alibis today from all male personnel, but now he’s certain that what they’re really after is that bloody Ford Galaxy and Oskar Fried. He will phone Simon right after his interview and break the news. He’ll also ask Simon why a perfectly reliable man like Henry Froelich would identify Fried as a war criminal. Jack reminds himself that he is hardly in a position to demand explanations; this mess is his fault.
If I hadn’t used that godforsaken car for my own convenience…
. He knows what Simon will say: make it disappear.

He crosses the parade square, heading for the curling arena. Steve Ridelle is standing outside—Jack didn’t know he smoked. They
exchange a brief, grim hello, and Jack recalls that Steve officially identified the body, assisted at the autopsy. He pushes through the big double doors, feels the chill off the ice and hurries up the steps to the recreation director’s office, but the door is closed. The police are running ten minutes late and there is a man waiting ahead of him: Nolan. They nod. Today Nolan’s silence does not seem out of place.

At recess there is not as much noise as usual and some girls are in little groups, crying. Madeleine leans against the crossbar of the teeter-totters and feels strange, as though she were looking at her friends from far away. Another space has opened up; only now is she aware that she is missing something—something Auriel and Lisa and the other crying girls take for granted. And she wonders if anyone else has noticed: the crying kids are normal, and she is not.

“Wing Commander McCarthy, how do you do, sir, I’m Inspector Bradley.” The inspector is seated behind the rec director’s desk. In a corner of the office, a uniformed police officer stands poised with a notebook. “Sir, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, can you give me an idea of your whereabouts last Wednesday afternoon?”

“Sure, I would have been right here at the station, in my office most likely.”

“Did you leave your office at any time, sir?”

“I think I stepped out to the PX at one point.”

“Did you leave the station at all?”

“I can’t say I did, no.”

From the corner of his eye, Jack can see the constable writing down his answers. Inspector Bradley says, “Have you been out driving in the area recently, sir?”

“I’ve been back and forth to London once or twice, and my wife has—”

“So you’ve been on Highway 4 in the past week?”

“Oh sure.”

“You see, we’re hoping that someone may have noticed something or someone unusual in the area. You understand that we’re looking for a killer.”

Jack nods.

“Do you have children, sir?”

“I sure do.”

“It’s vital that we hear from anyone who was anywhere in the environs of the station that afternoon. Sometimes people see something and they don’t realize its significance; that’s my job. Of course, I can’t do my job without the help of everyone here. Did you see anything, or anyone at all, when you were out on Number 4 last Wednesday?”

“No, I—I wish I could help you, inspector, but the fact is, I was right here all afternoon.”

“Thanks for your time, sir, and again, sorry to trouble you.”

“Not at all. Good luck.” Jack starts to go.

“Wing Commander McCarthy.” Jack turns, his hand on the door. “Please tell no one about the content of this interview.”

“You got it,” says Jack. And leaves.

He stops outside the phone booth next to the PX and takes a deep breath. Simon isn’t going to like this. He enters the booth and hesitates—what if someone sees him making a phone call immediately after his interview with the police? He glances over his shoulder to make certain there is no one to see him feeding the phone with enough dimes to cover a call to Washington.

“Major Newbolt here, give me First Secretary Crawford, please.”

Jack waits. People come and go from the PX; cadets enter the arena, skates slung over their shoulders—no one takes the slightest notice of him.

Simon’s voice startles him—“Jack, call you right back.” They hang up and Jack waits again, feeling conspicuous. He flips through the phone book—Exeter, Clinton, Crediton, Goderich, Lucan—looking for what, if anyone should ask?

A tap on the glass. It’s Vic Boucher. “Mind if I make a quick call, Jack?”

Jack vacates the booth too promptly. “Go right ahead, Vic, I was just looking up—looking for riding stables, for Madeleine.”

“Oh yeah?” says Vic, digging for a dime, stepping into the booth. “The wife said either cabbage or lettuce, and darned if I can remember which.”

Jack smiles, hands him a dime and says, “Lettuce. They never want cabbage.”

Vic dials and Jack checks his watch—Simon will get a busy signal and call back, that’s all. And there’s time; chances are, while the police are interviewing personnel, they’re not out looking for the car. He wonders if they have contacted the RCMP. Froelich must have given a description of Fried—will police sketches go up at post offices across southern Ontario? Christ.

While Vic speaks intently into the phone, Jack’s mind returns to Fried.
What did you do, Oskar?
Jack had asked.
My job
. How could that have included crimes against humanity? The Germans used forced labour in their factories during the war: Volkswagen, Zeppelin—Auschwitz itself was part munitions factory, Krupps etc…. It makes sense that there would have been forced labour at Dora too. Froelich could have gone from one to the other. Still, Fried’s “job” would have been entirely technical, and while some workers did die, the intention would have been to keep them alive and healthy enough to do their jobs.