Way the Crow Flies (76 page)

“But even that won’t happen,” says Madeleine, still in man-to-man mode.

“What’s that, sweetie?” He returns to the couch. “Rub Dad’s head, eh?”

She kneels beside him and rubs his head, saying, “He won’t even go to jail.”

“No, he won’t,” says Dad and takes a sip.

Cheerful voices sing from the television, exhorting the audience to smile—You’re on
Candid Camera
!

“’Cause he didn’t do it,” says Madeleine. Her father gets up to raise the volume. “That’s what I told the police.”

“What’s that?” He turns to her, still bent over the TV. “What about the police, sweetheart?”

“They came to the school.”

He straightens up. “When?”

“Yesterday.”

“What for?”

“To ask questions.”

“About what?” She regrets bringing up the subject. How will she be able to confess to her father that she lied to the police? His face is red. “Who was there?”

“Just me,” Madeleine answers. “And Mr. March.”

“Who asked you the questions?”

“The one in the suit.”

“Inspector Bradley?”

“Yeah.”

“For the love of….” He places his glass down on the coffee table in a measured way that Madeleine recognizes as fury. He goes to the kitchen and removes the phone book from a drawer—not banging anything, licking his finger and flipping the pages with deliberation. It seems he isn’t angry at her after all. All the same, she has stepped through a weave of grass and fallen into a trap, it isn’t possible to know where adults have dug them. She watches him dial.

“Hello, is this George March? Jack McCarthy here, I’m Madeleine’s father….” Madeleine is too shocked to reach for a cushion. “There’s something I’d like you to explain to me….”

She has the nervous giddy feeling of when Dad is mad at something but it isn’t her—the godforsaken tent pegs! She watches the look of bewildered outrage enter his eyes. He is saying, “I’d like you to explain why I shouldn’t drive over to your house right now and break both your arms.”

She chomps the inside of her cheek and reaches for a couch cushion.

“… Oh, I think you know why, mister.”

Mister!
She bites into the fabric.

“‘Exercises’? I’m not calling about schoolwork, buddy, I’m calling about what happened yesterday in your classroom after three.”

Madeleine’s eyes feel as big as saucers.

“I don’t care what the police said, the law says parents must be consulted before their children are interrogated.” His fingers are white around the receiver. “I know she told the truth, I’ve raised her to tell the truth, that’s not the point….”

Madeleine grins into the cushion, laughter frozen in her throat.

“You’ll be lucky if you still have a job by the time I’m through…. You’re damn right it won’t happen again.” And he hangs up.

Jack has his finger on the number for the local OPP detachment, but reconsiders and flips back through the white pages to find a Thomas Bradley in Exeter—call the bastard at home, get him off guard and off his ass.

Before dialling, Jack turns to his daughter and says, “What did they ask you?” All the giddy thrill drains away. Madeleine takes the cushion from her mouth and tells the truth.

“If I saw Ricky and Elizabeth and Claire all going down the road.”

“Which road?”

“Huron County road.”

“Okay.” He nods, poised to dial. “And what did you tell them?”

“I told them … I saw them.”

“Did they ask you anything else?”

Madeleine answers truthfully again, “They said, ‘Did you see which way Ricky went?’”

On the TV, a Volkswagen Beetle splits in two, drives around a telephone pole and comes together again on the other side. Laughter.

Madeleine concentrates. “And I said … yeah, I mean yes.” That too is a truthful answer, for that is what she told the police. She’s not lying to her father.

He waits.

“And I said he didn’t go with Claire ’cause I saw him and Elizabeth and Rex turn left.”

He looks different. As though he’s not looking at his old buddy—yet neither is it as though he’s looking at his little girl who has been naughty. She doesn’t recognize this look, so for a moment she doesn’t recognize herself. Who is he looking at?

Words have formed in Madeleine’s head, they are floating down toward her mouth,
but that was a lie ’cause I didn’t see which way Ricky went
. She opens her mouth to release them, but they are jolted back by the thunk of Dad’s hand on her head. He ruffles her hair, the weight of his hand wobbling her head on her neck.

“You know what, old buddy?” he says.

“What?” She stares at his belt buckle, the fly in amber.

“You never have to answer a grown-up’s question unless you’re in the classroom and the teacher is asking you the capital of Borneo or something.”

She looks up. He grins. She mirrors him.

“Pilot to copilot,” he says, “do you read me?”

“Roger.”

“Good stuff. Come on, let’s hop in the car and go for a spin.”

He doesn’t comment when she takes Mike’s windbreaker from the halltree and puts it on. The one with the plaid lining that matches his.

“When you go to school tomorrow, don’t mention to anyone that your dad called up the teacher and dressed him down. He’s had his punishment.”

“I won’t.” Man to man. Wondering what her father would say if she asked him to call her Rob.

It has stopped raining. They drive to Crediton with the windows open; the smell of wood fires and fields reminds them of Germany. It is almost dark, a grey twilight is on the land—not glowering or hazy, a promising kind of grey—lucid, silvering up the barns, sharpening the fences. They pull in at the dairy outlet on the village’s one street and her father goes to the counter. It’s only too cold for ice cream if you are a baby or a wimp. Madeleine waits in the car, gazing out the window as Rob. Down the street is a neat little house—a bungalow—with flower boxes and a bird feeder out front. The door opens and Mr. March comes out with a bag of birdseed and fills up the feeder. Rob stays perfectly still. Mr. March has gone back inside by the time her father returns. As he hands her an ice cream cone, he says, “Do you know what ‘discreet’ means?”

“It’s when you don’t go around blabbing things.” She has chosen good old vanilla.

“Yes,” he says, licking the edge of his maple walnut. “But it also refers to a way of getting something done with a minimum of fuss and disturbance. We’ve dealt with Mr. March now, and we don’t need to rub his nose in it.”

“He’s got his pride,” replies Rob.

“That’s right,” says Dad. “Mission accomplished.”

Each of them has an elbow out the window, matching sleeves rippling in the wind.

Is it a lie when you don’t tell someone a lie but you let them believe one? Dad asked Madeleine what she told the police and she told him. Is that a lie?

“Just play it cool,” says Dad.

Or is that “discreet”?

Madeleine takes a bite of her ice cream and holds it freezing in her mouth. Tears spring to her eyes, it’s so cold it hurts. Her mouth will thaw out, and when it does, it’s funny how the ripples on its roof will feel as though they have been burned.

Her father slows the car a little and lets her steer.

When Jack gets home to find that Mike was ejected from the Scout meeting for picking a fight with Roy Noonan, he is able to discuss the matter calmly. A great weight has lifted from him, and left him free to handle this minor crisis with his son. His daughter has provided Ricky Froelich with an alibi.

F
AMILY OF THE VICTIM
on the right. Family of the accused on the left. Strange wedding. Wooden benches, pews. Up front, on a large table, ranged like gifts, the exhibits:

Jar of stomach contents. Envelope containing cotton underpants. Left shoe. Right shoe. Lunchbox. Silver charm bracelet in envelope. Blue dress. Photograph showing Constable Lonergan at a position where body was found. Photograph of Claire McCarroll at autopsy. Bulrushes turned over to coroner. Container of larvae. Container of blood from Claire McCarroll. Bulrushes retained by Constable Lonergan.

Overhead, a ceiling fan turns slowly. Along one side of the courtroom large windows tilt open, but the air is still. It is hot for mid-June—feels more like July. Outside, the town square is tree-lined and spilling with roses.
Welcome to Goderich, the prettiest town in Canada
.

“My lord, I move for the trial of Richard Plymouth Froelich on this indictment.” The Crown attorney sits back down and wipes his forehead with a hanky. It is ten A.M. The Supreme Court of Ontario is sitting in Assizes at the county courthouse.

“Place the prisoner in the prisoner’s box,” says his Lordship, the judge. His bench is flanked by two flags: the Union Jack and the Canadian Ensign. On the wall above his head, a portrait of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.
Elizabeth Regina
. Rick’s adversary.

Rick is led in in his new blue suit and handcuffs. His wrists protrude, bare and bony, from the sleeves—he has had a growth spurt in prison. The bailiff removes the handcuffs. Rick sits down.

The registrar says, “Will the accused please stand?” Rick stands up.

There is a scratch on his cheek and a speck of dried blood on his chin—the razor they gave him this morning had been used already by several inmates, the water was cold, his nerves did the rest. This has been duly noted in his file, because every injury must be accounted for. Mr. and Mrs. Froelich are seated behind him, with Colleen.

A few rows behind them sits Jack in his summer uniform. He has taken a day of leave in order to attend the first day of the trial. Leave is precious, but Mimi will understand. He leans back against
the hard bench. He feels relieved already. It’s almost over. The past couple of months have been calm, but not reassuring—
becalmed
is the word. The sun has shone, there has been nothing visibly askew—except that the boy across the street is gone. School ended a few days ago and he took the kids for ice cream. They have gone shopping, he has cut the lawn, set up the wading pool, he has barbecued—and he has made love to his wife.

But when he looks back on the last two months, the Froelich situation permeates everything—arcs like the sky over Centralia, the blue overlaid with a faint grey film that makes it a little harder to breathe, a little harder to move. Traps time. Time has passed around Jack and he has engaged in the motions but, like a man in a bucket brigade, he has not moved from his spot. He has even had a birthday but that was just a page on a calendar, candles on Daddy’s cake. Inside, he knows he is no older than he was two months ago. Which is not the same as feeling young. He has been waiting for time to begin again. Today.

“You stand indicted by the name of Richard Plymouth Froelich,” the registrar reads from a clipboard, “that Richard Plymouth Froelich on or about the tenth day of April 1963, at the Township of Stephen, in the County of Huron, did unlawfully murder Claire McCarroll, contrary to the Criminal Code of Canada. Upon this indictment, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

The press is here—a row of sweltering men in crumpled suits at the back—but they are not permitted to report anything until it’s over. There are no photographers—they have been banned from within fifty feet of the courthouse, unlike the public. Jack saw the police car pull up to the steps this morning but his view of Rick was blocked by the surge of a small crowd. He heard snatches, hurled insults. “There he is!” “You bastard!” “Burn in hell!” A reminder that, despite sympathetic editorials by journalists outraged that in a civilized country like Canada a fifteen-year-old could be tried in adult court, most people who have never met Rick have no reason to doubt the police. The boy is not from around here, not even an air force kid, he’s adopted—that came out at the hearing—he is not really white. He is Métis. A “half-breed.”

Jack was disgusted by the scene. And surprised—he is so accustomed to thinking of Ricky Froelich as the boy next door, it
hadn’t occurred to him that some might see the kid as a reassuring culprit. A stranger in their midst.

Across the aisle sits Inspector Bradley. Next to him are the McCarrolls.

“Not guilty,” says Rick.

“You are appearing, Mr. Waller?” asks the judge.

A man in the black silk robes of a QC rises from the defence table next to Rick. “I am, my lord.”

The registrar asks, “Are you ready for your trial?”

Rick replies, “Yes.”

The jury is sworn. Jack is struck by the contrast between the formal—even theatrical—language, and the monotone voices. Most of these people have gone through these motions hundreds of times. For Rick it is a debut. And for the jury. There are no women among the twelve. There seems to be no one under fifty.
He’s hanged
—the words obtrude upon his mind but Jack dismisses them, almost offended—perfectly decent hard-working men from the community. Each and every one of them reminds him of his father: tight view of a tiny world. And he dismisses that thought too.