The Way the Crow Flies

  Jack says, “Son of a gun.”

  “What?”

  “I think Henry Froelich is Jewish.” He pronounces it Jeweesh with his vestigial east coast accent.

  “Oh Jack, everyone knows that.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “I don’t know. Vimy told me. I asked if they ever went to church and she told me Henry is Jewish. I don’t know what her excuse is.”

  “Whose?”

  “His wife’s.”

  “No one tells me anything.”

  “Well what difference does it make?”

  “Nothing, except….” Mimi returns to her paperwork. She sets the baby bonus aside—Michel has grown out of his new sneakers already. Jack continues. “Henry was in a concentration camp.”

  Mimi makes the sign of the cross.

  Jack sighs and shakes his head. “Holy Dinah.”

  “I’m glad we never went there….” She doesn’t even want to say the word. Auschwitz. “Pauvre Henry.” There are tears in her eyes.

  Jack reaches across and takes her hand. “Why are you crying, Missus? The war’s over, Henry’s fine, happy as a clam.”

  Mimi shouldn’t be shocked by the information, she knew it was a possibility as soon as she learned Henry was Jewish, so she is surprised at her inability to get the words out. Maybe she’s getting her period—in itself a disappointing event—maybe that’s why she is overreacting. What she can’t manage to say without crying: Henry may be fine but his family is not. His first family. Not only parents and relations, but children—she is suddenly certain. She blows her nose, she’s fine. She resumes working on the bills.

  Jack finds himself replaying conversations with Henry Froelich. Einstein is a Jew. It had sounded anti-Semitic from Froelich’s lips last summer. Of course there is nothing wrong with the word “Jew”—especially if you are one—but there is something about the single syllable, it sounds less polite than “Jewish.” Perhaps the noun sounds anti-Semitic because Jack has rarely heard it pronounced by people other than anti-Semites. Vivid in his memory are radio broadcasts of Hitler railing against “die Jüden!” And in newsreels after the war, when the horrors began to come out, a narrator’s voice describing in solemn tones “the persecution of the Jew …”—even then it bore a stigma, the shame of death. And Jack has known few Jews—Jewish people. There was one family in his hometown in New Brunswick, the Schwartzes—they played rugger like anybody else, fished, never had a Christmas tree, no one gave it a second thought. Jack has come across the odd Jewish fellow in the air force, but they are Canadian. You don’t expect to run into too many German Jews. Not any more. His cheeks burn a little at the thought of how often he has jokingly accused Henry of being “typically German.” Not to mention that crack about lederhosen. Christ. Well, the tattoo explains why Froelich is content to be here, teaching grade school.

  “Doris Day is Jewish,” says Mimi.

  “Really?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  DOMESTIC SCIENCE

  If you are a highly excitable mother with certain needs, you may find it impossible to get along with a daughter of similar temperament and needs.

  Chatelaine, July 1962

  MADELEINE SPENDS THE NEXT week and a half looking over her shoulder, scared Colleen Froelich is lying in wait, ready to pound her. But nothing happens. And while she is relieved, she is also oddly disappointed.

  Life goes on as usual, and on Saturday October 20, Mimi asks Madeleine to help her get ready for the Oktoberfest dance.

  Madeleine kneels against the side of the tub while her mother, wearing a sparkly shower cap, takes a bubble bath. She gets Madeleine to scrub her back with a loofah—“that keeps a lady’s skin nice and soft”—and shows her how to push her cuticles back in order to avoid hangnails.

  Madeleine holds the towel, then waits while Maman powder-puffs her underarms after shaving with her electric Lady Sunbeam. “You can start shaving when you’re twelve, Madeleine.” Madeleine doesn’t point out that she has already been shaving with Dad for years. She follows her mother into the bedroom and watches her put on itchy-looking underpants and matching lace bra, leaning forward into it, expertly reaching behind to fasten it. Then her garter belt, then her stockings—“always roll them first, like this, then point your toes”—resting one foot on her hope chest, “comme ça,” stroking her leg to draw the stocking up to her thigh, “so you don’t get runs,” and fastening it to the garter belt with the rubber snaps.

  “Help me with my girdle, Madeleine.” It doesn’t matter if you are slim, “a lady is not fully dressed without a girdle.” There are a million hooks and eyes. Finally, she slides her silk slip over her head, and sits down on the cushioned stool at her vanity table—“Donne-moi le hairspray, s’il te plaît, ma p’tite.”

  At this point, Mike joins them and sits on the end of their parents’ bed with a Hardy Boys book. This is one activity he has not abandoned: he still comes in to watch Maman get ready to go out for the evening and chat with her in the mirror. Madeleine can’t figure out why he doesn’t consider it to be sissy.

  They speak French together, easily, rapidly. Madeleine tries to make out the gist of what they are saying. Maman calls him her “p’tit gentilhomme,” and when he is with her he acts like a little gentleman, too. He tells her of his latest victories: first in the hundred-yard dash, picked to play centre on his hockey team, the highest mark in science. He is going to be in the NHL. Then he is going to be a doctor. Who flies Sabres.

  “Tu peux faire n’importe quoi, Michel.”

  Madeleine looks at her brother and it seems that, when Maman says it, it’s true: he can be whatever he wants to be.

  She enters her parents’ open closet, walking between her father’s suits and shirts as though through a curtain, breathing in—wool, shoe leather, faint cigar smell and fresh cotton. Her mother’s voice reaches her as though from a great distance. “Madeleine, où vas-tu?”

  She comes out and returns to her mother’s side in front of the big round mirror, and watches as she tilts her head back, lowers her lids and applies black eyeliner with a tiny brush, “only in the evening, Madeleine,” then forward to apply mascara, “but fais attention, pas trop.” She puts on her lipstick, “always stay inside the lip line.” Madeleine nods to her mother in the mirror, contemplating the possibilities of the red lipstick on her own cheeks and nose. Bozo.

  Maman places a tissue between her lips and presses, then, “Aimestu cette couleur, Michel?”

  Mike looks up from The Mystery at Devil’s Paw and replies that it’s a very nice colour indeed. Madeleine looks at the discarded tissue, a blown kiss, and pictures Marilyn Monroe with her carsick eyes. Dead now and in her grave.

  “Do me up, Madeleine.”

  Madeleine zips her up and breathes in her perfume—“My Sin” by Lanvin. Mingled with VO-5 hairspray. Mysterious and alluring.

  “Comment vous me trouvez, les enfants?” Maman is wearing a dirndl. Low-cut laced-up embroidered bodice with a full red and white skirt. It cost a fortune in Garmisch.

  “Très chic,” says Mike.

  “Sehr schön,” says Madeleine, and Mimi hugs her.

  Downstairs Jack says, “Frau McCarthy, you’re a knockout.” He is in Harris tweed, plaid tie, brogues and a green Tyrolean hat with a feather. Mike finds a flash cube and snaps their picture before they leave for the mess.

  Marsha Woodley babysits them as usual and, as usual, Mike behaves as though she were there to babysit Madeleine only. He tightens the cord on his plaid housecoat and strokes his chin while inquiring what channel Marsha would like to watch.

  Marsha is so nice, Madeleine feels she can’t shun the offer to “play Barbies.” “I used to be crazy about dolls too when I was your age, Madeleine.” Marsha has brought Barbie’s convertible, which mitigates things somewhat, but she insists that Ken drive. Madeleine is relieved when Mike offers to show Marsha his airplane models.

  “Sure, Mikey,” she says.

  His manly frown doesn??
?t flicker. “After you.”

  He has lost his mind.

  A knock at the door. Madeleine runs to answer it. There on the other side of the screen, standing in the dusk, is Ricky Froelich.

  “Hi pal,” he says. He is leaning, one arm against the wall.

  She turns and hollers, “Marsha! It’s Ricky!” Then to him, “Come on in.”

  “Naw, that’s okay.”

  Marsha comes up behind Madeleine and says, “Hi.”

  “Hi. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  Marsha rolls her eyes, and says with an interrogative inflection, “Of course not.”

  Madeleine is tingling. Please, Marsha, please say yes.

  “Ricky,” says Marsha, in a tone both teasing and warning, “I’m babysitting.”

  He grins. “I can read bedtime stories.”

  Mike arrives at the top of the kitchen steps. “Hi Rick,” he says in his deepest voice.

  “Hi Mike, how’s she going?”

  “Good. Wanna watch a movie?”

  “Sure, but that’s verboten, eh?”

  “How come?”

  “Boss won’t let me.”

  “Aw come on, Marsha,” says Mike.

  “Yeah,” says Madeleine.

  Marsha turns to them. “Okay you guys, skedaddle.”

  They do. And watch from the window on the upstairs landing as Marsha steps out onto the porch with Ricky. They can’t make out all of what is being said, but they watch intently the subtle dance unfolding below. Marsha, arms crossed over her chest, looking down, hovering just within the arc of Ricky’s arm, raised and leaning against the door now. His head is bent close to her ear. She shakes her head, they hear her giggle. The next moment Ricky glances to either side, then kisses her. Her head tilts back and he leans into her. Then he leaves, jogging back across the street to his own house. Marsha rests her back against the door, hugging herself, biting her lower lip.

  “Marsha, the movie’s starting,” calls Madeleine.

  They watch Thomasina. Madeleine tries hard not to cry and feels better when Marsha does. Mike does not once make fun of the movie, and when it’s over he says, “Not too shabby.” Madeleine wants to scream at him.

  Later, from the bathroom window, Madeleine sees Ricky Froelich sitting in the light of his front porch, strumming his guitar. She opens the window and strains to hear the soft chords and his easy voice singing a lonesome Hank Williams tune. She kneels on the toilet lid, folds her arms on the windowsill, rests her chin and stays for a long time, listening. He sings song after song, some in a strange-sounding French. Sad ones, so as not to wake the neighbours.

  Shortly after midnight, Mimi slips into her daughter’s room. Madeleine is sound asleep hugging that filthy old Bugs Bunny. Mimi places a little cocktail umbrella, striped like a rainbow, into Bugsy’s plastic-gloved hand.

  The next morning, Madeleine runs into the kitchen with her prize. “Maman, look what Dad brought me!”

  Mimi picks up the whistling kettle, about to say, “Maman brought you that.” But she catches herself. “You have the nicest papa in the world.” She pours the tea.

  Madeleine twirls the tiny umbrella, “‘Singin’ in the rain—’”

  “Help me set the table for after church, ma p’tite.”

  Madeleine groans. “How come Mike never has to help?”

  Mimi says sharply, “Don’t ‘how come’ me, Madeleine, just get the move on.”

  Aunt Jemima smiles jovially from the box of pancake mix. Why can’t she be my real mother?

  After Mass, Jack relaxes with the paper until Mimi calls him for brunch. “Boy, something sure smells good,” he says, turning to call, “Mike, come and get it!” Mike comes in with the sports section, and he and his father sit behind headlines while Madeleine and Mimi put plates of bacon and eggs and pancakes in front of them. Soviet Forward Base in Cuba. Hockey Record: Sunday—Toronto at Boston, Montreal at New York.

  Madeleine slouches in her chair. Why is her mother suddenly turning her into a slave? A scullery maid, as in fairy tales of wicked stepmothers. She picks up her fork, noticing that Maman has taken the broken egg as usual.

  Mimi says brightly, “All right, that’s enough news at the table.” Both Mike and Jack blink and look up innocently, then obediently fold their papers, put them aside and start eating. Mimi winks at Madeleine, who stretches the ends of her mouth sideways in a technical smile meant to fool no one.

  Mimi sips her coffee and resists the urge to light a cigarette. She takes a forkful of egg, a bite of toast, reminding herself that it’s important to eat with her family even though her appetite is often suppressed by cooking, leaving her hungry and prone to snack between meals. That’s how women gain weight. Although she wonders if her slimness has something to do with her inability to get pregnant. Maybe if she were more like her own mother, or her sister Yvonne…. But there is nothing to say that she won’t get pregnant. She simply hasn’t yet. She smiles at her daughter. There are times when Mimi too would love to sit back on the couch with a magazine and have someone cook her a meal. Iron her blouse. Occasionally it does feel like drudgery. That’s normal. It’s important, however, not to communicate those feelings to your daughter—that’s a recipe for future unhappiness. It’s important to foster pride in what is, after all, the most important job in the world. There is just one problem: she’s too much like me.

  DUCK AND COVER

  Can we really reduce nuclear war to a nuisance level and believe that a few feet of concrete and an assortment of tinned goods will be sufficient to preserve our own special little world while fifty-megaton bombs with a destruction radius of twenty miles are being dropped about the country?

  Chatelaine, February 1962

  “‘THERE WAS A TURTLE and his name was Bert

  and Bert the turtle was very alert

  When danger threatened him he didn’t get hurt

  he knew just what to do!

  He’d duck! And cover….’”

  Duck! And cover.

  The chorus of voices sounds like the Walt Disney Singers on a story record. Bert is a cartoon turtle, and after he retracts into his shell several times, the cartoon part ends and real kids appear in freshly ironed clothes, running from a playground to a doorway where they duck and take cover. Then a serious man’s voice says, “Don’t look at the flash.” The kids cover their eyes.

  Mr. March is showing this film because the free world is in grave peril.

  At seven o’clock last night, Madeleine watched her father’s profile when President Kennedy came on the television. “Good evening, my fellow citizens….”

  He’s handsome, thought Madeleine. Our prime minister, Diefenbaker, is not—his hair looks like a plastic bathing cap.

  “… This government, as promised, has maintained the closest surveillance of the Soviet military buildup on the island of Cuba….”

  It was Monday night and she was disappointed, because Lucille Ball was supposed to be on but the announcer had said, “Tonight’s program has been pre-empted in order that we may bring you a message of extreme urgency from the President of the United States.” Her father’s mouth had become a line, his whole profile had become a line. The family was on the couch, watching.

  Cuba is where Ricky Ricardo is from. Lucille Ball is actually “a great beauty,” Dad has said, but you can’t tell because she is so funny. Would you rather be beautiful or funny?

  “… Within the past week unmistakable evidence has established the fact that a series of offensive missile sites is now in preparation on that imprisoned island….”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Madeleine. Had they built another Wall?

  “Shhh,” said Mike.

  President Kennedy continued in his clear Boston accent. “The purposes of these bases can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the western hemisphere, ranging as far north as Hudson Bay, Canada—”

  “Time for bed,” said Maman.

  “It’s only seven
o’clock!”

  “Allons!” She took Madeleine by the hand. Mike got to stay up.

  Madeleine waited until Maman’s footsteps retreated down the stairs, then she crept out of bed and to the landing, where the television sounded even louder than in the living room. President Kennedy was still speaking. “… the Soviet government stated on September 11 that, and I quote, ‘The armaments and military equipment sent to Cuba are designed exclusively for defensive purposes….’” She inched toward the edge of the landing and crept down one stair. Now she was able to observe her family through the railings and imagine what it would be like if she were not alive.

  “… That statement was false.”

  The President’s voice continued, a hollow backdrop to her reverie—what if she was actually invisible? What if she was dead now and didn’t know it?

  “… Nuclear weapons are so destructive and ballistic missiles are so swift….”

  What if she was a ghost?

  “Our own strategic missiles have never been transferred to the territory of any other nation under a cloak of secrecy and deception….”

  What if she spoke and they didn’t hear her? Then she would know she was dead.

  “… and our history, unlike that of the Soviets since the end of World War Two, demonstrates that we have no desire to dominate or conquer any other nation or impose our system upon its people….”

  She opened her mouth but refrained from making a sound, suddenly reluctant to find out.

  “… In that sense, missiles in Cuba add to an already clear and present danger….”

  She was unable to move. Growing cold, lips parted, unable to make a sound.

  “… the costs of worldwide nuclear war in which even the fruits of victory would be ashes in our mouth….”

  She was turning into a statue. If someone in her family did not look up at her soon, it would be too late. They would try to revive her and her arm would break off.

  Her mother looked up. “Madeleine.” I’m alive. “What are you doing up?”

  Madeleine was surprised not to be scolded. Instead, Maman tucked her in and sang softly, “Un Acadien Errant.” Madeleine knew she was supposed to feel better and fall asleep. Feel better about what? She closed her eyes.