The Way the Crow Flies

  Meanwhile, in the world outside the mountain cave, a great battle raged. The evil masters were defeated; the good masters discovered the cave, liberated the slaves and claimed the treasure. So that none would associate the treasure with the impurities of the cave where it had been born, with the suffering of the slaves who had fashioned it, and with the cruelty of the masters who had abused the earth and her gifts in order to possess it, the new masters took the treasure to their own home and made it cleaner still. They took some of the evil masters, too, and cleaned them as well. But they took no slaves, since nothing could make them clean. They called the treasure Apollo, after the sun god. Nothing to do with the earth at all. Earth was written out of the story.

  She may have become angry about this.

  AMONG SCHOOL CHILDREN

  ON THE FRONT PAGE, next to the milk on the porch, two school photos side by side. Claire’s—the same one they used yesterday—joined now by Ricky’s. He too is smiling, his dark hair slicked back, crisp collar open at the neck. The dead and the accused are always pictured like this, in images captured at an unrelated moment, because neither is available for a fresh photograph just now.

  Above the pictures, the headline: Air Force Boy Arrested in Child Murder. His name has been misspelled: Richard Frolick.

  Jack picks up the paper before his daughter can see it, and returns to the kitchen, scanning the article. No mention of a war criminal. “Allegations” of a “mystery driver”—the details of the air force hat, “a late-model sedan” with a Storybook Gardens sticker. Just enough to send the blood up to Jack’s face.

  Mimi pours his tea. “’tention, Jack, c’est hot.” The radio news echoes in the kitchen: “A youth was arrested yesterday and charged with the murder of—” She switches it off.

  Jack sits at the table and reaches, without looking, for his cup. The bail hearing is this afternoon. The boy will be home tonight. It crosses Jack’s mind to wonder what will happen if Froelich goes public with his “sighting” once Ricky has been cleared. But that’s Si’s problem, not his.

  “Papa,” says Mimi. Jack looks up. She indicates, with her eyes, their son slouched over his cereal bowl, chin in hand.

  “Elbows off the table, Mike,” says Jack, and is surprised the next moment to see Mimi staring at him, eyebrows raised, trying to communicate silently over the boy’s head.

  Jack remembers and says, “Mike, what do you say to a round of floor hockey this afternoon?” The boy mumbles something in reply.

  Jack refrains from reprimanding him and says simply, “What’s that, pal?”

  “Baseball tonight.”

  “That’s right, the big game, good stuff.” Jack is itching to remove the boy’s elbow from the table himself, to say, “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” but he catches Mimi’s glance as she refills the kettle, and returns his eyes to the paper. A dog starts barking somewhere outside. It sounds like the Froelichs’ dog, but it never barks like that—continuously.

  Madeleine comes into the kitchen and says, “There’s a police car in the Froelichs’ driveway.”

  Mimi looks out the window. So there is. The dog is tied up, barking at the house.

  Madeleine says, “Ricky must be home.”

  Her father glances up from his paper but says nothing. Rex keeps barking. Her mother switches on the radio and turns the dial till she finds music—a rock ’n’ roll station! An escalation of saxophones and big echoey drum-throbs—Martha and the Vandellas are on fire with desire. Madeleine waits for one of her parents to switch the station, but it doesn’t happen. Mike is making mush out of his Cap’n Crunch. She pours Rice Krispies and puts her ear close to the bowl to hear the snap, crackle, pop. Sexy music at breakfast, it’s a mad, mad world. She starts moving to the beat in her chair. The song makes her think of Ricky and Marsha kissing on the porch that night, and she gets a hot liquid feeling in her chest.

  The song ends and cheerful voices sing, “Let Hertz put you in the driver’s seat, today!” Jack gets up, puts on his uniform jacket, folds the newspaper under his arm and, as he reaches for his hat, feels in his pocket for dimes, only to find the wretched key to the Ford Galaxy. He’ll toss it away when he gets to work. “See ya, fellas.”

  “Jack,” says Mimi.

  “What, Missus?”

  She turns to the kids and says, “Ricky Froelich is not home. Not yet. The police think—”

  Jack takes over, using his most patient voice: “The police think”—speaking slowly, much better his children should hear it lucidly explained at home—“that Ricky Froelich may somehow be responsible for what happened with regard to—”

  His son interrupts, “They think he killed her.”

  Jack takes a breath. He resumes speaking, his voice dangerously quiet. “The police are just doing their job, but they’ve made a mistake and pretty soon they’ll realize that—” he jams his hat on his head—“and Ricky will be home.” He is surprised at the sudden constriction in his throat. He hardly trusts himself to say goodbye to his wife, afraid his voice may have reverted to the reedy register of last night. What is that voice?

  He kisses his wife on the cheek and she turns and kisses him on the lips—she doesn’t want him leaving the house angry, or thinking that she is.

  He is halfway down his driveway when the answer comes to him: it’s the voice of an old man.

  The police car is still in the Froelichs’ driveway ten minutes later, when Madeleine leaves for school. Mike has not waited—he seems to have forgotten that he is her jailer. Rex is straining toward the Froelichs’ front door at the end of his rope, still barking. “It’s okay, Rex,” she calls.

  Foam has gathered on his chops, and Madeleine is worried lest the police mistake him for a rabid dog and shoot him. Perhaps she ought to wait until they come out, so she can tell them Rex is perfectly fine.

  “Madeleine!” She turns. Her mother has called from the kitchen window. “Va à l’école, tout suite!”

  She catches up with Auriel and Lisa. They have reassured one another with their dads’ predictions of a speedy homecoming for Ricky Froelich, and she asks Auriel how she knows that her father is going to let her have horseback riding lessons. “Cripes, McCarthy, I hope I didn’t ruin the surprise!”

  Lisa has started riding and has quickly become horse-crazy. “Oh Madeleine, you should see Socks, he’s so cute, and his mother is—”

  Colleen’s voice cuts in: “Madeleine.”

  Madeleine is shocked. To be addressed by Colleen en route to school, in the presence of her other friends….

  Colleen says to Auriel and Lisa, “Keep walking.” Auriel is about to object, but Madeleine says, “It’s okay, you guys.”

  Colleen waits until Auriel and Lisa are out of earshot, then asks, “What are you going to say if anybody asks?”

  “Asks what?”

  “If you saw him.”

  “Saw who?”

  “Ricky, who else?” Colleen is looking straight at her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last Wednesday with Claire.”

  Madeleine doesn’t want to talk about Claire any more. She wants to drive away from Claire like scenery she will never visit again. She starts walking, and Colleen walks backwards ahead of her.

  “You got to say you saw him turn left at the willow tree.”

  “Yeah but I didn’t,” says Madeleine.

  “Yeah but he did turn left.”

  Madeleine squints and curls her lip. “Why should I shay I sheen what I never shaw, shee?” asks Humphrey Bogart.

  “’Cause they think he raped and murdered her.”

  Madeleine stops short. “What’s rape?” The question escapes her like a weak bird, emaciated and able to slip through the bars. She looks down, because she doesn’t want Colleen to answer. It’s a dark, sour word. She knows what it means, she only wishes to go on not having a word for it. She smells tobacco and looks up. Colleen is lighting a cigarette, cupping the flame with her hand. Madeleine looks around;
the street is full of kids, a mother behind every kitchen window.

  Colleen funnels smoke out the side of her mouth and says, “You’re so innocent, McCarthy.”

  Madeleine turns red. “My mum and dad say it’s all a mistake, my dad says Ricky’ll be home in time for supper,” and as she says it she is aware that she is parting with something. Something just flew away, it will never come back. My mum and dad are wrong.

  Colleen says, “Do you believe everything your mummy and daddy tell you?” Madeleine pushes her. Colleen stumbles back a step but doesn’t flinch or retaliate. Madeleine takes off for school, running.

  “Eee tuh neff! Eff! Oh dah highwayyy!” Elizabeth thrashes slowly in her chair, eyes rolling, spittle on her lips, sobbing, almost drowning out Rex barking himself hoarse outside. Henry Froelich lifts her from the chair and carries her from the room. “Shh shh, Lizzie, ja, ruhig.”

  Karen Froelich says, “You heard her, she said they turned left. Toward the highway. How many times does she have to repeat it?”

  Inspector Bradley rises from the Froelichs’ tattered couch and crosses one more loophole off his mental list. Even if the judge does allow this child as a witness, her testimony won’t count for much—she’s the boy’s sister, after all. But Bradley has interviewed her so that no one will be able to accuse him of leaving a single stone unturned. This case is already national news; outraged letters to the editor have begun to trickle in. They will be a deluge by the time it goes to trial. People do not wish to believe that a child is capable of raping and murdering another child. In a perfect world, none of us would have to entertain the thought. But this is Bradley’s job. And the boy is not a child, he is an adolescent male who has reached full sexual maturity. Still, though he doesn’t share it, Bradley can sympathize with the disbelief of ordinary people. What annoy him are the bleeding hearts, safe in their ivory towers, far from the brutal realities of the modern world, who are ready to exonerate the worst criminals on the basis of an unhappy childhood and an assortment of half-baked Freudian notions. The truth is, many people suffer terribly in childhood but they don’t grow up to be murderers. Bradley intends to get it right.

  “I’m sorry to have upset the child, Mrs. Frolick.”

  “The name is Froelich, and she isn’t a child, she’s sixteen.”

  The woman is sloppily groomed. Maybe she couldn’t have children of her own and now she’s on a mission. Imagine choosing to adopt such a child. Not to mention the others…. Bradley looked for Richard Froelich’s birth certificate and found an adoption file.

  “Richard and his younger sister are both Indian, is that correct?”

  The woman barely hesitates, but he can tell she is surprised. “No, it isn’t, they’re Métis.”

  Bradley knows what type the Froelichs are: holier-than-thou. He picks up his hat from amid the mess on the coffee table.

  Karen Froelich says, “I’m going to press charges against the arresting officer.”

  “What are you accusing him of?”

  “He beat my son.”

  “Your boy didn’t sustain any real injury.”

  “He’s a kid.”

  “He resisted arrest. That’s tantamount to an admission of guilt,” and before the Froelich woman can object, he continues, “Are you aware there’s a court order outstanding in the province of Alberta regarding both Richard and his younger sister—” He looks to the constable in the doorway, who consults his notebook and says, “Colleen.”

  Bradley watches the woman pale. He isn’t interested in making her life more difficult, but he would appreciate her attention. He seems to have it now. “I suggest you seek your lawyer’s advice. My guess is he’ll tell you to focus on your son’s legal defence, and not go wasting money trying to bring the police to court.”

  They leave, making a wary arc around the snarling German shepherd. The constable turns and says, “Control your dog.”

  Karen Froelich says, “Control yourself.”

  Bradley’s face remains expressionless, but Karen sees the uniformed officer smile and she curses herself. Her remark didn’t do her son any good. Or her daughter—has this inspector already contacted the child welfare authorities in Alberta? Or is he just trying to blackmail her? She wishes she felt as optimistic as her husband—“This is Canada,” he says. They are seeing the lawyer in London this morning, before the bail hearing. He has already told them that the police have very little to go on. Maybe she should keep quiet about the police assault—at least until Rick is out on bail.

  She watches the cruiser pull from her driveway. She will let it disappear from sight before unleashing Rex; she is worried he may chase down the car. He’s panting, his gums deep pink, muzzle wet, eyes bright with fear. She kneels and hugs him, only now looking up to wonder why the cruiser, rather than turning up the street toward the PMQ exit, has turned down St. Lawrence in the direction of the school.

  Madeleine can see Colleen from the classroom window; she is sitting on a swing, rocking slowly, staring at her feet. Madeleine knows what that’s like. She wishes now that she hadn’t pushed her. Colleen’s bowed head reminds Madeleine of the song “Hang down your head, Tom Dooley.” Why hasn’t the principal come out and given her heck? Perhaps he feels sorry for her because something has happened to her brother. Colleen lifts her head suddenly and looks toward the road. She slips from the swing and runs out of sight, and Madeleine sees a police cruiser pull into the parking lot.

  “And what befell the hapless Father Brûlé?” asks Mr. March.

  “He was burned alive.”

  “Correct.” The grade fours are learning about missionaries among the Indians in the New World. The classroom walls are still decorated with Easter art. Everyone’s is up now, but Grace’s butterflies still reign supreme among the many bunnies and countless Easter eggs.

  When the knock comes at the door, Madeleine is not surprised to see a policeman, but Mr. March seems to be. He looks down while the officer speaks quietly, then turns to the class and asks, “Who among you were special friends of Claire McCarroll?”

  No hands. It’s a difficult question. Claire didn’t have a best friend, but she didn’t have enemies either. And in some way, the question sounds like one that, in fairy-tale language, would mean “Who among you would care to accompany Claire into the mountain cave?”

  Madeleine remembers sharing Claire’s picnic last week, and the day on the swings when the two of them laughed upside down, and puts up her hand. All heads turn and she feels herself blushing as though she has been caught boasting, which was not her intention. Then Grace Novotny puts up her hand. It would be unkind to tell Grace that she was never Claire’s friend. The only thing they had in common was their belief in Santa Claus. It is, however, a bare-faced lie when Marjorie Nolan puts up her hand. Madeleine expects Mr. March to say, “No you weren’t, Marjorie,” but he says nothing.

  The policeman leaves, and Mr. March gets his hanky out and presses it to his forehead, then his cheeks. Tante Yvonne always talks about her “hot flashes”—maybe that’s what’s happening to Mr. March. The bell rings. Lunch.

  Everyone mobs the coat hooks. Philip Pinder says Ricky’s going to get the electric chair, and Cathy Baxter screams at him to shut up. No one can believe that Ricky has been arrested, but everyone is used to it already. Around and around the schoolyard swirls the story of Ricky’s alibi: the “mystery driver,” the air force man in a car with a sticker from Storybook Gardens. Some kids are saying it was a ghost car, others speculate that it was the real murderer, disguised as someone’s dad.

  This is all very different from last week, but is Madeleine the only one who notices the other difference? It has been eight days since Mr. March announced, “The following little girls will remain after three.” Not since last week, when Claire was…. When there was Claire. Last Wednesday she was still here like everyone else. No one knew she was on the edge of a cliff. Who else is walking on the edge, on her way somewhere, her head full of thoughts like arrows pointed
at the future, then—blank?

  Madeleine looks up; she is halfway across the field but doesn’t remember walking out of the school. She wonders if Mr. March has had enough of exercises. Perhaps he has given them up. Like in the story about the giant who used to eat children but found he would be much less lonely if he befriended them instead.

  She sees Grace drawing a hopscotch with a piece of chalk at the foot of Marjorie Nolan’s driveway. She is going to miss lunch. As Madeleine passes, she sees that it isn’t chalk, it’s a piece of old whitened dog poop. Behind her she hears Marjorie’s voice calling from her door, “Go away, Grace. Shoo.”

  Lunch is Chef Boyardee. Maman was babysitting at the Froelichs’ all morning and there was no time to prepare a “ben bon déjeuner.” Madeleine finds the canned noodles revolting—like the slipped-off skin of a drowned dead body, although it would be impolite to say so. Maman has heated up some Campbell’s cream of tomato soup with saltines for her instead.

  The four of them sit at the table, eating. Mimi has fixed herself a Depression favourite, burnt toast and tea. Good for what ails you. The Froelich house is a depressing place and she would like to get the soiled laundry-old stew smell from her nostrils. The smell of misery. She says a silent prayer asking Our Lord to forgive her should any of her thoughts be uncharitable in that regard, and to guide the police in their search for the maudit crazy who is still out there. Then she drops her bomb. “Where were you yesterday afternoon, Madeleine?”

  Madeleine freezes. Lowers her spoon. Yesterday afternoon. “In a field,” she replies to her bright red soup.

  “What field? Dis-moi la vérité, Madeleine.” She doesn’t sound angry, she sounds worried, which is worse.

  “Answer your mother,” says Dad.