The Way the Crow Flies

  Madeleine swallows and says, “I wanted to find her other streamer.”

  Maman says, “Whose?”

  “Claire’s.” The word floats up like a tiny balloon.

  Maman covers her face—she is crying, tears gush through her fingers, her red nails.

  “I’m sorry, Maman.”

  Mike stops eating and looks at his mother. He rises from his chair, hesitates, then pours some tea into her cup, “Tiens, maman.” Mimi looks up, sniffs and smiles at her son, wiping her nose with her serviette.

  Her father says gently, “Did you go to Rock Bass, sweetie?”

  Madeleine nods. Maman seizes her, pulls her onto her lap, jams Madeleine’s head against her shoulder and starts rocking.

  Dad says, “Listen, old buddy, look me in the eye.” Maman stops rocking but still has her in a headlock. “You know it was wrong to lie to your teacher and to play hooky from school, don’t you?”

  Madeleine nods.

  “But do you know what’s a hundred times worse?”

  Madeleine shakes her head.

  “You going to a dangerous place like that. A little girl has been killed. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Jack,” says Mimi softly.

  “Yes,” says Madeleine clearly, so Maman won’t think that she too, like Mike, needs to be rescued from Dad.

  “The worst thing you could do, to me and to Maman and to Mike, would be to put yourself in danger. How would you feel if Maman died?”

  “Terrible,” she whispers.

  “What if I died?”

  “Awful.”

  “Well, multiply that by a thousand and that’s how Maman and I would feel if we lost you. Now, I want you to promise me, in front of your family, not to leave the PMQs without one of us. Ever. Swear it on your honour.”

  “I swear.”

  Maman kisses her head fiercely, then sets her on her feet, gets up and reaches into her purse for her compact.

  Madeleine says, “I didn’t go alone—” thinking that will make them all feel better, knowing in the next instant that it won’t, when she is forced to say, “I went with Colleen.”

  Maman spanks her sharply—once, but it’s enough. Dad makes a calming gesture with his hand and she lights a cigarette. “Eat up now,” he says to Madeleine.

  She returns to her soup. Maman turns on the radio. Soothing sounds of the Boston Pops mingle with the refreshing aroma of Cameo menthol.

  After a decent interval, Madeleine says, “Dad, am I going to start riding lessons?”

  Jack looks at his daughter.

  “Auriel said you were going to take me for riding lessons. Like Lisa.”

  Mimi looks at him and he shrugs.

  “Did I wreck the surprise?” asks Madeleine.

  Jack says, “No surprise about it. Would you like to start riding?”

  “Sure.”

  He would like to leave right now, get back to work; he can feel indigestion setting in. What is this junk he’s eating, anyhow? Damn Vic Boucher for a miserable busybody. What else has he told his wife, his kids? That Jack McCarthy was seen driving a blue Galaxy? He stirs his tea with his fork—no sign of a spoon on the table—and reflects that he ought not to blame Vic. After all, if it hadn’t been for the Boucher girl asking her mother if she could visit Madeleine, who was “home sick” yesterday afternoon, he and Mimi never would have known that their little girl was off hiking to the murder scene. Jack would like to punch Mr. Marks right in his foolish face. The idiot told Mimi over the phone that Madeleine had feigned a doctor’s appointment. What’s the good of teacher’s college if you can’t tell when a child is lying? Jack went over the miserable son of a bitch’s head and gave the principal a piece of his mind. Meanwhile his son is jabbering away in French. “In English, so the whole table can understand you.”

  Mike reddens and says, “I just want to know why he doesn’t come forward.”

  “Who?” says Jack.

  “The air force guy. How come he won’t say he saw Rick on the road?”

  “I’ve had just about enough of this subject, let’s talk about something nice for a change. What did you learn at school this morning?”

  Back at work, Jack circulates a memo to his department heads, and by three o’clock six air force hats have been delivered to his office and overturned on his desk. He is reminded of his early days in accounts as he rapidly totals the bills. He has four hundred and seventy-two dollars to plunk into Henry Froelich’s hand. He adds another two hundred on Simon’s account. Froelich has hired the best lawyer in London, and the best costs money.

  “The following little girls will remain after three.” Madeleine looks up. She is already taking her homework out of her desk, preparing to bolt with the rest of the class at the sound of the bell—

  “Madeleine McCarthy …”

  She freezes.

  “Marjorie Nolan and Grace Novotny.”

  Has she time-travelled back to October? If she looks outside, will the leaves be red and gold? No, because Claire McCarroll’s desk is empty. It’s still April. Mr. March has put Madeleine back into the exercise group and there is nothing she can do about it.

  Auriel turns to her with a quizzical expression but Madeleine can’t move her muscles to return the look. Only her eyes can move.

  The other kids leave forever, and Madeleine remains at her desk along with Marjorie and Grace. Mr. March is up at his desk, cleaning his glasses. A tap at the door. He answers it and the policeman comes in. The sight of his friendly uniform is a relief, but a second man follows him in. He wears a raincoat open over a civilian suit and he’s holding a hat. He has a sharp face. Madeleine fears she has seen him in a dream, but how is that possible? Are they going to run the exercise group now, with Mr. March?

  Mr. March says, “The police want to ask you young ladies a few questions about your friend Claire.”

  Madeleine feels her body return to life, like a leaf in water. Mr. March sends her out to wait in the corridor with Grace Novotny.

  Marjorie puts the noose around his neck.

  “Ricky asked me to go to Rock Bass.”

  “He did?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Inspector Bradley is seated beside the teacher’s desk, facing the little girl. He has positioned the teacher behind her so that she won’t look to him for cues. The man sits at one of the child-sized desks. Constable Lonergan stands by the door, taking notes.

  “When?” asks Bradley.

  “Um. On that day.”

  “What day?”

  “The day that—the day when she got lost.”

  “Who? Claire?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Go on.”

  Marjorie smiles and the serious man leans forward. Their knees are almost touching. “He was always asking me on picnics,” she says, breezy.

  The inspector lifts one eyebrow slightly. Marjorie looks down, folds her hands in her lap and adds, “Well, not always, maybe just once or twice.”

  “What did he say when he asked you?”

  “He just said, ‘Hey Marjorie, would you like to come for a picnic at Rock Bass? I know where there is a nest.’”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said my mother wouldn’t let me.”

  “Did you ask your mother?”

  “No, because I knew she wouldn’t let me.”

  “Why wouldn’t she let you?”

  “Well, for one thing,” says Marjorie, “my mother is sick and she needs me to look after her. And for another thing,” she adds gaily, “Ricky Froelich is way too old for me!” And she chuckles.

  Inspector Bradley smiles and doesn’t take his eyes off her. Marjorie smooths her hair and smiles back. “Marjorie,” he says, resting his elbows on his knees, “has Ricky ever”—choosing his words—“behaved in such a way as to—”

  The tiny desk chair creaks as the teacher shifts his weight.

  The inspector smiles at Marjorie, just-between-you-and-me, and continues, “Has Ricky ev
er acted as though he were your boyfriend?”

  “Oh yes,” says Marjorie, solemn now.

  “In what way?”

  She turns to check in with her teacher, but Inspector Bradley says, “Look at me, Marjorie, not at the teacher. Can you answer my question?”

  She starts crying.

  Inspector Bradley hands her his hanky.

  “I told him I couldn’t.” She wipes her eyes. “I’m too young.”

  “Did Ricky ever touch you?”

  She pauses, her face in her hands. Then shakes her head.

  “It’s all right, Marjorie,” says Inspector Bradley. “You don’t have to say anything else. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Marjorie smiles up at the inspector and thanks him for the use of his hanky.

  “Side door, little girl,” says Mr. March.

  Grace pulls the rope tight.

  “Come in, Grace.”

  She hesitates in the doorway. Her plaid jumper, braids, white short-sleeved blouse—Grace is looking very fresh today. She enters the room in response to Mr. March’s prompting, and looks up at the two strange men. Both are big, one is old; he looks angry already.

  “Grace, the officers want to ask you one or two questions,” says Mr. March, then sits at Philip Pinder’s desk.

  “Hello Grace,” says the angry one, taking a step toward her.

  Grace groans, her hand strays to her crotch.

  “Grace,” says Mr. March, and she clutches her hands together. “Sit down.”

  She obeys, entwining her fingers inwardly as though she were playing “Here’s the church, here’s the steeple.”

  The angry man pulls up a chair and sits. “How are you today, Grace?”

  “Speak up, Grace,” says Mr. March.

  “Fine.”

  The man smiles and leans toward her. She can smell his face. What does he want?

  “You knew Claire McCarroll, didn’t you?”

  Grace moans and hugs herself, begins to rock slightly.

  “It’s all right, Grace,” says Mr. March. “Just a couple of questions, then you can run along.” Grace nods, looking down, still rocking.

  “Grace,” says the angry man, “did you play with Claire last Wednesday?”

  Grace groans, then cries, her forehead crumpling, her voice rising rapidly, mouth wide open like a much younger child—

  “Grace,” says Mr. March firmly. She grinds her fist into her eyes, wipes her nose on her wrist. Mr. March hands her his hanky. “Calm down now.”

  The other policeman, standing in the corner near the door, writes in a notebook.

  Mr. March says, “Can you answer the officer now, Grace?”

  It’s silent in the dim green corridor. Kids only experience this odd aquarium feeling when they are excused to go to the bathroom in the middle of class, and they float down the empty halls.

  “What are you gonna tell them?”

  Colleen’s face looks darker than usual; she is standing too close to Madeleine, outside the classroom where Grace has just gone in.

  “Depends what they ask.”

  “Tell them you saw Ricky turn left toward the highway.”

  “But I didn’t see him.”

  “Yeah, but he did turn left.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t see him.”

  Colleen licks her lower lip in the dry way she has and says, “You better say you did or they’ll hang him.”

  Madeleine stares into Colleen’s eyes—blue flints, narrow, almost slanted. She says, “They won’t hang him,” and sees a pale featherless bird slowly tumbling.

  “Say it or you break our friendship,” says Colleen.

  “Did you see Claire last Wednesday?” the inspector asks. Grace answers the corner of the big desk. “Yes.”

  “Did you play with Claire?”

  Grace nods, her lips still parted, her nose red, eyes glazing.

  “When was that, Grace?”

  “On Wednesday,” she tells the desk.

  “When on Wednesday?”

  “Um. At the schoolyard.”

  “During school? Or after.”

  “After.”

  “Go on.”

  Grace steals a glance at him from under her brows. He is leaning back in his chair; she pictures him with his thing out. “I saw her at the schoolyard ’cause me and Marjorie helped Miss Lang for Brownies.” Bwownies.

  “This was after school?” He is writing in a notebook now too.

  “Yeah, after school, and Claire said, ‘Want to come to Rock Bass?’”

  “But you didn’t go with her to Rock Bass?” He looks at her.

  Grace looks away so he won’t think she’s looking at his thing. “No, I didn’t want to go to Rock Bass.”

  “Did she tell you she was going to Rock Bass with anyone?”

  “Yeah, Ricky.”

  “Ricky Froelich?”

  “Yeah, everyone knows that.”

  “Do you know Ricky Froelich?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has Ricky Froelich ever touched you?”

  Grace looks up as though at the snap of a hypnotist’s fingers. The teacher erupts in a fit of coughing. Inspector Bradley raises a hand to silence him. Grace whips her head around as though she has just remembered that Mr. March is there.

  “Answer the question please, Grace,” says the man.

  He isn’t angry at me now, he’s angry at Mr. March for coughing.

  “Yes sir,” says Grace, straightening in her chair. “He touched me.”

  The angry man smiles at her.

  “I can’t lie,” whispers Madeleine.

  “It’s not a lie. They want to know if he turned left, and you know he did, so say it.”

  “You say it.”

  “I’m his sister, they don’t believe me.”

  Madeleine glances at the classroom door. She sees a shadow move behind the Easter bunny taped to the window. She turns back to Colleen. “Did you see him turn left?”

  Colleen doesn’t answer. Instead she says, “We’re blood sisters.” Seurs de san.

  “I know.”

  “So?”

  “So?”

  Colleen clamps Madeleine by the wrist. “That means you’re his sister too.”

  “Where did he touch you?” asks the man. He smells like metal shavings, but it’s not a bad smell.

  “In the schoolyard.”

  “I mean where on your body, Grace.”

  “Here,” pointing to the small of her back. “He pushed me on the swings.”

  Mr. March coughs again and Inspector Bradley says quietly, “Please, sir,” but does not take his eyes from the child. “Has Ricky ever touched you as if you were his girlfriend?”

  Grace hesitates. Her tongue finds the corner of her mouth.

  “Just tell the truth, Grace,” says the inspector.

  But Grace has heard him the way you might hear someone speaking as he rolls up a car window. She tilts her head, her eyes wander over the floor. “Yeah … sometimes … we do exercises.”

  “What exercises?” He has a nice voice. He’s kind, like a doctor.

  “Oh—” Grace sighs. “You know. Backbends.”

  “What else?”

  “And squeezing.” Her voice is gentle, almost singsong.

  “Squeezing what?”

  Rocking again. “His muscle”—the linoleum is grey with queasy streaks—“he said to call it his muscle, but it’s really his thing.”

  Inspector Bradley says, “Now Grace, I know this is all very difficult for you.”

  “No it isn’t.”

  “Well”—his pen poised—“have you ever told anyone about the things Ricky did to you?”

  She nods.

  “Who did you tell?”

  “Marjorie.”

  He nods and writes it down.

  “And there’s something else about Ricky,” says Grace.

  Inspector Bradley looks up.

  “He strangles.”

  Bradley pauses ever so briefly bef
ore resuming his notes. Grace relaxes and, while waiting for him to finish writing, says, “He gave me an egg.”

  “An egg?” There is a frankly quizzical expression on his face at this point. He neglects to erase it—he is human, after all. “When?”

  “That day.”

  “Wednesday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind of egg?”

  Grace doesn’t answer.

  “A cooked egg?”

  “No, a blue one.”

  “What kind of egg is that?”

  “A special egg,” she says.

  Bradley looks up at the pictures lining the walls. The work of nine-year-old and ten-year-old artists. There are bunnies and chicks—even Batman and Robin—but eggs prevail, all gaily decorated with stripes, solids and polka dots in every colour of the rainbow and beyond—including baby blue. He looks back at the child. “An Easter egg?” he asks. She nods.

  “Was it a chocolate egg?”

  She nods again, then confides, “He said he knew where there was more.”

  “Thank you, Grace,” says Inspector Bradley. He stares at his notes while the teacher escorts the child to the side door. The boy used chocolate to lure his victims. Every pedophile knows the power of candy.

  Madeleine feels hot. She wants to get away from Colleen. I’m not your sister, he’s not my brother. Colleen lets go of her wrist and takes her hand instead, pressing against it, palm to palm, until Madeleine feels her scab shift and moisten. The door opens. Colleen releases Madeleine and disappears down the hall.

  “I don’t remember. I think—I don’t know if I saw him.”

  “Look at me, Madeleine.” She does. “Did you see him or not?”

  “Are you going to hang him?”

  The inspector raises his eyebrows. “Do you think he should be hanged?”

  “No!”

  He leans back, tilts his head and regards her. Madeleine folds her hands. This policeman with his raincoat and his hat on Mr. March’s desk, he is the boss of the nice one in the uniform standing writing in a notebook with a leather cover, like the kind the Brownies have. Inspector Bradley is like a teacher who already knows how you have done on your test and you haven’t even taken it yet so what’s the point? Madeleine knows she is going to fail.

  “Does Ricky like to play with younger children?” he asks. It’s a hard question. Ricky doesn’t go around “playing,” he plays sports and he fixes his car and little kids hang around sometimes and he doesn’t care.