The Way the Crow Flies

  “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.

  Part Three

  THE QUEEN’S MERCY

  REGINA VS RICHARD FROELICH

  FAMILY 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.

  The registrar says, “Would the accused stand, please?” Rick stands again. The registrar continues, “Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the prisoner and hearken to his charge.”

  Jack keeps his eyes on the registrar. Across the aisle, Sharon McCarroll folds her hands and looks down. As t
hough she were in church. She is wearing a pale yellow twin-set that she got in Denver when Claire was alive. Everything about their lives up until two months ago can be summed up like that: “when Claire was alive.” They have yet to say, “when Claire died.” Because she did not die, she was killed, but who can imagine saying, “when Claire was killed”? People are killed in car accidents and floods. Claire was murdered. And there will never come a time when her parents can say, “when Claire was murdered.” What they will say instead is, “when we lost Claire.”

  “… Upon this indictment he hath been arraigned, upon his arraignment he hath pleaded not guilty and for his trial has put himself upon his country, which country you are.”

  Sharon tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She will testify today, then she will return to Virginia. Today is like the last day of school before the summer holidays. First there will be a quiz. She will describe precisely what she put in her daughter’s lunchbox and she will describe the clothes her child was wearing. She will tell the story of Claire’s last day: “Claire came in and asked me to pack a snack and I said, don’t you want to help me make an apple pie for the Brownies? She asked if she could go for a bike-hike instead and I said, sure, but don’t forget you have to change into your Brownie uniform before supper, and she said, ‘I won’t forget, Momma.’” Thinking of this brings a smile to Sharon’s face. Claire is still here, in this courtroom. Along with her clothes and her Frankie and Annette lunchbox, exhibit number 23. And her charm bracelet. Blair puts an arm around his wife and bends to look into her face.

  “Now, gentlemen of the petit jury,” says the judge, “you have been sworn in this case and are therefore now seized with it. This young lad that we are about to try is charged with murder, which is the most serious offence known to our law….”

  A pathologist from Stratford is here. He will testify as to the medical evidence indicating that she died in the spot where she was found, and he will testify as to time of death. He sent the jar of stomach contents to the office of the Ontario Attorney General, where members of the biological analysis staff re-created Claire’s snack, including the cupcake, which they baked according to a recipe provided by Mrs. McCarroll. They ate it, along with a piece of Babybel cheese, and apple slices, then vomited in order to compare it to the victim’s stomach contents.

  “… and if you have heard any gossip about this case, as I am sure you have,” says the judge, “I don’t suppose it is possible to have lived in Huron County in the last two or three months without hearing something about it….”

  A few rows in front of Jack, Henry Froelich’s head is bowed—he is wiping his brow. Jack sees the back of Karen Froelich’s head. Straight fly-away hair. Mousy, even. Then she turns, he glimpses her profile and something jumps just below his sternum. Some women have mouths that are actually better defined without lipstick. The faint line bracketing the corner of her mouth—lips parted, close to her husband’s ear, whispering comfort.

  “Please dismiss it from your minds now …,” says the judge.

  Jack was at the preliminary hearing. It lasted a day. And given the little the prosecution could come up with, it’s a wonder the case proceeded to trial. Rick found the body. Rick was the last to see her alive. Rick fled from an intimidating cop. Time of death. End of story. Proving nothing. “… I would ask that you avoid reading any newspaper reports about this case and that you likewise avoid any radio reports or television….”

  This is a farce. Two families are being put through hell because of a botched police investigation. The local civilian population may be sleeping easier in their belief that the murderer has been found, but most parents in the PMQs are still on alert. “… at the hotel in Goderich, where, if you are not comfortable, gentlemen, do not hesitate to make demands upon the county….” The McCarrolls are among the few who now believe Rick may be guilty. And who can blame them for desiring a swift end to this aspect of their grief? “… if those chairs become hard, gentlemen, I have already requested that rubber cushions be brought in for your comfort, since it is important that you be able to give your full attention to….”

  Jack has put in for an early posting. He has gone over the head of the personnel officer at Centralia, straight to a superior officer he knew at 4 Wing in Germany. A couple of years ago Jack went out of his way to organize a last-minute flip to Canada on a service flight for this man’s family, earning an “any time I can do anything for you, Jack….” The group captain is now an air commodore at HQ in Ottawa—“What can I do for you, Jack?”

  Jack will move his family the moment his posting comes through. In fact, he will take his leave the moment the trial is over, pack his family into the Rambler and point it east for New Brunswick—now that school is out, it will be difficult to keep Madeleine within the PMQs and out of the woods.

  “May it please your Lordship”—the Crown attorney rises, his robes likewise black but heavier, woollen—“and ladies and gentlemen of the—pardon me, gentlemen of the jury….”

  Jack looks out the window at the tranquil square, picture perfect. Perhaps he should retire from the air force, hit civvy street. Go back overseas. As a consultant … for a big company … pharmaceuticals, widgets, it hardly matters. They’ll buy a house of their own, they’ll travel. Like old times. “… the time of death, to the time of finishing the last meal. Other times are also of importance—” Jack removes his jacket and straightens his back, wet now against the bench. The Crown attorney is outlining his case, such as it is. “… when she walked out of the house. That was the last time her mother ever saw her alive. But you will hear of her being in the playground of the school after that, where a Brownie pack—they are little girls commencing to be Girl Guides—was to gather. You will hear from two children who may be very important witnesses in your estimation, Marjorie Nolan and Grace Novotny….” The one name is familiar. Friends of Madeleine? What have they got to say? They were not at the preliminary hearing, no children were. “… they are girls from the same grade as Claire McCarroll and they were playing together that afternoon, and you will hear better from their own lips….”

  The precise time Claire left the playground, the precise time she met up with Ricky and Elizabeth. Half the children in the PMQs will be called to establish for the prosecution that which is not even in dispute: Claire shared her snack with Madeleine and Colleen at such-and-such a time. She left the playground at such-and-such a time. She met up with Rick and left the PMQs, etc…. Why must the children be subjected to this?

  The Crown attorney drones on, “… the place was a section of Huron County known to the children from the PMQs as Rock Bass. This is an invented name, you will not find it on any map, gentlemen. It is accessed by a dirt road called Third Line division road but you may expect to hear witnesses refer to it as ‘the dirt road,’ and it runs east-west between Number 4 Highway—that is the King’s Highway, not to be confused with County Road Number 4, with which it intersects farther north—as I said, between the King’s Highway and the Ausable River, this ‘dirt road’ is intersected—and this intersection may become important—by a section of road which is the southerly continuation of County Road Number 21, and which may be referred to in the course of this trial as ‘the county road’….” Is the Crown doing it on purpose? Is this strategy? Jack looks at the jury: twelve drowsy men. What follows is a baroque account of how long it takes to jog while pushing a wheelchair from the PMQs to Rock Bass, linger long enough to violate and murder a child, then jog back again in order to return to the PMQs by a certain time. The judge grimaces and shifts in his seat.

  It is not physically possible for Rick to have committed the crime at Rock Bass, then returned to the PMQs via the route he claims to have taken, in time to arrive home when his mother and several witnesses will say he did—including his basketball coach, who received a phone call from him from a phone number that Bell telephone records will confirm is the Froelichs’. The time when Rick left for his run and the time when he returned are
not in dispute. All that is in dispute is where he went and what he did in between. “… you will hear that the accused claims to have exchanged a greeting in the form of a wave with a passing motorist, an air force man, on the King’s Highway Number 4, and you will hear a police inspector tell you that, despite a thorough investigation….” Jack blinks twice rapidly, his eyes stung by salt sweat.

  SUNSHINE, LOLLIPOPS AND PUP TENTS

  MIMI HAS TOLD MADELEINE that she would rather she didn’t play with Colleen Froelich “for the time being,” or spend so much time over at the Froelich house. She has been careful to explain to Madeleine that it’s not because there is anything “bad” about Colleen or the Froelich family, it’s just that the Froelichs have a lot on their minds these days. Madeleine was guiltily relieved. The Froelichs’ house has become dark in her mind. So has Colleen—she is halfway to Claire.

  Summer holidays. No more homework, no more books! No more teachers’ dirty looks! Glorious June. Madeleine spent the morning with Auriel and Lisa, running through the sprinkler in their bathing suits, until the pool opened over on the base. Then they put on their bright new thongs, still springy at the heels, grabbed their beach towels, sunglasses and Auriel’s transistor radio, and headed over for three hours of splashing, cannonballing, choking, and stinging water up the nose. “No running on the deck!” They sunbathed on the Riviera with Troy Donahue and shrieked with laughter when Roy Noonan’s swim trunks ballooned in the water. When they returned to the PMQs, hungry for lunch and replete with sun, there was a moving van in Lisa’s driveway.

  Now the three of them sit in Auriel’s pup tent, peeling her sunburn. They are so much older and wiser than when they last gathered in this enchanted orange twilight and watched the dust motes float across the triangular mesh window. Auriel’s mother has allowed them to bring their pyramid of peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches into the tent in honour of Lisa’s farewell. The girls knew the moving van was coming today but it is still a shock to see it: the yellow ship rocking across the painted waves. The Ridelles are moving to B.C.