Way the Crow Flies (38 page)

He pulls out into the full force of the afternoon sun. He touches his breast pocket but he has left his sunglasses at home—he had no way of knowing he’d be driving today. No point going home to get them, that would entail telling some silly fib to Mimi. Besides, the windows of the Ford are tinted and Jack does have his hat. He lowers the brim over his eyes, he’ll be fine.

He points the car south on the Huron County road. It’s a nice day for a drive. If anyone asks—which nobody will—he has zipped down to London to meet with a guest lecturer for the COS.

Simon called this afternoon. Oskar Fried is here.

“Proceed to the front of the class, little girl. Yes, you. The one with the pixie cut.”

The Spitfire is still visible in Jack’s rearview mirror when he returns his eyes to the road and recognizes the Froelich boy running on the
shoulder, coming toward him. He is pushing his sister in her wheelchair with its homemade shock absorbers—sharp little rig—the big German shepherd trotting alongside, the little convoy kicking up a halo of dust. Jack smiles and touches two fingers to the brim of his hat as he passes. Rick waves.

He watches them retreat in his mirror and it occurs to him that the Froelich boy is missing school this afternoon—unless this outing counts as part of his athletic training—because it has barely gone three o’clock. He adjusts his mirror and gets the feeling he’s forgetting something. What?

Madeleine has left by the side door and is halfway across the field, running all the way home, when the siren sounds. Her legs seem to decelerate and—even though she can still feel the wind in her hair, still see her Mary Janes carrying her as fast as they can—everything goes slow-motion. The siren has changed the air, made it thick, her legs are heavy, thighs like wet cement; the sound rises, rises, wailing; she squints against it as against a blare of light, she cannot look up, the siren is obliterating the sky, painting it metal, it is thickening the liquid in her body and liquefying what was solid. She is cold, cold, there is terrible sorrow in the sound, it is the real sound of what it was like to be Anne Frank, and nothing can save you now, even the birds can’t be saved, even the grass…. And then it stops. It’s a normal sunny day again.

Jack reaches for the car radio and turns it on, twisting the dial across the band, looking for news of the crisis….
represents a major shift in the balance of power…
. His excitement at meeting Oskar Fried has been put into perspective. It’s no longer an adventure, something to spice up the sleepy prime of Jack McCarthy’s life. No longer theoretical, as Henry Froelich might say. Oskar Fried has come to join our side in the war we call peace. When “Major Newbolt” called this afternoon, Jack went straight to the phone booth and returned the call. “Our friend has arrived,” said Simon. Jack was surprised. Fried already in London? Just twenty-five miles down the road? Simon had to have worked pretty quickly—Berlin must be locked down tight by now. Still, Jack had expected, if not advance notice, then
Simon himself. Had looked forward to introducing him to Mimi, showing off his family, then sinking a few over at the mess. But Simon has already been and gone. Nothing personal, mate.

… on September 11 when Gromyko denied that the weapons were offensive in nature…
. Jack turns up the volume.

Madeleine runs the rest of the way home, then all the way upstairs, and checks her underpants. It’s okay. She knew it would be. He didn’t do any poking today. Just strangling. Of himself.

Simon said, “You might want to look in on him tonight.”

Jack knows it was no mere suggestion. In any case, he has no intention of waiting until this evening. Not only is he eager to meet the man—to shake his hand in this week of weeks—but he’s also not in a position to disappear for an unexplained evening visit to London. He would have to offer an explanation, and that would mean lying to his wife. Lies are like clutter on a radar screen: they obscure your target.

…
and the first direct confrontation between the two superpowers…
.

Jack asked Simon about procedure. “Can I have him to the house for Sunday brunch? What’s the drill on introducing him to my family, making him feel at home?”

“Your call, mate. I suggest you meet him first.”

“Who should I say he is?”

“Tell the truth as far as possible. His name is Oskar Fried and he’s a German scientist.”

“At the university?”

“That’s right. On sabbatical. Keep it simple.”

“How did I meet him?”

“You met him in Germany, through your German friends—you did have German friends?”

“Of course.” But Jack and Mimi had the same friends. If the scientist were someone closely enough acquainted with Jack to look him up on arrival in Canada, Mimi would have at least heard of him. Simon makes it sound simple, but Simon isn’t married. “Here’s what you need to know,” he said, and gave Jack instructions as to how to pick up the money he would wire. No more than six hundred dollars a month. It sounds like plenty to Jack, and will seem like a fortune
to someone who has spent the last seventeen years behind the Iron Curtain. It must be difficult even to get a decent meal there. In that respect it’s not unlike living in England, thinks Jack, and smiles, reminding himself to say that to Simon next time they’re talking.

…
risk war unless Khrushchev agrees to dismantle all offensive weapons…
.

Madeleine pulls her jumper off over her head, undoes her strangulating school blouse, pausing only to smell her hands—they smell fine—and hollers from the top of the stairs, “Can I go fishing?!” Colleen has not invited her but she doesn’t want to be with Auriel and Lisa yet, so—

“Madeleine, don’t yell!”

If she were allowed to watch TV right after school, all her problems would be solved, but she is not. She could be watching
The Mickey Mouse Club
, or
Razzle Dazzle
, with Howard the Turtle and beautiful Michele Finney, and the after-three feeling would ebb away. “Can I?!” She hurtles down the stairs, jumps the last five steps, whips perilously around the banister—

“Doucement, Madeleine!”

She stands stiffly in front of her mother, feeling like a collection of hard sticks in her play clothes, this is what a wooden puppet must feel like—

“Permission to go fishin,’ ma’am.” She salutes, banging her head, crossing one eye.

Mimi laughs; Madeleine takes it as a yes and turns to flee.

“Attends, Madeleine!
Where do you fish?”

She stops and turns. “Rock Bass.”

“C’est où
, Rock Bass?”

“It’s down a dirt road, you can almost see the airfield, it’s close.” She doesn’t mention burnt-out campfires, she doesn’t mention Colleen Froelich.

“Who are you going with?”

“Um. Can I call on Colleen?”

“You know what I said about Colleen Froelich.”

Madeleine suppresses a groan, because she senses that her mother may be about to relent on the Colleen issue.

“All right. But I want you home in one hour.”

“Yabba-dabba-doo!” She races from the kitchen.

“And no TV over there,” calls her mother behind her.

Madeleine jumps down the three steps to the front door—she would like to burst right through the screen, the way the Cartwrights burst through the Shell sign at the beginning of
Bonanza
. She runs like a hard puppet across the street, but slows and turns back into a real live girl when she sees Ricky Froelich. He’s drinking from the hose. He is in red jeans and a sweaty white singlet. The water runs down the front of his shirt, pasting it to his chest; his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his collarbones rising and falling with his breath.

“Hi pal.” He holds out the hose and she sips, ice-cold; then he offers it to Rex, who bites the water, pink gums and white fangs. The best drink in the world.

“Hi Elizabeth,” says Madeleine.

“Ay Ademin.”

She walks up to the Froelichs’ front door and knocks on the glass panel above the screen.

“Go on in,” says Ricky. But Madeleine doesn’t. It’s as though there were an invisible force field around other people’s front doors, you can’t just walk up and open them. Just as you can’t open someone else’s fridge.

Mrs. Froelich appears. “Hi Madeleine, come on in.”

Madeleine doesn’t have time to say, “Can Colleen come out and play?” She follows Mrs. Froelich in and back to the kitchen. There are dirty dishes on the counter. Breakfast things still on the table.

She says, “Mrs. Froelich?”

“Call me Karen, kiddo.”

Madeleine opens her mouth to say it but cannot. Now she can’t call Mrs. Froelich anything. She watches silently as Colleen’s mother feeds the baby boys, each in a battered high chair. There is a splotch of crusty baby gunk on her vest. It’s a long plaid wool vest, loose and groovy. Madeleine slowly, deferentially sits down on one of the chairs, a tear in its vinyl pad, and wonders what will happen next. Mrs. Froelich has long straight hair parted in the middle with silver streaks. Her face looks different from the other mothers’. You can’t
picture her sitting at a vanity table. No offence, but Mrs. Froelich looks like a young witch—a good one.

Colleen walks through the kitchen, mutters “Hi,” then goes out the back door. Madeleine is unsure whether to follow so she stays put. Ricky comes in with Elizabeth and starts talking on the phone. He makes a peanut-butter bender and eats it in one bite. He makes another and hands it to Madeleine. He is talking to Marsha Woodley.

Even when he’s all sweaty, Ricky Froelich looks freshly showered. He shaves too, she can see a patch of stubble at his chin and along his jaw, his cheeks are stained red with air and exercise. His legs are long and lean, one foot crossed over the other. His hands do everything casually and perfectly, such as make a sandwich and hold it for Elizabeth to bite. Even if his house smells like old stew and Elizabeth is drooling peanut butter, Ricky Froelich is clean. Like a teenager on TV, he seems carefree. He seems … American.

Mr. Froelich comes in, smoking a pipe and carrying a German newspaper.

“Madeleine, wie geht’s, hast du Hunger?”

“No, I just had a peanut-butter sandwich,
danke.”

“Good, fine
und
dandy,
komm mit mir, wir haben viel Lego in den
living room.” His dark eyes twinkle, his red lips moist around his pipestem, like Santa.

She follows him into the living room and sees a mountain of Lego piled next to the playpen. And sitting on the floor next to it is Claire McCarroll. It’s like discovering an elf under a mushroom cap, Claire in the Froelichs’ living room. With her bracelet full of lucky charms. She is building a house out of Lego.

Madeleine sits next to her and starts hunting for wheels to make a car to go with the house. Mr. Froelich puts on a record. A woman with a deep voice sings a tune that Madeleine recognizes, but with French words,
Qui peut dire, où vont les fleurs
….
?
Madeleine hums along.

Mr. Froelich says from his armchair, “You like Dietrich?”

Madeleine nods politely, yes. Who is Deetrick?

There is the soft sound of Lego clicking together and the occasional rustle of Mr. Froelich’s newspaper. Madeleine sings along softly in English, “‘ … gone to soldiers, every one. When will they ever learn? When will they e-e-e-ver learn? …’”

Maman needn’t have worried. The Froelichs don’t even have a TV.

Jack follows the curve of the cul-de-sac that is Morrow Street and parks at the foot of the manicured lawn of the yellow brick lowrise.
… in other developments, U.N. Secretary General U Thant sent identical letters to Mr. Khrushchev and President Kennedy
—He switches off the radio.

He gets out and walks up to the front doors beneath the porte cochère. He enters the empty vestibule and sees a house phone. Through a glass wall to his right is a small lobby, likewise deserted. Couch, leather armchair, coffee table with three or four magazines fanned out. A potted benjamina gathers dust in one corner.

He scans the framed directory on the wall and finds what he’s looking for:
O. F. apt. #321
. As he dials the number he glances at the wall of small metal mailboxes: the discreet typed initials reappear there,
O. F. O
ur
F
riend. Of course! Jack shakes his head. Simon.

The line rings a third time. There is a brief pause followed by a reedy voice. “
Ja?
”

“Hello, Herr Fried? This is Wing Commander McCarthy, sir. I’m here to welcome you.”

There is no reply. Instead, Jack is startled by a loud buzzer. He hangs up in time to grab the handle of the glass door. Two steps lead up to the elevator. He takes them in one stride.

After a sluggish liftoff, the elevator stops at the second floor and an elderly lady gets on. Jack nods but she seems not to register his presence. When the doors close and the elevator rises, however, she looks up at him. “Down,” she says accusingly.

He exits at the third floor. The smell of lavender follows him out and down the hall, where it’s joined by the fug of a thick gravy. Someone’s dinner will be ready long before five.

It crosses his mind that you would never in a million years walk into this apartment building, along this corridor with its carpet-muffle of orange and red paisley, through the duvet of dinner smells and geriatric perfume, and expect to find a high-level Soviet defector. Simon has selected everything for invisibility.

The door marked 321 is at the end of the hall. A corner unit. Jack removes his hat, stands in front of the peephole and knocks. He has
butterflies in his stomach. Simon has been characteristically low-key about the whole thing, but the facts speak for themselves. Jack is about to meet—has been entrusted with the well-being of—a man whose life and work and presence here derive from the crucible of international relations which at this very moment are affecting the lives of everyone on earth. He takes a deep breath. Considers knocking again.

Finally, a fumbling behind the door. Slide of a deadbolt, the knob turns, the door opens a few inches. Above the safety chain, a stripe of white face, scant grey hair. Spectacles.