The Way the Crow Flies

by Ann-Marie MacDonald

  An hour later she snuck into Mike’s room.

  “Mike, what’s the big hairy deal?”

  “The Russians have got nukes in Cuba and they’re aimed at us.”

  “Oh. So?”

  “So. It means World War Three.”

  “Oh. Is Dad going to have to fight?”

  “We’ll prob’ly just all get incinerated unless we have a bomb shelter.”

  “Do we have one?”

  “Nope, but I’m going to build one.”

  “Can I help?”

  “It’s not a game, Madeleine.”

  “I know that.”

  At breakfast the radio was on as usual, men’s voices, dark and shiny like black suits. “… who is going to blink first? Castro has said that any attempt to—” Maman switched it off.

  “Dad, is there going to be a war?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Mike.”

  He got a look from Dad. “I doubt that very much.”

  Silence.

  Mimi poured more coffee. Jack turned a page of his Globe and Mail. Madeleine saw the headline, U.S. NAVY WILL BLOCK ARMS FLOW TO CUBA.

  “Kennedy’s no fool,” said her father.

  “He’s a good man,” said her mother, and Madeleine was surprised to see her make the sign of the cross and turn away with her lips moving—praying. President Kennedy is Catholic, of course he’s good.

  Mike asked, “Are we going to go on alert?”

  Dad said from behind the paper, “Why would we do that, Mike?”

  “The Americans’ve gone to defcon 3.”

  “What’s that?” asked Madeleine.

  “It’s routine,” replied her father.

  Maman buttered toast. Sliced it.

  Mike said, “Is there still going to be a game tonight in Exeter?”

  “Of course, Mike, why wouldn’t there be?” Dad sounded annoyed, but maybe it was just his man-to-man voice.

  After a moment, Mike said, “Dad, when can I go up in a Chipmunk?”

  Dad sounded distracted, as though he had never heard of a Chipmunk. “What?”

  Mike slouched. “Nothing.”

  Madeleine contemplated her father’s newspaper, imagining eyeholes cut out in President Kennedy’s face for spying. Her eyes wandered down the column … proclaimed a quarantine. That is when someone in a house is sick and you put a mark on their door so no one can go in or out. There was a quarantine in Cuba. She recalled a fascinating picture she had pored over in Mike’s grade six history book of the Black Death. Shrivelled people in cloaks, with no teeth; the blue-bonnet plague. “Is the plague in Cuba?”

  Her father lowered the paper. “What? No … well, that’s one way of putting it.” Her mother glanced at him and he added, “Naw, the U.S. is just makin’ sure Cuba doesn’t get any more weapons, that’s all.” Then cleared his throat.

  Madeleine ate her Cheerios. Her crunching sounded very loud. The newspaper stayed perfectly still. Mike sprinkled sugar on his Sugar Crisps.

  After a while Dad said, “We were more worried when the Wall went up.”

  Maman lit a cigarette and said, “That’s for sure.” And everything felt normal again.

  Mr. March puts away the projection screen and pulls down the map of the world. “Here is Cuba”—he uses his pointer—“and here is Centralia.” He taps again. “Anyone who thinks the Russian missiles could not reach Centralia is sorely mistaken.”

  They are doing a special grade four air-raid drill: when Mr. March smacks his desk with the pointer, they all duck under their desks and cover their heads with their hands, like Bert the turtle in his shell.

  “Good,” he says, adding, “This is one exercise where I expect you all to be tortoises.”

  Obliging laughter.

  Jack walks to work. It looks like a normal day. Children on their way to school, fresh laundry on the lines. When he kissed Mimi goodbye she asked him if he was worried and he said, “Naw, not really. It’s a whole lot of sabre-rattling.” She smiled and asked what he wanted for supper tonight, and he left feeling better for having reassured her. Able to concentrate on what lies ahead. He is eager to get to work. To do something. That’s the best remedy.

  And there will be plenty to do. Centralia is a primary flying school where cadets earn their wings. A place where officers are trained to improve their leadership and management skills. Hardly a tactical centre. But it is a military base. U.S. and Canadian aircraft could be dispersed here to get them away from target areas. He fully expects to be advised by the commandant of an increase in the military alert status—virtually routine and in accordance with the NORAD agreement. Merely one stage in a series of flexible conditions geared toward an orderly transition from peace to war. He takes a deep breath. Merely good management.

  As he leaves the PMQ patch and crosses the Huron County road toward the Spitfire, he is as close to marching as he ever gets, speaking his thoughts in his mind to the rhythm of his footfalls—logistical support, air transport, aid the civilian population in the event of an attack, in the event of an attack, in the event of an attack—He touches the brim of his hat in response to the guard on duty, who has delivered an uncharacteristically stiff salute.

  In the space of a day, the world has changed. The ordinary has begun to look precious. It’s a familiar feeling. He felt it in Europe last summer when the Wall went up. And yet, for all the imagined horror, nuclear and conventional, there was the sense that Europe had been through many wars. This is different. This is home. A foreign attack on North American soil…. Nothing would ever be the same. He glances up at the old air-raid siren. Naive relic. Not much use except to the crows who have built their nest there. Our early warning will come from the DEW line high in the north. We’ll have fifteen to eighteen minutes to hide. Where?

  On the far side of the parade square, a group of officers including Vic Boucher and Steve Ridelle is gathering. Everyone is in early. Jack quickens his pace.

  The First World War was supposed to be “the war to end all war.” The Third World War will end everything. The most likely scenario is the destruction of key cities on both sides, the U.S.S.R. taking the brunt in the short term, the long term being universal disease, starvation, death. The planet will no longer be able to support life as we know it. And so far this is the only planet we know…. Tears spring to his eyes, surprising him, at the thought that it may end for man before he can reach the stars. He blinks, embarrassed in spite of himself, unaware that his mind is doing what minds do best—keeping the worst thoughts at bay, replacing them with manageable ones: the search for other worlds cut short, versus the annihilation of your children.

  He joins his colleagues. “Well, like the Chinaman says, eh? ‘May you live in interesting times.’” They laugh.

  Warrant Officer Pinder is there. He looks coiled, his brush cut bristling, busted boxer’s nose ready for a fight, which for him means a clean sweep of every nut, bolt, blanket and engine on the station. “Morning, sir,” he says to Jack and salutes. Group Captain Woodley joins them. They all salute. Woodley informs them that there has been no change in the alert status of the Canadian military. There’s a pause, then Jack says, “Unbelievable.”

  “The scuttlebutt is,” says Woodley, “start preparing, but do so ‘discreetly.’ The Prime Minister doesn’t want to alarm the public.”

  Vic Boucher says, “That’s like serving the soup while the house is on fire so’s not to alarm the guests.”

  They stand there at a loss, perhaps a dozen of them. In uniform, ready aye ready. With nothing to do. Stranded. As though they had just missed a bus.

  Mimi gets up. She has been praying in her kitchen. Our Lord doesn’t mind where you pray, He doesn’t require a hat or a missal, He sees past rubber gloves and surely He wants His creation to survive. She is in her dreadful hausfrau clothes. She will clean from top to bottom today, then she will cook one of Jack’s favourites: a bouillie of spare ribs, potatoes, cabbage, turnip, carrots and string beans. Today is
not a day to drop in on a neighbour for coffee. She does not wish to become caught up in fear and speculation. That doesn’t help the men do their jobs, it just gives them one more thing to worry about. This morning she kissed her husband goodbye as usual, and when he told her not to worry, she smiled and told him to come home hungry. He was relieved. That is her job.

  At noon, Jack heads for the mess. As of tomorrow morning, the Americans will enforce a strict blockade or “quarantine” on all offensive military equipment under shipment to Cuba, unless Khrushchev agrees to dismantle the missiles there. Britain has issued a statement in support of the quarantine, and so has the rest of the free world—with the exception of Canada. By noon, Prime Minister Diefenbaker has done nothing but call for “calm and the banishment of those things which sometimes separate us”—meaning Canada and the U.S.—while at the same time proposing that the U.N. go to Cuba and “verify” the presence of offensive weapons. He is implying that Kennedy is lying. Either that or Dief is terminally indecisive.

  “We’re on the brink of war and our prime minister wants to strike another committee,” says Steve Ridelle.

  “There’s nothing worse than a hands-on manager,” says Vic.

  “Especially when he’s sitting on them,” says Jack, and they all laugh.

  A bunch of them are brown-bagging it but have gathered at the mess to talk, because there is not much more for them to do in the face of the crisis. Weapons of sudden mass destruction are aimed at the western hemisphere, Soviet ships are steaming toward Havana, as they unwrap the wax paper from their sandwiches. American troops are conducting the biggest peacetime manoeuvre ever in West Berlin, as Russian armoured columns advance.

  “What’ve you got, Steve?”

  “Looks like some kind of fancy bologna.”

  “Those are pimentos.”

  “What can I say? Guess I ain’t got no class.”

  Jack says, “Dief is playing politics with national security ’cause he doesn’t want to be seen to be dancing to the American tune.”

  “I don’t get it,” says Jack’s neighbour, Bryson. “We’re all sitting under the same flight path. Part of the same target area.”

  Jack knows the young officer is thinking of his new baby at home—all the men at this table are fathers. He reaches for his coffee and sees Nolan entering the mess. He lifts a hand, intending to invite him over, but Nolan appears not to notice. He finds a table at the far end and sits with a book.

  “Who does he think is going to protect us if we’re too gutless to do it ourselves?” says Lawson. “Britain?”

  “Fat chance,” says Vic.

  “Never mind that we saved their bacon in two world wars,” says Ted Lawson.

  “Dief would rather stand up and sing ‘God Save the Queen’ while the whole map turns red,” says Baxter.

  Vic leans forward, his French accent coiling tighter as he speaks. “If we don’t be—if we are not prepared to participate in the defence of our own borders, we might as well be the fifty-first state.”

  “The Americans will defend us whether we like it or not,” says Woodley.

  “So much for sovereignty,” says Jack. “Use it or lose it.”

  They eat. The bartender sends over a plate of pickled eggs, on the house.

  “What about the Bomarcs?” asks Vogel. “They must be armed by now.”

  No one answers at first. It’s a naive statement. Diefenbaker has refused either to arm the American missiles or to say straight out that they are not armed.

  “Don’t hold your breath,” says Vic.

  “Dief wants to make hay out of both sides of the nuclear debate,” says Steve.

  “He’s trying to fight his way to the middle,” says Jack.

  “No such thing when it comes to nukes,” says Vic. “That’s like saying you’re a little bit pregnant.” Steve and the others laugh. Jack merely smiles, and Hal Woodley’s calm expression doesn’t change; he lights a cigarette and tosses the pack onto the table. Jack reflects that even if it turns out Canada has lost her nuclear virginity, Canadians will be left to wonder just who has the authority to fire the outmoded missiles. Do we or don’t we? Only our prime minister knows for sure.

  As though Hal Woodley has read his thoughts, he says, “That type of secrecy is very dangerous in a democracy.”

  “It’s called lying,” says Jack.

  They eat in silence. There is probably not one among them who wouldn’t like a beer right about now, but no one is going to order one unless Woodley does. Woodley accepts a top-up of his coffee from the waiter. After a moment he says evenly, “The security of the U.S. is the security of Canada, and vice versa. That’s not just the NORAD agreement, it’s the Basic Security Plan. Dief has to honour it.”

  Jack feels like apologizing to Blair McCarroll for Canada’s poor showing. The young man is quiet, as usual. Jack watches him staring down at the lunch his wife has packed for him—ham and cheese on a kaiser, homemade pecan tart. If Jack feels useless, think how McCarroll must feel. He should be in the cockpit of a tactical interceptor, patrolling the Florida coast. Jack is tempted to reach for a cigarette. He quit years ago, when his daughter was born. He shakes his head. “What’s Dief waiting for?”

  Vic says, “We need a Mackenzie King, we need a St. Laurent.”

  “We need a Frenchman,” jokes Steve.

  “Anyone but this prairie haystick,” says Vic.

  “Hayseed.” Jack winks.

  “I don’t mind where he’s from,” says Vic. “Saskatchewan’s full of good people—”

  “Better believe it,” says Hal Woodley.

  “What I mind,” says Vic, “is this guy—”

  “Dief the Chief,” puts in Steve.

  “He doesn’t know what he doesn’t know,” says Vic. “And he doesn’t want to know.”

  “He’s asleep at the switch,” says Jack. And there is nothing to add.

  “‘It’s a world of laughter a world of tears, it’s a world of hopes and a world of fears….’” Mr. March has declared that there is no finer patriotic gesture than to sing in the face of peril. Twenty-nine grade four voices, raised in unison: “‘ … It’s a small world, after all! It’s a small world after all, it’s a small world after all, it’s a small world after all, it’s a small, small world….’”

  Elaine Ridelle has phoned Mimi twice, then popped over. She’s terrified. She asks where Mimi hides the sherry. Mimi pours her a drink and calls Betty Boucher. She speaks discreetly, almost in code, but Betty knows right away what’s up—Elaine has already popped in on her and found the Pimm’s.

  Mimi puts the stopper back in the decanter and changes out of her hausfrau clothes as Betty arrives with her four-year-old and a bushel of apples to peel; between the two of them they will have Elaine more or less shipshape by five. She is seven months pregnant and afraid the world will end before she gives birth. Betty tells her she ought to be more worried about giving birth to a lush, and puts the kettle on. They do not discuss the crisis, beyond Betty’s comment that she isn’t about to have her day ruined by “that Russian pipsqueak.”

  They are joined by Dot from next door with her baby, and, almost as an afterthought, Mimi calls Sharon McCarroll. Elaine may be the squeaky wheel, but Sharon is farther from home than any of them—except of course Betty, but Betty lived through the Blitz. Sharon is crying as she speaks, but far from hysterical. She forms her sentences as diffidently as ever. “I’m just worried about my family, Mimi—you know, my folks in Virginia.”

  Mimi takes the phone receiver into the dining room and lowers her voice while Betty distracts Elaine in the kitchen. “Of course you are, but you know it’s going to be fine.”

  “At least my folks don’t have to worry so much about us, being up here and all,” says Sharon, brightening.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m praying, Mimi.”

  “We all are, dear, and we’re praying for your president.”

  She hears a small sob at the other end of
the line. “Thank you.”

  “Listen, ma p’tite, it’s going to blow over, meantime we have to just worry it out, and I hate to do that alone.”

  “Oh Mimi, would you like me to come over?”

  “That would make me feel a whole lot better.”

  The four of them play a round of bridge and exchange trade secrets, among them the exact nature of their housework clothes—ugly old maternity tops, diaper bandanas and ragbag slippers, the shock their husbands would get if they ever caught them like that. All except Sharon, who, when pressed, admits to changing into slacks and an old V-neck sweater. Silence, then the others laugh till they weep, while Sharon smiles, a little puzzled, and Mimi gets up and hugs her.

  On the way back to work, Jack finds that Blair McCarroll is walking with him. He says to Jack with no preamble, “In a way I’m glad I’m up here, on account of my family’s here too. Safer for them.” Jack nods. McCarroll continues, “But I feel like a damn fool.” Jack nods again. “Not doing what I’m trained to do,” says McCarroll in his farm-boy drawl.

  Jack wishes he could tell Blair why he is up here; that it’s not entirely pointless. Instead, he claps a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “We’re a hundred percent behind you, McCarroll. And you’re right about your family. Just as well, eh? Safer here in the middle of nowhere.”

  Blair returns the stoic smile.

  “The following little girls will remain after the bell….”

  Perhaps Mr. March places a higher value on their survival. He has kept them behind to practise duck and cover under his big oak desk, “which is bound to provide more shelter in the event of an air raid.”

  Marjorie squeals and skips to the front. Grace grins, looks back at the other girls ranged against the coat hooks and follows Marjorie. He makes them both duck and cover under his desk at the same time. Then they emerge and it’s Madeleine’s turn.

  Back in his office, Jack stares at the phone. He wonders if he ought to go out to the booth at the edge of the parade square and call Simon. If the Soviets pull another Berlin Blockade in response to this crisis, it’s game over for anyone trying to defect to the West. So much for our hopes of depriving the Soviets of the scientific expertise of people like “our friend,” Oskar Fried.