“You are a good neighbour,” says Henry Froelich.
Madeleine’s foot has gone to sleep, crouched as she is outside Mike’s door. Bugs Bunny is asleep too, his ears criss-crossed over his eyes to block the night light. The only good thing about Ricky Froelich being arrested today is that no one has noticed the cut in Madeleine’s palm. She has kept it hidden, curled in her hand. It has scabbed over nicely and ceased to sting. She looks at it now in the semi-dark — a speck of moisture gleams at one end of the seam, she is tempted to see how far she can open her hand without causing it to bleed afresh. She hears the front door open downstairs, and steals back to her room as quietly as possible on pins and needles. Dad is home.
Mimi has left the kitchen light on. She has made him a meatloaf sandwich and placed it on the counter under Saran Wrap. Jack puts it in the fridge. He reaches to the cupboard above it and takes down the bottle of Scotch. A bottle lasts a long time in this house, it is still half full from last fall. Johnnie Walker Red. He pours a shot and swallows it. Puts an ice cube in his glass and pours another.
He takes off his shoes and creeps upstairs with his drink. The night light is on in the hall. His daughter’s door stands half open; he looks in on her. She is asleep on her back, curved like a fish, halo of hair on her pillow. He wipes his left eye, which always seeps after a headache. It was good to cry, he’s not made of stone. The ice snaps softly in his glass but she doesn’t stir. The room is full of her child’s breath, flannel, toothpaste and dreams. My little girl is safe.
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer lies on her bedside table next to a tattered Golden Book, Pinocchio. She is a scallywag. She will grow up to be anything she wants to be. My little spitfire. “Good night, sweetie,” he whispers.
Madeleine doesn’t answer, nor does she open her eyes when she feels his hand upon her forehead. He thinks she is asleep. She doesn’t want to disappoint him.
Before he turns to leave, she thinks she hears him say, “I love you,” and this is surprising because he always says, “Maman and I love you kids very much.” But she has heard it, and it’s one more reason to allow him to think she is asleep. Through the slits of her eyelids she sees his back silhouetted by the night light, and she moves her lips soundlessly—“I love you, Daddy.”
This too is a little surprising because, although it’s more often girls who call their fathers “Daddy,” unlike Mike, she never does.
Lingering in his wake like a spirit, the smell of liquor from his glass, sharp amber, a new smell in her room. She adds it to her drawer of smells for Dad — cigars and blue wool, leather, Old Spice and newspapers, and his scalp after she has rubbed his head.
In his bedroom Jack undoes his pants, careful not to let his belt buckle hit the floor. He drains his glass, drops his socks and eases into bed; it feels like heaven. He smells her hairspray, warm remnants of the day’s perfume — she turns. “Did you look in on Mike?”
He blinks in the dark. “Why?”
“He couldn’t get to sleep, he was so upset.”
Upset? Right, a fight with his son. Over what? Television. Blasted idiot box.
“Jack. Did you hit him?”
“What? When?”
“Tonight.”
“No, no, lost my temper’s all.”
“Go tuck him in,” she says, stroking his shoulder.
She must know something is going on. Everyone has taken the little girl’s death to heart, everyone is upset about the boy’s arrest, but she must know something is on his mind.
“Go on,” she says, finding his lips in the dark, giving him a kiss.
He gets up from the bed. Jack has never brought his work home. He brings home his paycheque and his undivided affection. Men have to take things on by themselves sometimes, and not burden their wives — he finds his robe on the back of the door — their wives have enough to do. He knows she won’t pry. Not if he’s okay tomorrow.
He goes to his son’s room. The moon filters through the curtains — spaceships and ringed planets. On the wall, the Canadian Golden Hawks still hold pride of place, but they have been encroached upon by a buildup of heavy armour clipped from magazines. B-52 bombers brood over a runway. A Sherman tank hulks amid tropical foliage, the cam-blackened eyes of a U.S. combat soldier peer through palm fronds. The Few, the Proud….
He looks down at his son, curled in a snaggle of sheet and blanket, brow furrowed in sleep. Who is he like? Jack’s own father? Maybe; Jack doesn’t remember him that well. He was a little hard on the boy this evening. Well, he’s a boy. Boys need to learn. Tomorrow we’ll do something — what’s tomorrow? Wednesday. We’ll go to the rec centre, get out the floor hockey equipment.
He picks up a baseball cap from the floor—“4 Fighter Wing”—and hangs it on the edge of the mirror over the dresser. Before turning to leave, he glances back down at the bed. His son is an arrow that he can point, draw back and release. He wants to fire him off in the right direction. Mike is a strong boy, he loves his mother. Jack just wants him to do the things he never got a chance to do. Don’t disappoint me.
“Did you tuck him in?” asks Mimi as he crawls back into bed.
“He’s asleep,” says Jack, reaching back to pat her. She curls against his back, slips her arm around his waist. Nibbles his earlobe. He doesn’t stir. She kisses his neck.
“Jack?” she whispers.
“’Night, sweetheart,” he mumbles. “Love you.” And he’s out cold.
In Goderich, Ricky Froelich is wide awake. Out his high window is a glimpse of branches against the blue-black sky. If he jumps, grabs the bars and hoists himself up, he can see the stone wall that separates the courtyard from the tree and the town beyond. On a sunny day or on a dark night such as this, the county jail is either picturesque or tinglingly Gothic. Either way, it is the oldest jail in Ontario, and one of the sights of Goderich, seat of Huron County, the prettiest town in Canada.
It has happened a couple of times now that Rick has dozed off, then been awakened by the words “You still awake, son, feel like talking?” And they bring him out of his cell, give him a Coke and ask, “What did you do when you got to the intersection, Rick?”
Madeleine dreams of the Donnelly tombstone, but instead of the chiselled names, each followed by the word Murdered, there are the names of the Froelich kids and, after each one, Adopted.
RICKY FROELICH Adopted
ELIZABETH FROELICH Adopted
COLLEEN FROELICH Adopted
ROGER FROELICH Adopted
CARL FROELICH Adopted
Rex is there and he’s licking an ice cream cone with his pink tongue, and someone’s voice says, “Rex is an Indian.” Madeleine doesn’t want to turn around because she knows that Claire is behind her, and the voice says, “Look at my ice screamer,” and just then Madeleine sees that it isn’t an ice cream cone, it’s a pink streamer — She wakes up with a yelp still in her throat. She has wet the bed again, oh no. She gets up and feels the sheets — even her pillow is wet. She sniffs the damp patch, tamped down in the shape of her body. It’s only sweat. She stares out her window at the placid moon. The moon has nothing against anyone. She stares at it, allowing it to cool the fear. There is kindness in that cool place.
~ ~ ~