“Asks what?”
“If you saw him.”
“Saw who?”
“Ricky, who else?” Colleen is looking straight at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Last Wednesday with Claire.”
Madeleine doesn’t want to talk about Claire any more. She wants to drive away from Claire like scenery she will never visit again. She starts walking, and Colleen walks backwards ahead of her.
“You got to say you saw him turn left at the willow tree.”
“Yeah but I didn’t,” says Madeleine.
“Yeah but he did turn left.”
Madeleine squints and curls her lip. “Why should I shay I sheen what I never shaw, shee?” asks Humphrey Bogart.
“’Cause they think he raped and murdered her.”
Madeleine stops short. “What’s rape?” The question escapes her like a weak bird, emaciated and able to slip through the bars. She looks down, because she doesn’t want Colleen to answer. It’s a dark, sour word. She knows what it means, she only wishes to go on not having a word for it. She smells tobacco and looks up. Colleen is lighting a cigarette, cupping the flame with her hand. Madeleine looks around; the street is full of kids, a mother behind every kitchen window.
Colleen funnels smoke out the side of her mouth and says, “You’re so innocent, McCarthy.”
Madeleine turns red. “My mum and dad say it’s all a mistake, my dad says Ricky’ll be home in time for supper,” and as she says it she is aware that she is parting with something. Something just flew away, it will never come back. My mum and dad are wrong.
Colleen says, “Do you believe everything your mummy and daddy tell you?” Madeleine pushes her. Colleen stumbles back a step but doesn’t flinch or retaliate. Madeleine takes off for school, running.
“Eee tuh neff! Eff! Oh dah highwayyy!” Elizabeth thrashes slowly in her chair, eyes rolling, spittle on her lips, sobbing, almost drowning out Rex barking himself hoarse outside. Henry Froelich lifts her from the chair and carries her from the room. “Shh shh, Lizzie, ja, ruhig.”
Karen Froelich says, “You heard her, she said they turned left. Toward the highway. How many times does she have to repeat it?”
Inspector Bradley rises from the Froelichs’ tattered couch and crosses one more loophole off his mental list. Even if the judge does allow this child as a witness, her testimony won’t count for much — she’s the boy’s sister, after all. But Bradley has interviewed her so that no one will be able to accuse him of leaving a single stone unturned. This case is already national news; outraged letters to the editor have begun to trickle in. They will be a deluge by the time it goes to trial. People do not wish to believe that a child is capable of raping and murdering another child. In a perfect world, none of us would have to entertain the thought. But this is Bradley’s job. And the boy is not a child, he is an adolescent male who has reached full sexual maturity. Still, though he doesn’t share it, Bradley can sympathize with the disbelief of ordinary people. What annoy him are the bleeding hearts, safe in their ivory towers, far from the brutal realities of the modern world, who are ready to exonerate the worst criminals on the basis of an unhappy childhood and an assortment of half-baked Freudian notions. The truth is, many people suffer terribly in childhood but they don’t grow up to be murderers. Bradley intends to get it right.
“I’m sorry to have upset the child, Mrs. Frolick.”
“The name is Froelich, and she isn’t a child, she’s sixteen.”
The woman is sloppily groomed. Maybe she couldn’t have children of her own and now she’s on a mission. Imagine choosing to adopt such a child. Not to mention the others…. Bradley looked for Richard Froelich’s birth certificate and found an adoption file.
“Richard and his younger sister are both Indian, is that correct?”
The woman barely hesitates, but he can tell she is surprised. “No, it isn’t, they’re Métis.”
Bradley knows what type the Froelichs are: holier-than-thou. He picks up his hat from amid the mess on the coffee table.
Karen Froelich says, “I’m going to press charges against the arresting officer.”
“What are you accusing him of?”
“He beat my son.”
“Your boy didn’t sustain any real injury.”
“He’s a kid.”
“He resisted arrest. That’s tantamount to an admission of guilt,” and before the Froelich woman can object, he continues, “Are you aware there’s a court order outstanding in the province of Alberta regarding both Richard and his younger sister—” He looks to the constable in the doorway, who consults his notebook and says, “Colleen.”
Bradley watches the woman pale. He isn’t interested in making her life more difficult, but he would appreciate her attention. He seems to have it now. “I suggest you seek your lawyer’s advice. My guess is he’ll tell you to focus on your son’s legal defence, and not go wasting money trying to bring the police to court.”
They leave, making a wary arc around the snarling German shepherd. The constable turns and says, “Control your dog.”
Karen Froelich says, “Control yourself.”
Bradley’s face remains expressionless, but Karen sees the uniformed officer smile and she curses herself. Her remark didn’t do her son any good. Or her daughter — has this inspector already contacted the child welfare authorities in Alberta? Or is he just trying to blackmail her? She wishes she felt as optimistic as her husband—“This is Canada,” he says. They are seeing the lawyer in London this morning, before the bail hearing. He has already told them that the police have very little to go on. Maybe she should keep quiet about the police assault — at least until Rick is out on bail.
She watches the cruiser pull from her driveway. She will let it disappear from sight before unleashing Rex; she is worried he may chase down the car. He’s panting, his gums deep pink, muzzle wet, eyes bright with fear. She kneels and hugs him, only now looking up to wonder why the cruiser, rather than turning up the street toward the PMQ exit, has turned down St. Lawrence in the direction of the school.
Madeleine can see Colleen from the classroom window; she is sitting on a swing, rocking slowly, staring at her feet. Madeleine knows what that’s like. She wishes now that she hadn’t pushed her. Colleen’s bowed head reminds Madeleine of the song “Hang down your head, Tom Dooley.” Why hasn’t the principal come out and given her heck? Perhaps he feels sorry for her because something has happened to her brother. Colleen lifts her head suddenly and looks toward the road. She slips from the swing and runs out of sight, and Madeleine sees a police cruiser pull into the parking lot.
“And what befell the hapless Father Brûlé?” asks Mr. March.
“He was burned alive.”
“Correct.” The grade fours are learning about missionaries among the Indians in the New World. The classroom walls are still decorated with Easter art. Everyone’s is up now, but Grace’s butterflies still reign supreme among the many bunnies and countless Easter eggs.
When the knock comes at the door, Madeleine is not surprised to see a policeman, but Mr. March seems to be. He looks down while the officer speaks quietly, then turns to the class and asks, “Who among you were special friends of Claire McCarroll?”
No hands. It’s a difficult question. Claire didn’t have a best friend, but she didn’t have enemies either. And in some way, the question sounds like one that, in fairy-tale language, would mean “Who among you would care to accompany Claire into the mountain cave?”
Madeleine remembers sharing Claire’s picnic last week, and the day on the swings when the two of them laughed upside down, and puts up her hand. All heads turn and she feels herself blushing as though she has been caught boasting, which was not her intention. Then Grace Novotny puts up her hand. It would be unkind to tell Grace that she was never Claire’s friend. The only thing they had in common was their belief in Santa Claus. It is, however, a bare-faced lie when Marjorie Nolan puts up her hand. Madeleine expects Mr. March to say, “No you weren’t, Marjorie,” but he says nothing.