Madeleine gets the glue feeling. Behind her is the glue man, Mr. March. What has he told the inspector?
Inspector Bradley resumes his search. “Has he done anything dirty?”
She sits very still. Shakes her head. Heat prickles up from her stomach to her face. She can smell the smell, can anyone else?
“Did he undo his pants?” The undertow tugs at her stomach—“Madeleine?”
Gravity is working at different rates on different parts of her, it will suck her insides out and her head will come off and float away.
“That day when you and Colleen Froelich saw Ricky and Claire on the county road—”
“And Elizabeth and Rex—” Her mouth feels very small, the words look very small in her mind.
“You say you saw him turn down the road to Rock Bass with Claire—”
“No,” says Madeleine, and swallows. “I didn’t see him go with Claire.”
“Are you telling me you saw him turn left toward the highway? I’ll know if you’re lying, Madeleine.”
“He didn’t do it,” she says.
“Did you see him or not?” He looks at her the way he has looked at her from the start: at a thing — at a broom in the corner.
“He turned left, toward the highway.” She doesn’t break her gaze or blink. “I saw him.”
It’s quiet except for the scratching of the policeman’s pen in the corner of the room.
“Run along then.”
She rises, and as she walks to the side door she resists the temptation to look behind her, to see if she has left a puddle of sweat or anything on the chair.
Bradley has asked all male staff to wait to be re-interviewed this afternoon, and he plans to follow through. He doesn’t want any loose ends. He doesn’t believe the McCarthy child’s story, but a jury might.
THE MORALITY OF ALTITUDE
Missile building is much like interior decorating. Once you decide to refurnish the living room you go shopping. But when you put it all together you may see in a flash it’s a mistake — the draperies don’t go with the slip covers. The same is true of missiles…. That’s why I go to the fabricating shop. I want to see what my baby will look like.
MIKE IS LETTING HER run for grounders and pop-flies out in the grassy circle behind the house. Warming up for his game tonight in Exeter. This is his first year playing bantam. Madeleine wears his old glove, but avoids catching the tempting fastballs for fear her cut will open up again.
She keeps an eye on the house, wanting to waylay Dad before supper. She needs to ask him a question. Two questions: Will they hang Ricky Froelich? And is it all right to lie in order to make someone know the truth? Also, she wants to tell him about the policemen who asked her the questions today after school. Maman didn’t notice she was late because she was babysitting at the Froelichs’. Madeleine spots her father between the houses, coming up the street, and calls out, “Dad!”
Jack turns and sees his kids, carefree, happy as clams, out in the field behind the house. He waves, then turns up the Froelichs’ driveway. The patchwork hotrod is near completion, missing only a set of tires, but the old station wagon is gone — one of them must have driven to Goderich to pick up their boy. He taps on the door on the chance of finding Henry at home.
Betty Boucher opens it. Jack smiles and says, “For a second I thought I had the wrong house.”
“I’m part of the bucket brigade. Mimi took the morning shift, they’ve neither of them been home all day.” The women have snapped into action. Betty’s own youngest clings to her skirt while one of the Froelich babies bounces on her hip. The other screams from inside. “It’s beyond me how they do it, Jack. I thought I was a veteran.”
“When are you due to be relieved?”
“I expected the lot of them home before this, what time is it?” She shifts the baby in an effort to glimpse her wristwatch.
“It’s ten past five.” Jack follows her into the front hall. “Hank told me reporters have been sniffing around.”
Her expression says what she thinks of that. “Three of them this afternoon”—indicating with her fingers—“Toronto, Windsor and Detroit, if you can believe it, all wanting to know, did I think our Rick was a”—she glances down at her toddler—“suspect. I told them they wouldn’t find a solitary soul on this station who thinks that boy is aught but a sterling young man.”
“You better believe it,” says Jack.
“Henry—” The baby spits up on her shoulder. Betty dabs her sweater with a tea towel and continues. “Henry called from the courthouse. They were about to go in for the bail hearing.”
Bail hearing. Courthouse. Suspect. None of these terms were on anyone’s lips this time last week — strange how seamlessly they have introduced themselves into neighbourly conversation. Life has stretched to accommodate the bizarre. Life has begun to run around it — the tragedy and now the mistake — like water around a rock, softening it till it’s worn to a bruise on the surface that seems to change nothing. But nothing will ever be the same. The river has altered its course.
“Poor little bugger….” Then, looking past him through the screen door, “Hang on, who’s this then?”
Jack follows her gaze to a taxi rounding the corner, crawling toward them.
“What can have happened?” says Betty. There is only one passenger. Henry Froelich.
He pays the driver and joins them on the porch. Karen Froelich is still at the jail in Goderich. Ricky Froelich has been denied bail.
“Henry,” says Betty, “I’m so sorry, love.”
Jack lingers after Betty leaves. In the Froelich kitchen, Henry has his hands full and Jack is doing his best to help, holding one of the babies — it feels suddenly suspiciously warm against his uniform jacket. Froelich is heating milk. He rolls up his sleeve to test the baby bottle on his forearm and Jack sees the numbers tattooed there. “Where was your lawyer when all this was going on?” he asks.
“He was there.”
“Well, is he any good?”
“He has letters after his name.”
“QC? Queen’s Counsel, that’s good. He’s appealing the bail ruling, right?”
“Oh yes, but he tells me this judge is known for this, so there is little to be done. All of them wait only for this judge to die.”
“What about — the police detained your boy improperly, can’t your lawyer—?”
“He tries but they say Ricky volunteered to talk to them. My lawyer says all he can do is get Ricky’s statement ruled off.”
“What’s the good of that? There’s nothing incriminating in his statement to begin with.”
Froelich shrugs. Rolls down his sleeve.
“Henry, you were in a concentration camp during the war, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” He reaches for the baby and Jack passes him over.
“I wish I’d figured that out sooner. I wouldn’t’ve made so damn many stupid remarks.”
“Which remarks?”
“Ah well, about your work, and you being a typical German, and how it’s such a beautiful country….”
Froelich puts the bottle into the flailing hands and guides it to the mouth. The child begins to suck, gazing up into the dark beard, curling star fingers absently against his own soft cheek. Jack waits quietly. Finally Froelich nods in the direction of the second baby, already asleep in his high chair, head relaxed at an impossible angle, face closed like a flower. Jack picks the child up carefully, knowing it to be a volatile substance, and follows Froelich up the stairs.
They lay the babies side by side in a crib in the master bedroom, which is as messy as the rest of the house. No headboard on the unmade double bed, an unframed painting tacked to the wall — unintelligible blocks of colour — clothes, books, towels. The characteristic smell of the Froelich house — baby powder, urine and tobacco. He tries not to look closely, not wanting to glimpse anything too personal. Karen’s underthings — a slip….