He recalls Henry Froelich the other night, questioning von Braun’s civilian status. Yes, von Braun worked for the Germans during the war, but he was a scientist, and why shouldn’t the Americans turn his skills to their advantage now? Not all men of science are paragons of virtue — Josef Mengele wasn’t the first to prove that. But von Braun worked on weapons, not human beings. In this he was no different — certainly no worse — than the scientists on our side who developed the first atomic bomb. Froelich was right, they did hold it together with masking tape for that first test blast down in Los Alamos; men and women in khaki shorts, eggheads, civilians — Jack has seen the photos. Von Braun is of that ilk. The Einstein of rocketry. He masterminded Hitler’s “secret weapon,” the V-2 rocket, granddaddy of the Saturn and every ICBM on the planet. And he did it at Peenemünde. The research and development facility that Simon helped to bomb in ’43. Jack shakes his head — talk about a small world.
He strides past the Spitfire, eager now to see his wife. She will hand him a martini avec un twiste. They have been separated for the space of an afternoon, yet he feels as though he’s on his way home from the airport—can’t wait to see you baby, look what I bought you when I was in…. And as he crosses the Huron County road that separates the station from the PMQs, a perfectly reasonable explanation occurs to him for a person arranging to receive a call at a pay phone — apart from adultery, that is. He might have had a sudden impulse while passing the phone booth. Might have stepped inside and phoned a store — Simpson’s, say, in London — to inquire about a brand of perfume as a gift for his wife. The salesperson might have had to go to another floor, then call him right back from a different phone….
He enters the PMQs, alive with children and tricycles. The smells of many suppers perk his appetite and add to the edge in his stomach. He looks up at the sound of his name and returns Betty Boucher’s greeting.
“How are you, Betty?”
“I hope they’re treating you all right, Jack.”
“Can’t complain.”
“Dad! Catch!” His son tosses the football on the run as another boy tackles him, bringing them both down. Jack catches the ball, trots twenty-five feet, turns and bombs it back across three lawns. The boys dive.
“Mimi, I’m home.”
She smiles at him as he appears in the kitchen doorway and tosses his hat onto the halltree. She doesn’t ask him why he’s late, that’s not her style. She’s in stockings and pumps, never slippers after five, the strings of her white apron go round her waist twice, she hands him a martini, butts out her cigarette and kisses him.
“Something sure smells good,” he says.
“Fricot au poulet.”
Mimi has supper on the stove, every hair in place, and she’s put away under the sink the old maternity dress and rubber gloves that she wore to scrub the floor. Clark Kent changes in a phone booth. Superwomen are more discreet.
He slips his arms around her waist. “Where’s Madeleine?”
“Out playing.”
“What are you doing between now and supper?”
She whispers her answer in his ear.
“What would your maman say?” He lets his hands slide down over her bottom, and pulls her to him.
She rests her elbows on his shoulders and looks up at him. “Why do you think my maman had thirteen kids?”
He laughs. “You got eleven to go, Missus, what kind of Catholic girl are you?”
She bites his neck. “A smart one.”
He follows her up the stairs. He picks up her apron on the way, then her blouse, then a shoe. He waits to catch the other one and it crosses his mind — something Simon said that Jack didn’t dwell on at the time: No one knows it’s you. Can that be literally true? Is it possible no one in Ottawa — at External Affairs or in the Prime Minister’s Office — knows of Jack’s involvement? They would have to know about the American captain, even if Woodley doesn’t. Still, integration of the two militaries is nothing new, USAF could send whomever they want to up here without saying why. But Ottawa would have to know about the plan to shelter a high-level defector. How else would Simon acquire the authority to operate here? Not to mention a Canadian passport for Oskar Fried.
“Catch,” she says, her other shoe poised in her hand.
And he does.
MUSCLES
WHY IS THERE ALWAYS one kid in the class who smells? Whom everyone shuns? Kids who have failed a grade inhabit a different world. As though exiled in a desert, even if they are right beside you, they are far away, breathing the bewildered air of a waterless planet. By Friday of the first week it’s established. At recess, Marjorie runs up to Madeleine, touches her and says, “Grace germs, needle!” then gleefully inoculates herself.
Madeleine ignores it, even though she can see other kids poised to run, waiting for her to pass on the germs to one of them, then hastily give herself a needle. She does not. She goes round the corner of the school, touches the stucco wall to get rid of the germs, then quietly inoculates herself, murmuring, “Needle.”
Grace doesn’t seem to notice that no one likes her. She grins to herself and sucks her thumb, then rubs her lips to wet them. She picks her nose and eats it, there is no other way to put it. If you had just arrived from Mars, you might think Grace was pretty. Enormous blue eyes like a doll’s, and naturally wavy hair which is sandy streaked with blonde; imagine it clean. Her lips a perfect Cupid’s bow; picture them not chapped. Then imagine Grace actually looking at you. Without her eyes swerving and her hands twisting her grimy cuffs.
It was mean of Marjorie to start the needle craze, but it was clear before then that Grace was destined to be the class reject. On Tuesday afternoon she ate Elmer’s Glue paste from the pink blotting paper you get for art. And on Wednesday she picked her nose and wiped it on her desk in front of everyone. Mr. March made her stay after three for “remedial hygiene.” Madeleine glances up at the felt bulletin board. No wonder Grace has nothing but smiling tortoises next to her name in every subject.
“Turn to page sixteen in your Girl Next Door reader,” says Mr. March, and they all get out their books. “Madeleine McCarthy, read from where we left off.” While many kids dread reading aloud, Madeleine loves it, so she is glad to hear her name. She opens the book and reads flawlessly, “‘Muscles and Ice Cream’….” The story is about Susan, a girl in a wheelchair, who goes to the hospital so she will be able to walk again. “… one of the nurses showed us the exercises. She kept saying, ‘Try hard, Susan, and soon you will have big, strong muscles, but now you get some ice cream.’” Madeleine pictures Elizabeth standing up, muscles bulging like Hercules, shattering her wheelchair. She reads on, “‘If you want big, strong muscles, I’ll show you how to get them,’ Bill said….” Bill is one of those imaginary older boys who are nice to girls. Everyone knows boys are not like that. Ricky Froelich is, but he’s different. “‘Bill showed Nancy a good way to build strong muscles.’”