“For my concentration,” she says.
“But you’re a great reader.”
“I know.”
He considers a moment. “Maybe you weren’t paying attention. Tell me about Mr. March.” And he puts down the newspaper.
“Well. He talks really slowly. He has glasses. He doesn’t like us.”
Jack smiles. “I have a feeling I know what’s going on.”
“What?”
Dad knows about the backbends. But he doesn’t sound mad. He sounds as if he is going to say, Mr. March made you do backbends so the blood would flow to your head. That’s perfectly normal, and Madeleine is relieved, she has not been bad after all.
“You’re bored,” says Dad.
“Oh.”
“Einstein failed the third grade, because he was bored. Churchill failed Latin. President Kennedy can speed-read a book in twenty minutes but he did very poorly as a kid in school.”
I’m bored. That’s all it is.
“Now, I’m not saying it’s good to be bored. It’s a problem. You’ve got to make a challenge for yourself to keep things interesting.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your aim here?”
“Um. To get back to hares.”
“What’s your first step going to be?”
“Um. Don’t daydream.”
“Well yeah,” says Jack, nodding, taking it under advisement. “But how are you going to manage that when he’s so darn boring?”
Madeleine thinks, then says, “I could have a nail in my pocket and squeeze it really hard.”
Jack laughs less than he wants to, then nods. “Yeah, that might work in the short term, but what about the long term, once you get used to the pain?” She doesn’t have an answer.
He folds his arms. “Well …”—looks at her speculatively—“there’s something else you can do, but it’s not going to be easy.”
“What?”—eager for the challenge.
He narrows his eyes at her. “Let Mr. March think you’re interested. When he’s talking, look straight at him”—he points at her—“not out the window, never take your eyes off him as long as his lips are moving. That’ll be the best exercise in concentration of all. There are very few good teachers in the world, they’re a gift.”
“Like Uncle Simon.”
Jack chuckles and rubs her head. “That’s right, old buddy. But meantime you’ve got sorry old Mr. March. I’ve met him.”
“You have?”
“Sure, when Maman and I registered you at the school, so I know what you’re talking about. He’s no genius. But let me tell you, you’re lucky you have him for a teacher.”
“I am?”
“Yes, because there are lots of Mr. Marches in the world and very few Uncle Simons. You have to be able to learn from the Mr. Marches and that’s up to you. ’Cause at the end of the day, Mr. March isn’t going to be around to take the blame. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yup.”
“Press on,” he says, as adamantly as if he were addressing a young pilot. “There’s an old saying for when the battle is raging and you’ve been hit.”
Madeleine waits for it.
Dad regards her steadily, his right eye dead serious, his left eye no less so, if a little sad — it can’t help it. “You put your head down, and you bleed a while. Then you get back up and keep on fighting.”
Madeleine will look Mr. March in the eye and never miss a word. He will put felt hares next to her name. He will be amazed. And there will be nothing he can do about it, she will be so concentrated.
Jack smiles at the expression on her face. Spitfire.
He returns to his Globe and Mail and reads the joke on the front page: Your Morning Smile: The man still wears the pants in the typical family. If you don’t believe it, look under his apron. He’ll have to show that one to Henry Froelich. He skims. 200 MiGs in Cuba. Turns the page: The Cold War Comes to Latin America…. Fun ’n’ games.
In bed, Mimi puts down her Chatelaine magazine and asks, “Did you find out what was wrong?”
“Wrong with what?”
“Madeleine.”
“Oh, yeah,” says Jack, “she had a little problem daydreaming. Got nailed for it by the teacher, Mr. Marks.”
“Mr. March,” says Mimi. “Is it serious?”
“Naw,” he says, “she’s got it under control.”
Mimi lays her cheek on his shoulder, strokes his chest; he covers her hand with his and squeezes. Continues reading his book, Men and Decisions.
She says, “She seemed so upset.”
Eyes still on the page, “Oh I don’t know, I think maybe….”
“What?”
“Well maybe she was more upset by the cross-examination,” he says, as though idly speculating.
Mimi lifts her head a little. “Did I cross-examine her?”
“A bit.” His tone says, No big deal. He is not looking to criticize her.
She pauses, then nestles in, runs two fingers across his nipple, says, “You’re such a nice papa.”
He smiles. “Yeah?”
She raises herself on one elbow; he closes his book and reaches for the lamp switch. “Come here, Missus.”
The sand dunes of Pinery Provincial Park are the perfect setting for Desert Rat warfare. Mike plays with her all weekend. They battle and escape and die elaborately, tumbling down the dunes — impossible to hurt yourself no matter how high you jump from, sand in your hair, a sandcastle that takes all day, sand in your sandwiches. Into the clean water of Lake Huron, riding the breakers all that windy Saturday, and that night, tucked into her sleeping bag next to her brother, Madeleine closes her eyes and sees the water cresting endlessly to shore on the movie screen inside her lids. Just smell the canvas of the good old tent, the friendly musk of the air mattress and, when the campground is quiet and you hear the sizzle of the last campfire of the last camping trip of the season being doused, listen to what was behind the silence all along: the waves in your ears, soundtrack to the surf behind your eyes.
On Sunday evening when they return, there is a moving van in the driveway of the little green bungalow.
THE QUIET AMERICANS
The nature of this national identity is a question Canadians agonize over…. When asked, they can describe it only in negative terms. They may not know what it is, but they are sure of what it is not. It is not American.
“CLASS, SAY HELLO to Claire.”
“Hello, Claire.”
Funny how a new kid makes you feel as though the rest of you have been together for ages. Suddenly you are a group and there is an air pocket around the newcomer. She does not belong. Even Grace belongs, in her way.
Claire McCarroll arrived just after the nine o’clock bell, with her father. Holding his hand. Mr. McCarroll resembled all the other dads in Centralia, but if you looked closely at the badge on his air force hat you would see an eagle with outspread wings, thirteen stars encircling its head, one claw clutching an olive branch, the other several arrows. Above his left breast pocket were his wings, outstretched on either side of the shield of the United States of America, topped by a star. His uniform was a deeper blue than those of the Canadian dads, and when he moved, the weave imparted a grey sheen. The effect was pleasingly foreign and familiar all at once.
Claire was dressed in baby blue, from barrettes to ankle socks. She carried a Frankie and Annette lunchbox suspended from her wrist like a purse. No one ever stays at school for lunch so Madeleine wondered what she had in there. Auriel passed a note to Madeleine that read, “Is she your long-lost sister?” They did look something alike. Dark brown pixie cuts, heart-shaped faces and small noses. Except Madeleine was taller and the new girl had blue eyes, shyly downcast. No one had yet heard her speak. She reminded Madeleine of a porcelain figurine — something lovely for your mantelpiece.