By Ann-Marie MacDonald
The optimism of the early sixties, infused with the thrill of the distance race and the threat of the chilly warfare, is filtered in the course of the wealthy mind's eye of high-spirited, eight-year-old Madeleine, who welcomes her family's posting to a quiet Air strength base close to the Canadian border. safe within the love of her appealing mom, she is unaware that her father, Jack, is stuck up in an online of secrets and techniques. while a really neighborhood homicide intersects with worldwide forces, Jack needs to make a decision the place his loyalties lie, and Madeleine should be pressured to benefit a lesson concerning the ambiguity ofhuman morality -- one she's going to simply start to comprehend while she contains herquest for the reality, and the killer, into maturity 20 years later.
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Additional resources for The Way the Crow Flies: A Novel (P.S.)
He’s bound to encounter some resistance—resistance to change is only human—but if he listens, he’ll find out what ain’t broke and doesn’t need fixing. And if he asks the right questions, his subordinates will tell him what he would otherwise have to tell them. Like many effective managers, he’ll appear not to be working at all. Jack smiles to himself and reaches in his inside pocket for a folded personnel list. Rule number three: learn the names. The next thing he’ll do is seek out the station warrant officer—the equivalent of a factory superintendent, the fella who knows what makes the whole place tick, technically subordinate to Jack but in reality ranked just below God—and say hello.
A slow circular drive leads to a stone building couched in hedges and flower beds. Low-slung Frank Lloyd Wright, its granite facade a glamorous contrast to the architectural whiteout everywhere else. “There you go, Missus,” he says. Flagstone steps lead to a pair of oak doors. Tilted wood-framed picture windows afford a glimpse of cocktail tables and chairs between burgundy-and-blue curtains—the air force tartan. The dance floor gleams. It is possible to fall in love with your wife all over again in the time it takes to escort her up to the open doors where the sounds of a swing orchestra greet you, along with the clink of glasses, the aroma of the buffet, the laughter of men and women.
Memory falls in the rain. You drink memory. In winter you make snow angels out of memory. Twenty-five miles north of London lies the Royal Canadian Air Force Station at Centralia. RCAF Centralia. Don’t look for it now, it has lost its memory. A temporary place, for temporary people, it was constructed so that memory would not adhere, but slip away like an egg from a pan. Constructed to resist time. The station is named for the nearby village of Centralia, but there the resemblance ends. The village is old and getting older.
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