Falling (10 page)

Taking the photocopied guidebook, he went around the desk into a shadowy corner where a happily grinning mannequin knelt beside a birchbark canoe. The mannequin, identified by a sign hanging from the wall
(Mature Ojibwa Male)
held a paddle clumsily in his hands, but for some reason he wasn’t in the canoe. He was outside it, kneeling, about to start paddling air. Near his bent knees was an animal skull, where the water might be expected to flow.
Wolf Skull
, stated the card next to it.

Hello.

Damian jumped. I – I didn’t see anyone at the desk, so I just came in here. I put three dollars in the basket.

I saw that, she said. Enjoy your visit – there’s more upstairs.

She disappeared.

Shit, he whispered, looking dutifully at the javelin heads, arrayed on a board, the pieces of pipe, the bone pendant, the beaded Ojibwa fire bag. He studied the costumes of the British soldiers, the gold braid and buttons of the officers.
Captain Robert Henry Dee’s Commissariat Uniform, circa 1824
. He examined the British boots. There were several pairs, and he looked at each one carefully. Why did the boot holes, the laces, the polished toes, make him feel anxious?

He steadied himself. He gazed with absorption at Laura Secord’s cake plate, at the hand-drawn map of the journey she made to warn the British troops. Her cup and saucer. There was an account of her journey in a book that was propped open inside a glass case.
On the evening of the summer solstice in 1813, a young woman who had been forced to billet American troops in her farmhouse overheard the men planning their attack on the British forces
.

Come back, he thought, but she didn’t come back.

Very early the next morning, Laura Secord began a treacherous journey, through the thick forests and marshes between Niagara Falls and present-day Thorold. She feared

He went around the corner, past more uniforms, which hung stiffly behind glass. The men who’d worn them were dead as doornails. In another case were shells, fossils, and arrowheads from Barnett’s Niagara Falls Museum. There was no one on the second floor, and his sandals made a flapping noise as he walked from the telephone operator’s exhibit to the model of the Honeymoon Bridge. There was a cradle, a sled, Victorian toys carved out of wood.

He went downstairs again and put the guidebook on top of the pile on the desk. Several of the guidebooks slid to the floor, and he picked them up. His hands weren’t doing what he wanted. What would he say to her? He wandered over to the glass cases, away from the guidebooks.

for her life. Since the land was disputed, enemies abounded

All done? asked Jasmine, coming up behind him. Did you like it?

I liked, uhh, Laura Secord’s cake plate.

Well, come back whenever you want to look at it. That cake plate.

He liked looking into her eyes – colour of ferns, colour of forests – and her dark, sleek hair, and her pretty shoulders. He was gawking at her, and she was smiling because he was gawking at her.

He went outside into the slam of light.

His sister’s eyes had been a clear hazel, and they’d been fringed with long dark lashes. For months he hadn’t been able to see her face as it had been while she was living. Lisa’s dead face, with her mouth open, her skin losing its colour. What he remembered now was her animated face across the kitchen table as they played a game. Colonel Mustard with the knife in the ballroom. She opened the little brown envelope, sliding the three cards out one by one on the red-and-white-checked vinyl covering on the table, slowly, making him wait.

Yes. Colonel Mustard, she told him triumphantly. The ballroom. The knife. See!

Lisa laughing, glowing. Her lips were full; her face smooth as peach skin. I have X-ray vision, she said.

Then, just as quickly, her dead face.

He couldn’t stop the pain, that rough animal, from picking him up in its sharp teeth. That cold April night in the cabin, he’d drawn Lisa, over and over, and then, in the early hours of the morning, he’d crumpled up the sheets of newspaper and thrown them into the woodstove. He’d gone outside, the orange-and-brown afghan still around his shoulders, with Adam’s uncle’s gun, a Marlin .22 lever action rifle, walking fast along the dirt road in the hard, grey light – shooting at crows – and missing them. If he hadn’t fallen asleep that day at Cribbon’s –

It was unbearable; it was all he could do to block it out. He turned around and went back to the museum.
That was quick, said Jasmine.

He had just gone out the door and now he was back.

Jasmine – will you go out with me? he asked. Just for a walk or something?

Now?

No, not now. You’re working now.

Jasmine wasn’t sure she trusted anyone who looked the way he did. His skin was tawny, and his eyes were dark, maybe grey or blue, and deeply set. His hair was the kind of honey-coloured blond that should have been washed and brushed and braided much more carefully than it had been. People might have turned around just to look at him, but he didn’t seem to care. Then she blushed, remembering what Tarah had said. A tall guy with blond hair.
Beautiful
.

You know my name, said Jasmine.

She’d seen him before, she realized. It startled her. He’d been on the street with the man in pyjamas.

Well, I asked someone, he said. Someone with spiky hair – purple hair.

Tarah.

Jasmine straightened the pile of guidebooks on the desk.

This is not – this isn’t something I do, he admitted.

Usually.

Okay, she said.

Okay?

You asked me out. I said okay.

Good, okay.

But maybe I should know your name.

Damian.

Hello, Damian.

She was smiling.

What about tomorrow night? he said hurriedly. Or the night after that if –

Tomorrow is fine. When?

I could come by at seven or so.

You’ll need to know where I live.

She drew a map on a scrap piece of paper. She drew the Niagara River first and a curving line for the Falls. Then she drew a hill. That’s Clifton Hill, she told him. And this is Stanley Street here – I live on Stanley Street. She drew a box with a hat. In this house. Where will you be coming from?

He pointed to the river. My uncle’s place is here. River and Bampfield.

Well, if you go up Clifton Hill from the river, turn left onto Stanley Street. Here’s the phone number.

He took the piece of paper. He turned it one way and then the other.

She laughed. I can’t really draw.

DAMIAN WAS NERVOUS
. God, he was nervous. World’s Most Nervous Man.

He parked the car in the driveway and studied the house. Yes, it was the right address.

Hi, he said to the windshield. Hi.

Shit.

He got out of the car and turned to check the kayak. It was Lisa’s old kayak, and he’d meant to use it on Lake Erie, but so far he hadn’t. He should have taken it off the rack on the car.

It had rained earlier, but now there was less humidity in the air and the sun was coming through the clouds. Dead irises were flattened this way and that on the small patch of lawn in front of Jasmine’s house, like purple-brown cavalry fallen on the long grass. The fibreglass awning hung dangerously over the front door as if it might detach itself at any moment, and bits of peeling paint fell from the door like snow when he knocked.

Jasmine opened it, bangles jangling on her wrist.

Damian – come in, she said. Just give me a minute. She left the door ajar.

Instead of going into the hall, he sat down on the all-weather carpeting of the front step. Maybe he smelled too much of scented soap. He sniffed, as surreptitiously as he could, under his arms. No, it was all right.

Across the street, at the Impala Motel, was a statue of a white horse, a creature that might have been made out of soft ice cream. It reared up elegantly on its hooves, its mane a series of swirls and its tail a curving, perfect S. It looked as though it belonged on a merry-go-round. Above it, near the gas station, was a billboard for a soft drink that showed shining teeth and monstrous lips and tongue. A child in the outdoor pool at the Impala Motel was shouting. I can
too
do a jackknife. I can
too
.

When Jasmine stepped outside she had a length of material around her shoulders. Her arms were tanned; her hair was silky. Damian liked her hair, her brown skin, her pale green dress, and her scarf with its tasselled ends. He liked everything about her. And he liked the statue of the horse and the S of its tail, and the sound of children’s feet slapping around the motel pool.

We could walk to Mount Carmel, she suggested. It’s the old monastery – we could go along Stanley Street.

All right.

He’d walk anywhere. He’d walk to Buffalo.

You look sort of like Leif Ericsson, she said. Has anyone ever told you that? You have the hair.

No one’s ever told me that, he laughed. I’ll have to get a helmet at Wal-Mart or something.

He was aware of the cars rushing past and warm air brushing his skin. He wanted to say something witty, but nothing came to him as they walked along the street to Mount Carmel. The large, red-roofed stone buildings of the
monastery faced perfectly kept lawns, where old oak trees stood like sentinels. Shafts of evening light turned the grass to gold.

You’re not from around here, are you? She’d taken off the scarf and was playing with its tasselled ends.

No. What about you?

I’m from Saskatchewan. Lanigan, Saskatchewan. I took a bus from Saskatoon, thinking I’d go to New York City.

She tipped her head back and looked up at the fanned-out branches of an elm tree.

I chickened out at the last minute, and then I was angry with myself for not going on to the States. She turned to him. Sometimes I feel stuck here, but working at the museum suits me for now.

I liked it there. It was quiet.

It’s quiet, all right. Let’s see, your favourite thing is the cake plate –

The cake plate. He smiled. What’s yours?

The wreath made out of hair just above the desk – did you see it?

No.

I’ve been reading about how the Victorians made decorations out of hair. When people died, they’d cut locks of hair as keepsakes. They’d boil the hair and then make it into flowers and birds and trees –

Keepsakes?

They’d make pictures of willows and bridges over streams, to go in lockets.

Out of hair?

Yes. Do you think it’s weird?

No, it’s not weird.

I found out how to do it – now I make things for people. I even have a card. She fished in the pocket of her dress. Here.

So if I wanted my Leif Ericsson hair cut off and made into a wreath or something, you’d do it.

You hold on to that card. Just in case.

He put the card in his pocket. A keepsake.

On the April morning when he found himself outside the cabin, he walked for hours. It grew warmer, and the snow – heavy and clotted – that had fallen the day before began to melt. The sun glinted in the puddles as he descended the dirt road on the flank of Brown’s Mountain, which wasn’t really a mountain at all. He didn’t think about how long it would take him to get back to the cabin, climbing uphill on a muddy road. When he came to the spring, which was nothing more than a pipe with a spigot at the side of the road along with a handmade sign, saying, “MacLean’s Spring,” he remembered the path he and Adam had once taken to the river. He nosed the barrel of the gun among the brown tangle of raspberry canes, searching for an opening; he was sure the path was close by. Then he saw it, and laughed out loud – a sound that was harsh to his ears.

A snowshoe hare bounded onto the wet path, where it froze. Damian could see how its white fur was turning brown, so that its back was mottled. He raised the rifle, cocking the hammer with his thumb – the afghan dropping from his shoulders – and lined up the hare in the sights, firing before he’d given himself time to think.

Jolted by the impact, the hare dropped to the ground.
Tell me about you, said Jasmine.

What?

Tell me about you.

There’s not much to tell, he said. I live in Halifax. For the last while I’ve been painting houses, on and off.

And before that?

Art college.

You went to art college? she said. My family wouldn’t have sent me there if their lives depended on it. Not that we could afford it.

I dropped out last fall, he said.

They walked across the parking lot and over the lawn toward a cluster of trees. There was a grotto there, and a statue, with arms spread generously.

Well, anyway, it must seem like collecting bottle caps to you, she said. Victorian hair decoration.

No, it’s not like that at all. It’s –

Jasmine smiled. What?

I don’t know. He shook his head.

This is St. Thérèse of Lisieux. She stopped in front of the statue. The one they call Little Flower.

The light came through the trees and fell on the statue’s head, with its slightly yellowish face, which was bowed meekly, gracefully.

You’re Catholic? he asked.

Oh, I was brought up Catholic. I read tarot cards now. I could read yours – I could tell you things about yourself.

No. Thanks, but no.

Just before St. Thérèse died, she sat straight up in bed, said Jasmine. Up to that time she’d been in so much pain
that she couldn’t move. But at the end, when she sat up, she wasn’t quite in the world and she wasn’t quite gone. They said she talked about what she saw. Her face was all lit up.

Damian went close to the hare, pushing at its body with the toe of his boot. He’d shot it through the chest: where the bullet had gone in there wasn’t much blood, but there was much more of it where the bullet had exited. The fur was thick with blood. The head was completely intact, turned on its side, so that one liquid dark eye seemed to gaze directly, balefully, at him. Its mouth was slightly open, and some of the whiskers around it were very long. Its ear was velvety soft, and thin enough that it would have become pink if light had passed through it.