Falling (23 page)

May we come in?

She opened the door wider and the two officers stepped inside the house.

Miss Blakeney, said Constable Rieker, the kayak has been recovered. It was pulled out on the American side. It’s been identified as the one belonging –

Don’t, she said, putting a hand up to her forehead. Please don’t.

Rieker looked down at his shoes.

It’s only the kayak they’ve found, he said.

She couldn’t take in what he was saying.

It’s just the kayak, he repeated.

She couldn’t speak. She’d been thinking about it for days, and now he was saying it.

Was it a yellow kayak? asked Jasmine.

Yes. The mother – Damian MacKenzie’s mother – identified the boat. Both the car and the kayak were released into her possession.

But have they found –

Have they found the boy? He spoke gently. No.

But –

It’s been three days. What you should know, and what I’ve told the boy’s mother, is that if indeed he went over the Falls, and he may not have done that, but if he did, you should know that the body may not be recovered.

Not recovered? She could hear her voice quavering.

If he was in that kayak, chances are his body was caught behind the Falls in the plunge pool. That’s why I say it might not be recovered.

Her eyes filled with tears. Oh, she said, as if she could hardly get the breath to say it.

But we haven’t closed the books on this, you can rest assured. We’ll let you know as things unfold.

She stared at him.

Will you be all right? he asked.

She made a gesture, as if to ward them off, and closed the door behind them when they went away. She leaned against it.

She slid down the door onto the brown carpet.

His body in the plunge pool. His beautiful body. His long hair, released from its braid, like the hair of angels. She could see it fanning around his head as he was swept up by the water in the plunge pool, swept down. Around and around went the body, pale and almost translucent in the water. How was it possible?

No, it didn’t mean that he was dead. He might still be alive, walking around, breathing in and out.

The water would peel the flesh from his bones, like a glove from a hand. How long would it take? Eventually the bones would ride that circuit, up and down, over and over. His ribs and spine, his skull, the bones of his arms and legs
and feet. How long would it take a body to decompose? How long before he was nothing but bone?

But nothing had been confirmed. Nothing was certain.

Yet the darkness came over her, bearing down hard, pressing the air from her lungs. She put her hands to her face as she cried, for a long time, hardly making a sound.

THE MAN FINISHED WIPING
his telescope. He was afraid there was moisture inside the lens, but as he finished polishing it with a soft, dry cloth, he saw none. The next day he’d spray the tripod with
WD
-40. He took the telescope outside on the deck, but instead of looking through it, he sat down on one of the deck chairs and gazed up at the night sky. There wasn’t really a need for a telescope on a night like this. He could see Cassiopeia with its zigzag of diamond points; he always looked for it at this time of year. When he leaned back with his arms behind his head he could see the whole panoply of constellations. How far away they were, and yet how close, giving off light from thousands of years, or millions of years, before, a light that came from enormous distances. These thoughts gave him pleasure, though he couldn’t have said why.

The dog came and put his heavy head on the man’s knee. He wondered what he’d do without this dog, but he didn’t think he would get another because he’d never have one that loved him the way Max did. He reached forward and stroked the dog’s head, and Max wagged his tail so it thumped against the other chair.

The man got up and walked to the far side of the deck, where his running shoes had been drying in the sun during the day. As he picked them up he glanced at Heinrich’s place at the top of the hill. There was a light on. He said he’d check on the house while Heinrich made a trip to Stuttgart, but Heinrich wasn’t due back for another couple of weeks.

He stood for a while thinking about it, slapping the shoes together to get rid of the sand. It could be a break and enter. It could be teenagers up there shooting heroin, or it could be someone starting a fire in the living room. This last thought goaded him into action, because he thought of the time Heinrich had spent working on the hardwood floors. He put the shoes on a deck chair and opened the sliding door to get the flashlight that hung on a hook just inside.

Come, Max.

It was very dark on the beach, but he found a ridged track that he followed until it curved away, and then he clambered onto the rocks. Holding Max by the collar, he climbed the steeply inclined hill and by the time he got to a cluster of birch trees near the house, he was out of breath. Heinrich had made a bench here for his second wife, Jutta, so she could look out at the ocean, but she’d never used it. She was a good dozen years younger than he was, and she’d never really taken to Nova Scotia; she preferred their house in Lanzarote, in the Canary Islands. So it was local kids who sat on the bench sometimes, swinging their heels.

He stood with one hand against the smooth, papery bark of one of the birches. When he swept the flashlight back and forth, he could see battered beer cans under the seat, and he reminded himself to collect them in the daytime. Somehow
the thought of Heinrich building this seat for his wife, and his wife never using it, struck him as sad. He went up the hill toward the house. It had the best view for miles around, and many times he had sat with Heinrich on the deck, not talking much, but simply gazing at the slate-blue ocean.

The dog went on ahead, perhaps drawn by the smell of an animal, and the man came to the top of the rise where he could see the light in the living room. Whoever was inside was enjoying that light. He went forward, and at first he simply saw the bulky shapes of the furniture, the red leather couch with the woven throw that Jutta had bought in Thailand. He remembered how he’d visited once, when the red leather couch had been new, and how happy Jutta had been, spreading out the throw that she’d bought in Bangkok to show him how well the colours matched. Near the couch were the bookshelves, full of books written in German, and the table and chairs, hand-carved in Togo.

He went up onto the deck, moving as softly as he could. Although he was much closer now, so he could see the tassels of the throw from Thailand, the glittery threads in the pillows at either end of the couch, and the polished hardwood floor, he could not tell who was inside, if indeed anyone was there. But then there was a small movement that caught his eye. On the other side of the couch, close to the fireplace, someone was lying on the floor. He waited, and Max followed him onto the deck, claws clicking on the wood. The man reached out as the dog came close; he gave the dog a firm tap and Max sat down obediently, quietly.

Finally the intruder got up, moving lazily, nonchalantly, as if he owned the place. His blond hair was pulled back into a braid, and it was this that made the man start a little.
He’d seen him before. He’d seen tears on this face. How could he forget that moment? Yes, of course, it was the same boy, though his boyishness was nearly gone. But what was he doing here? The man moved back so that he was hidden by shadow. There was the low noise, the beginning of a throaty growl, from the dog. He patted the thick fur at the dog’s neck to calm him.

The boy lifted some crumpled papers and took them to the table, where he studied them, one at a time. Then he turned them over. The man gazed at his face; he hadn’t recalled the boy’s features exactly. Anguish changed a face, he thought, and he’d first seen the boy when his sister had died. He was very good-looking. His mouth, not unlike a girl’s, was full and sensuous, though his face was that of a man: his jaw was angular, his brows dark, and his hair shone brilliantly under the light.

Much would be forgiven this boy because of his beauty. The man thought of his own son and sighed, and perhaps because of this he could feel himself becoming more lenient. He knew the boy had been devious in order to break into the place – he was sure Heinrich didn’t know him – but he wasn’t angry with him. He was filled with curiosity, though, and without thinking he knocked on the French doors. The boy ducked. He left the papers on the table and slipped down behind the couch. There was, amusingly, the man thought, a bare foot showing at the base of the couch, but it was drawn in as he watched.

He knocked again. He waited, and then it occurred to him that the French doors might not be locked. He turned the handle of the left-hand door.

Stay, Max, he commanded in a low voice.

He opened the door and stepped inside. Hello, he said.

There was a regular
tock, tock
from the grandfather clock.

This is Heinrich Kaefferboch’s house, said the man, because he wanted to invoke Heinrich’s presence. Did you know that?

No, of course the boy didn’t know that. The man stood looking at the painting above the stone fireplace. He always did this. Heinrich would go to the fridge and get him a beer, but he would stand at this same place each time, as if to pay homage, and Heinrich would return with the cold beer in one hand and a hand-blown glass in the other, and pour it for him slowly, letting the honey-coloured liquid run down the inside of the glass.

The painting was about five feet long and three feet wide, showing fields in the evening, perhaps in autumn, with a darkening sky. In the foreground, blown by the wind, several fires fanned up in ruddy orange and yellow-gold, with smoke feathering into the air. At the brow of a hill was a small, bunched-up tree, an apple tree gone wild, its dark branches formed into claws by the wind. He liked the thought of evening fires in such a forgotten landscape, with fields going on and on into blue-blackness. It haunted him, and made him feel almost tender. He wasn’t always aware of paintings, but this one was different, and it made him want to keep looking at it.

That’s a fine painting on the wall above you, said the man. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed it.

Silence.

It wasn’t the smartest move, he went on, breaking in here. It’s a good thing I came, instead of the Mounties. It’s probably a good thing.

The boy got up abruptly, rushing forward as if he meant to tackle the man, who moved quickly out of the way.

He hit the French doors instead. If the way the boy slammed into the doors hadn’t hurt him, if he hadn’t fallen down, the whole thing would have struck the man as absurdly comical.

Are you all right? he asked, bending over the boy. He helped him to the couch, surprised at the thinness of the boy’s body. You’ve never played football, have you? That’s not the way to –

I saw the painting, grunted the boy.

How long have you been here?

He shrugged.

Days? pressed the man. Weeks?

The boy turned his face away. I don’t know.

You’ve heard me coming in and out?

It was strange that the man hadn’t seen traces when he’d come in before. What did you eat? he asked. Did you gnaw on the furniture?

The boy laughed.

The man went into the kitchen and opened the cupboards: several boxes of chicken noodle soup packets, canned tuna, canned peaches, tea, hot chocolate, one box of English water biscuits, white sugar in a cork-topped container, cinnamon sticks, salt and pepper in their shakers. Not much of anything. Only the things Heinrich had left there. He went back into the living room, and it crossed his mind that the boy might not recognize him.

What’s your name? asked the man.