The Falls (26 page)

“You can't do that!”

“I can. Probably should.”

“All right, then go ahead,” I said. “Call her . . . that is, if you can honestly say to me that part of you isn't excited by the idea . . . that part of you doesn't wish it was you doing it . . . that you aren't just a little bit interested.”

“Doesn't matter if I'm interested or not. What matters is that your blood would be on my hands. Do you really think I'm going to stand by and let you kill yourself?”

“I'm trying to not kill myself. I've thought this through. I've been studying it, planning, working it out.” I paused. “I can do it, and if you could help me then—”

“I'm not gonna help you!” he snapped.

“Could you at least look at it?” I asked. I'd noticed him stealing glances at it as we were talking. He wanted to see it. “That wouldn't hurt, would it?”

Boomer didn't answer at first. “I could look at it I guess . . . a little.” He walked over and started to examine the barrel.

I nudged Timmy. “Come on,” I whispered.

We stood behind him, silently, watching, as he moved all around the barrel, studying it from all angles. Finally, after what had to be five minutes, he turned back around.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Looking at your barrel I can see where you've been studying Dave Munday's design.”

“No point in reinventing the wheel,” I said. “That man knew what he was doing.”

“Man was a real craftsman. Hard to go wrong following the best.”

“I've made some changes to his design, though. Do you want to see my plans?”

“I'd like to see 'em. That way I can tell you if you're just building yourself a shiny coffin.”

“And you'll tell me the truth?” I asked.

“I always tell the truth. Too old and ornery to care if somebody doesn't like what I have to say.”

“I just don't want you to try to talk me out of it,” I said.

“If I think it's got no chance I'm only going to be talking to the authorities and telling them to take the whole thing away.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“It's still against the law to try to go over the Falls. If I tell the Parks Authority and the police what you're working on, they'll be in here in twenty minutes and they'll haul the whole thing away to the dump.”

“And you'd do that?”

“I might. I might not. Let me look at the plans first.”

“Before you start,” Timmy said, holding up his arms, “I'm going to go and get some breakfast. I'm heading over to the Donut Hole and I'll grab some donuts and coffee and bring them back.”

“Make mine with lots of milk and six sugars,” Boomer said.

“Are you planning on drinking it or eating it?” Timmy asked.

“Just go on and be a good delivery boy and leave me to look at the plans.”

Timmy saluted, spun around, and left, leaving the door open behind him. I hurried over and closed it.

“Have you even figured out how you're going to get it to the river?” Boomer asked.

“Not yet. I was just focusing on building it first.”

“And where were you planning on putting it in once you got it there?”

“I was thinking the same place Dave Munday did the first time he went over. If it worked for him, it should work for me.”

“Not unless you go in at the same time of day, and the same time of year, and the water levels are the same.”

“I didn't know that.”

“I've forgotten more about that river than you'll ever know,” Boomer said. “And in this case, what you don't know might just kill you.”

“But with your help, with your knowledge, I'd have a slightly better shot, right?”

“Slightly? With my help you'd have an honest-to-goodness chance of walking away with your . . .” He stopped himself. “Kid your age hasn't lived long enough to know that death is a possibility.”

“I know people die.”

“Not people . . .
you
.” He put a finger against my chest. “If it goes wrong,
you're
dead.”

“You've seen the barrel. Look at the plans. I'm not just jumping in. I'm building the best thing I can.”

“Half of those who planned and prepared still died. Not great odds. Half of them. Are you willing to roll the dice on your life?”

“With your help I have a better chance of living. You can help me live.”

“I can
guarantee
you'll live if I put a stop to it right now.”

“I can't stop you from stopping me,” I admitted. “
This
time.” I paused. “But I'm going to do it. You can have them take away this barrel and the next one I try to build, but sooner or later it's going to happen. You know that.”

He didn't answer.

“It
is
in my blood. Help me do it right . . . that's all I'm asking.”

He nodded his head slowly. He reached out his hand and we shook.

 

 

 

 

I
T WAS TIGHT
, but almost cozy. The bottom straps— the ones keeping my legs suspended—were starting to hurt. I'd try to adjust those again before I climbed back in. I was suspended, like in a hammock, with three sets of straps: one for my legs, a second for my lower body, and a third up by my shoulders. They held me in place so that I wouldn't be tossed around and smashed against the sides.

I looked at my watch. I'd been inside almost fifteen minutes. We were hoping to—in some small way— simulate what it would be like for me on the big day. There were obvious differences, of course—like the fact that I hadn't dropped hundreds of metres or been tossed around like an egg in a crate. Instead, the barrel was just up on the hoist in Timmy's garage.

The biggest difference, though, involved trying to figure out the time that would be involved. Technically, it could all happen in less than ten minutes. I could be locked inside, be rolled into the river, go over the Falls, pop out, and be pulled from my barrel in less than ten minutes. Or, if things didn't go perfectly, it could be an hour. Or more.

I reached over and put a hand on the oxygen tank. I didn't need it now. The air was still fresh. It was flowing
in through the special filter system Boomer had helped me install. Originally I'd put it in backwards. It would have stopped water from flowing
out
of the barrel while letting it flood
in
, drowning me almost instantly. I shuddered. I couldn't help wondering just what would have happened if he hadn't gotten involved. Actually, there was no wondering—I would have been dead. Now, with his help . . . I might still die.

If I was above the water, the filter system would allow air in—like it was now. If I was caught underneath, then I'd have to rely on the oxygen in that tank to keep me alive. How long had Timmy told me the guy at the scuba shop said it would last? Was it thirty minutes or forty? Was it possible to buy a tank with more air?

I was amazed by how quiet it was. The sounds of the world had all been blocked out. I felt relaxed. I thought I could almost go to sleep in there.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like climbing out after I'd gone over the Falls . . . that was only two days from now . . . less than two days. Two days from now, at this time of the day, it would all be over . . . one way or another.

There was a loud, metallic tapping and I was jarred back to reality. My eyes popped open and I looked at the porthole. Boomer's face—all distorted through the thick glass—smiled at me. I gave him the thumbs-up. I heard the sound of the screws being loosened to open up the hatch. It was a slow process—closing the hatch or opening it up again. It had to be that way to make sure that it was sealed tightly enough to keep the water out and keep me safe inside. My only worry was about what
would happen if I needed to get out quickly. What if my oxygen was gone? The time it took to undo the hatch could mean the difference between life and death. Again, I wondered if maybe we could get a bigger air tank with a longer capacity. Finally the hatch popped open and a rush of cool air surged in.

“So, how did it feel?” Boomer asked.

“Not bad. I want to adjust the straps around my legs, though. They were starting to dig in.”

“Leave 'em alone. Digging in means they're tight. Just add another layer of clothing to protect yourself.”

I undid the straps and started to climb out. The hatch was little—deliberately so—and it was a tight fit. Boomer grabbed me by the shoulders and practically hauled me out and onto my feet. I was always amazed by his strength. I guess I should have been grateful. It was Boomer who was going to haul me out at the end, and I might not be conscious to help him. I could only imagine how strong he must have been when he was young.

“It's good to know that everything is working,” I said.

“Guaranteed to work . . . as long as it sits in somebody's garage. What happens when it goes over the Falls and under the water is just an educated guess.”

“It's more than that,” I argued. “We've done our homework and—”

“And your filter's now in correctly,” Boomer said, cutting me off.

“Yeah. But we've built it the best way we could. It's solid . . . don't you think?”

Boomer didn't answer. Instead, he started to walk around the barrel, peering at it like he was seeing it for the
first time. I followed along behind him as he ran a hand along its curves.

It certainly wasn't like my great-grandfather's barrel. For starters, it was much bigger—at least five times as big as his pickle barrel. And instead of wood it was made of fibreglass, insulation, and metal. The top wasn't simply nailed on, I had a double-sealed hatch—solid metal, with a rubber gasket around the edges to stop any leaks, and a thick, thick glass porthole in the middle to allow me, and the camera, to see out. It would have been pitch-black for my great-grandfather. I had the light from that porthole, as well as a small battery-powered light that I could turn on with the flick of a switch. He had nothing more than the air that was inside his barrel and some extra air forced in with a bicycle pump. I had the whole filter system, as well as the oxygen tank. Once he was locked in he was by himself, no way to communicate with anybody. I was alone, but I wasn't isolated. I had a two-way radio. I could talk to Timmy and Boomer for at least part of the time— at least until I was underwater. If I was caught underneath I couldn't talk to them. It didn't really matter though. If I was trapped in the spin cycle beneath the Falls there was nothing for them to do anyway.

“It's the best thing we can build,” Boomer said. “It's as perfect as I can figure.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “It's good to know it's going to make it.”

“I didn't say that,” Boomer said. “If it goes over the wrong place or the wrong way, there ain't nothing perfect enough to stop it from getting smashed to pieces.”

“You can't scare me,” I said.

“You got nothing to be scared of from me,” Boomer said. “It's the river that could kill you. I'm trying my best to keep you from dying, but you gotta know there's no guarantees.”

“I know that,” I said. “But do you
think
it'll work?”

“If I didn't, I wouldn't be letting you try.”

“Have you figured out where we're going to put it in?” I asked.

He nodded his head. “Come on, I'll show you.”

Boomer's car was parked in the driveway. I climbed in as he started the engine. He put it into gear and began to back up before I'd even put on my seat belt—and I really wanted to put on my seat belt. I'd driven with Boomer enough to know that he treated things like traffic lights and stop signs as suggestions. He would have lost his licence a long time ago if he hadn't known all the cops in town. Twice I'd been with him when he was stopped. A third time the cop had recognized Boomer and just waved him on before he came to a stop.

Boomer backed out of the driveway, knocking over a garbage can at the curb, and then squealed away down the street. He slowed down at the stop sign, glanced both ways, and then rolled through the intersection.

“That sign means stop, you know,” I said.

“I slowed down, so what are you complaining about?”

“I prefer to stay alive, if you don't mind.”

“You're going over the Falls and you're worried about my driving?”

“I'm not sure which is more dangerous.”

“My driving is nothing. If you're getting cold feet maybe somebody else should go over,” he said.

“You?” I questioned.

“I could be the oldest man to ever go over the Falls.”

“You're joking, right?”

“Not joking about
thinking
about it. But doing it is a different thing. It's your barrel, your plan, your day, and I'm just along to help you.”

“I'm just so glad you are helping. I don't know what would have happened without you.”

“Probably death is what would have happened is my guess. But let's not talk about that. You still thinking in two days?”

“It's going to be ready. There's no point in waiting, is there?”

“Waiting wouldn't be bad. Might even be better.”

Boomer came up to a red light, slowed down, and hung a right turn, the tires squealing in an attempt to hold the road.

“Why would it be better to wait?” I asked.

“It's like the old saying:
Patience is a virtue
.”

“I know another old saying:
He who hesitates is lost
,” I said in reply.

“Lost, but alive.”

Boomer pulled the car over to the side and bounced two wheels up onto the sidewalk.

“Nice parking.”

“Nice enough.”