The Falls (27 page)

We got out of the car and walked toward the river. There were very few people along the path. They were all way downstream, at the Falls themselves, or looking down into the gorge.

“So where do you think we should put it in?” I asked.

“Up there,” he said, pointing slightly downriver. “I think the truck should come right through here. You got a truck, right?”

“One of my friends' big brother reserved it for us. He's going to be the driver.”

“Does he know what you're doing?”

“No. He thinks we're just moving some furniture. I thought it was better to tell as few people as possible.”

“Smart. And when he finds out what you're really doing?”

“He'll be okay. He's used to doing things that aren't exactly legal.”

Boomer walked along the path and I followed closely behind.

“He'll back it right up here, getting as close to the railing as possible. Then the barrel has to be lifted out and over.”

“How many people do you think that'll take?” I asked.

“At least ten. Can you get that many?”

“If I break open a two-four I can get more than that. We get friends over but we won't tell them what we're doing until they get there.”

“They just have to hoist it over the railing. Once it starts to roll down the slope nothing is going to stop it.”

I pictured it rolling down the slope and splashing into the river. I could see it happening, although my view was going to be a lot different from the inside, spinning and spinning around.

“Munday put his barrel in just over there,” Boomer said, pointing slightly upriver.

“Over there? How did they get the barrel over that railing? It's really high there.”

“It's really high
now
. They put in higher railings to stop him from doing it again.” Boomer laughed. “Like a railing is gonna stop Dave Munday. If he wanted to try it again he'd do it . . . and I'm not betting against him making a third trip over the Falls.”

“So this is the spot, right?” I asked, needing reassurance.

“The current will take you straight out and into the centre, away from the rocks at the bottom.”

“Then . . . then you think it'll work?”

“I think you've built a good barrel and made a good plan,” Boomer said. “You've increased the odds.”

“Enough to make it?”

“That's something I can't say. That's between you, the river, and God.”

Boomer turned and walked away. I didn't follow. I leaned against the railing, looking out.

 

 

 

 

I
PUSHED MY FOOD
around the plate. I just wasn't hungry.

“Okay, so what's her name?”

I looked up at my mother. “What's whose name?”

“The girl that has you so distracted. You think I haven't noticed how you've been the last few weeks? Hardly eating, trouble sleeping, not paying attention when I talk to you. So, what's her name?”

What was I supposed to say—that there was no girl, that I was distracted because I was going to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel in the morning?

“Well?”

“Um . . . her name is . . . Amber.”

My mother started to laugh.

“What's so funny?” I asked.

“It's just that if you'd been a girl instead of a boy that was going to be your name.”

“I was going to be an Amber?” I questioned.

“That or Crystal. So, is she as pretty as her name?”

I pictured the barrel, all painted up in red and white. “Yeah, she's beautiful.”

“When are you going to bring her around to the house?”

“She doesn't like to go out much.” Actually, she just stayed there on blocks in the garage.

“Sounds like she's shy. I like that in a girl. Some of the girls today seem downright aggressive. Where did you meet her?”

“Just around.”

“Well, if this gets any more serious I'd like to meet her. You could bring her around for supper.”

“Sure, I could do that.”

“Good. You're going to make some lucky girl a great husband someday.”

“I'm only fifteen! I'm not about to get married!” I protested.

“Not now. That's why I said
someday
. A long time from now. It's just that I know that with any relationship there's potential for pain and heartache. I've never seen you so distracted, so she must be important to you. A broken heart is a lot more painful than any of those broken bones you've had.”

“Nobody's going to break my heart,” I protested. Broken bones were more of a worry right now.

“I hope you're wrong.”

That sure wasn't what I'd expected. “You
want
somebody to break my heart?”

“The only people who don't get hurt are those who don't take risks. They call it
falling
in love because you lose control . . . you're falling . . . and when you fall sometimes you get hurt.”

She had no idea how true those words were.

My mother got up from the table, circled around, and gave me a big hug around my shoulders. I buried my head
into her. It felt so good. She released her grip so she was now facing me.

“I wish I could protect you from all the pain in life, but I can't. No more than I could protect myself. Of course, the only thing worse than feeling that pain yourself is watching somebody you love go through it.”

I knew that first-hand. I'd seen my mother go through some bad times and bad relationships.

“The secret is to not let the fear of hurt stop you from taking the risk. Do you remember a conversation we had at the beginning of the summer, when you asked me if you were a loser?”

“Yeah . . . I guess . . . sort of.” I was lying. I remembered it very well.

“I've thought about it a lot,” she said. “I shouldn't have said what I said.”

“That it was still too early to say if I was a loser.”

“I thought you only
sort of
remembered.”

“You mentioning it brought it back. It's no big deal.”

“It is. I shouldn't have said that.”

“Shouldn't have said it because you didn't want to hurt my feelings?”

“Shouldn't have said it because I was wrong. After I said it, I starting thinking about what makes people winners or losers. And then I remembered something my father used to say to me. He told me that a person is only a loser when they stop trying to win.”

“I'm not a quitter,” I said.

“I know you're not. You're one of the most determined people I know, so in answer to that question you asked me, no, you're not a loser. You're a winner.”

“Thanks . . . I guess.”

“Nobody in the whole history of the world has had everything go right. Nobody lives a perfect life. The winners aren't those who never fall down, but those who get back up after they fall and keep going. I know I haven't given you the easiest life.”

“It could have been worse.”

“It could have been better. A lot better. You've had more than your fair share of knocks. But you've never stayed down. Promise me you'll keep getting back up.”

“I promise,” I said, although there was one fall—one fall that was going to take place tomorrow—that I had no control over.

“Now, I'd better get to work or I'll be late.” She stood up, grabbed her purse, and started for the back door.

“Mom?” I called out, and she stopped and turned. “Do you think I could sleep at Timmy's tonight? You're not going to be in until late anyway.” We were going to be up and in the truck before four in the morning so that the barrel would be in the water before six.

“Does this, by any chance, involve a girl named Amber?”

“No. I promise you, there isn't going to be any Amber tonight. Timmy and me are just going to hang around, watch a movie or two, maybe go on the Internet.”

She didn't answer right away. “So if I was to call Timmy's house around midnight you'd be there, right?”

“You could call any time and we'd be there.”

“Okay. You and Timmy enjoy the movies. When are you heading over?”

“Timmy's going to pick me up and we're going to our meeting.”

“That's right, that's tonight. I'm so pleased you boys enjoy those meetings.”

“I don't think ‘enjoy' is the word I'd use . . . but we go. Isn't that enough?”

“More than enough.”

She came back across the room and gave me a kiss on the top of my head. I reached up and wrapped my arms around her.

“I love you, Mom.”

“That's so nice to hear. I love you, Jay. We don't say that enough.”

I couldn't help wondering—would this be the last time I ever said it to her? Would this be the last time I ever hugged her? Would this be the last time I ever saw her?

 

“T
HERE
'
S A DIFFERENCE
between ‘explanation' and ‘excuse,'” Mrs. Bayliss said.

“I'm not following you,” Timmy answered.

“Me neither,” said one of the girls. She was new to the group—I didn't know her name, but Amber or Crystal was probably a good guess.

“It's a fact that people who have an alcoholic parent are more likely to be alcoholics,” Mrs. Bayliss explained.

“It's in the genes,” Desiree said.

“Probably there is a genetic component, but it also might be learned behaviour. If your parents like ice cream and you see them eat ice cream all the time, it's more likely you're going to like ice cream too.”

“That makes sense,” Timmy agreed.

“But which do you think it is?” somebody asked.

“I think it's both,” Mrs. Bayliss said. “But neither is an excuse.”

“I still don't get that part,” Timmy said.

“I do,” I said.

“Can you explain it to me?” Timmy asked.

“It means that whether it's something you learn or something you inherit, it's still your choice if you're going to drink.” I turned to Mrs. Bayliss. “Right?”

“I couldn't have said it better myself. Too often people use what happens to them as an excuse. They say things like ‘I couldn't help being an alcoholic because my parents are alcoholics' . . . ‘I can't help myself' . . . ‘There was nothing I could do' . . . ‘It wasn't my fault.'”

“That's a lot of crap,” I said.

“I agree, but people are always making excuses for things. It's easier to make an excuse than find an answer. One of the things that frustrates me the most as a teacher is seeing kids who could make it, but never do. They waste their lives because it's easier to have an excuse to fail than to buckle down and succeed.”

I got the feeling she was directing that comment to me. Maybe she was directing it to all of us.

“This is our last meeting together this summer,” Mrs. Bayliss said.

“But we are going to be on again next week, right?” Desiree asked.

“We'll be meeting, but not all of us will be here.”

“Why not?” Timmy asked.

“I'm going away to university,” Jason said.

“And I'm off to college,” Chantel added.

“I didn't know you two were going away,” Timmy said.

“You're both going to be missed. Missed, but not forgotten,” Mrs. Bayliss told them. Then she said, to the whole group, “I just wanted to tell you, before we break for the evening, that it's been a pleasure to work with all of you.”

People voiced agreement. It actually hadn't been that bad at all.

“I was thinking that I'd like to adjourn the meeting early tonight. I'm inviting all of you to come downstairs to the pizza parlour for food and drinks . . . my treat.”

We all trooped downstairs. Everyone was in kind of a party mood, but I couldn't help thinking about the condemned prisoner's last meal. I guess pizza was what I'd have chosen if I knew for sure the end was near.

Mrs. Bayliss settled into the seat beside me. “You and Timmy have been good additions to the group. You've really made a contribution.”

“Thanks.”

“Now I'm hoping you'll make just as big a contribution starting next Tuesday, first day of school.”

“I'll be there.”

“I'd like all of you to be there,” she said. “I'd be interested to see what you could do if you really tried your hardest. It's not just Chantel and Jason who can go away to school. Have you given any more thought to being an engineer?”

“I think about a lot of things.”

“Keep thinking about that one. Once school starts I'll get information for you about which universities might be best, scholarship opportunities, student loans.” She paused. “That is, if you'd like me to do that.”

“I'd like that. Could you also look up stuff about becoming a pilot?”

“You want to become a pilot?”

“Not me. Timmy.”

She nodded. “I'll find out everything I can. Enjoy your pizza and order another beer . . . another root beer.”

 

I
T WAS WEIRD
going back to Timmy's that night, sitting around watching TV as if nothing was going to happen, and knowing that only a few hours stood between me and what I was about to do.

It wasn't like I didn't believe Boomer when he said I could die. I knew it in my head and I felt it in my gut, but I knew there was nothing that I could do to stop it. It was like I'd set off the timer on a bomb and it was ticking away and I was powerless to stop it. No, that wasn't right. You could always cut the wires . . . that's what they did on TV shows. They just cut the wires and the ticking stopped.

This was more like being caught up in a current. Once you were in the middle of the river there was no going back. I was sitting in Timmy's living room but I was already out there. There was no stopping, no going back, no matter how much I struggled. All I could do now was hope for the best.