The Falls (19 page)

I cut across the grass to reach the walkway. The lawn was slick and wet, and as I passed by some bushes I noticed a guy—a bum—lying there. He could have been just sleeping, but more likely he'd had too much to drink and had passed out. Maybe that was what I needed to help me sleep, a beer or two. Couldn't hurt, right? But that made me think of Timmy's Amaretto, and that nearly made me bring up the KFC.

I came up to the railing and looked down. There was a slight outcrop of rock and then a sheer drop to the rocks and river. There was enough light for me to see the water below—rolling, rushing, boiling past rocks, racing and rushing down the gorge. Hypnotizing. Timmy was right, I could stare at it for hours, until it almost seemed like it was a part of me, calling to me. And it was strange, because I'd seen the river a million times before, but tonight it was like I was seeing it for the first time. It used to be that I could almost imagine I
was
the water, swirling, rushing over the rocks, plunging into the gorge, but now, instead, I was picturing a man among the rocks, in the rapids, rescuing people, or retrieving those that couldn't be rescued. I was picturing my great-grandfather. Brave. A hero. A daredevil who went over the Falls in a barrel—the barrel that sat in my basement.

I'd finished reading about him—how he did it—how he went over the Falls. He went in from the Canadian side, about five hundred metres upriver from the Falls
itself. To test the currents he put in another barrel first. It was identical to the one he was going to use, and it was packed with a bag of sand that weighed the same as him. He needed to see where the current was going to take it. That was important. At some places along the base of the Falls there were rocks piled up, rocks that would smash anything that went over the edge. Hitting them would be instant death. He sat there watching his test barrel go over just the way he wanted and hoped his barrel would do the same. I think I would have waited until I'd heard what happened to that barrel. Sure, it went over the Falls, but did it survive? Did it get caught up in the undertow or did it pop free? But he didn't wait. They sealed him in the barrel, gave it a push, and he was gone.

As I approached the Falls there actually was a little crowd. The spot along the fence closest to the brink was ringed with people. They were drawn to this spot. Moths to a flame.

I had to wonder about these people. They didn't look like the regular cross-section of tourists. There were no kids, only a couple of women, and no Japanese folks clicking away with their cameras. In fact, I didn't notice anybody taking any pictures. They all just stood there, staring out at the water. Rather than taking pictures with cameras, I thought, they were storing the images in their brains, experiencing it first-hand, without a lens in between to make the experience less real.

How many of these people had been drinking? How many had been at the casino until closing, trying desperately to win back the money they'd lost, and only losing more? And now they didn't want to go home. That meant facing
the wife and trying to explain how the mortgage wasn't going to be paid because they didn't have the money. And there wasn't any answer or way out except to . . . a chill went up my spine that had nothing to do with the cool mist that surrounded me. Was there somebody here who was thinking about ending it all, about jumping over the railing?

I looked from face to face, trying to read the sideways glimpses of their expressions. How could I possibly know what they were thinking, how they were feeling, even if a part of me understood the temptation? And even if I could have seen inside their heads, what would I have done if somebody suddenly put a foot up on the railing and heaved himself up and over and leaped forward? They'd be gone in a split second, and no power on earth would be able to save them.

I turned slightly and was startled to notice two cops standing just off to the side. They were watching the people watching the Falls. I wondered if they were trying to figure out what I'd just been thinking about. Suicides were bad for business, bad for the casinos. Although I could imagine an advertising campaign aimed at a whole new market: the people who wanted to off themselves, and the ones who wanted to watch. People loved to watch.

I'd read that in the olden days, thousands and thousands of people would gather along the river if there was even a hint that something was going to happen. Smart business people used to give false hints all the time, but there were lots of real stunts, too. Shooting the rapids, going over the Falls, tightrope walks across the gorge. Daredevils were good for business. Now it was just illegal. Anybody trying to pull a stunt would be arrested
and given a huge fine, maybe even sent to jail . . . or a psychiatric hospital.

“Hello, son.”

I startled out of my thoughts. The two cops were standing right in front of me now. They looked familiar. I'd probably seen them around.

“Are you okay?” the larger of the two asked.

“Sure . . . of course,” I stammered. “Why are you asking?”

“You just looked a little lost,” he answered.

“And a little young,” the shorter of the two asked. He was actually very short. I was taller than him by at least a couple of inches.

“How old are you?” the second one asked.

“Seventeen. Well, almost seventeen.”

“I see,” he said, with a tone that meant he didn't believe me. “Do you have any I.D. on you?”

“No, nothing,” I said, patting my empty pockets. I didn't have my wallet. I didn't even have a quarter with me.

“Are you with somebody?” the larger officer asked, gesturing to the crowd ringing the river.

“No, I'm by myself.”

“How did you get here?”

“I walked. I live here,” I said, pointing in the general direction of my house. “On Pine Street. One Seventy Pine.”

“A local boy. You look a little familiar but I don't think we've had any dealings with you.”

“That's a good sign,” the smaller one added. “So why are you out here alone in the middle of the night instead of home on Pine Street sleeping in your bed?”

“I couldn't sleep so I thought I'd go for a walk.”

“To the Falls?”

I shrugged. “Where else is there to go in the middle of the night?”

“You have a fight with your girlfriend?” the big cop asked.

“I don't have a girlfriend right now.”

“How about you and your old man. Did you get kicked out of the house? Is that why you're here?”

“'Cause if that's the case we can bring you someplace for the night,” the other guy added.

“I live with my mother, and she didn't kick me out. I just wanted to go for a walk. Is that against the law?” I snapped, getting annoyed at their questions.

“No, it's not against the law, but it isn't smart to start giving us attitude. Understand?” The big cop's tone of voice was suddenly hard.

“We're just trying to do our job, kid. We just want to make sure you're okay out here.”

“Of course I'm okay and . . .” I suddenly realized why they were asking me these questions. They were afraid that I was going to . . . “I'm not going to jump,” I said.

“What did you say?” the smaller one asked.

“I'm not going to jump.”

“Could you please step away from the railing,” the little cop said.

“What?” I didn't really understand what he meant. I didn't move.

“Step away from the railing. Now!” the bigger cop ordered.

I stumbled toward the two officers.

“Please have a seat, right here,” the little guy said, pointing at the bench.

“What did I do wrong?” I demanded.

“Nothing.”

“I don't want to sit down. It's wet and—”

“Sit!” the bigger cop ordered, and he put a hand on my shoulder. I thought about fighting back, maybe even making a break for it—instead I let him push me to the seat.

“Tell me, why did you mention jumping?” he asked.

“I mentioned
not
jumping,” I tried to explain.

“I know what you said, but why would you even have thoughts like that to begin with?”

“I don't know,” I said, and I shrugged. “I guess it was because Boomer was talking to me about jumpers.”

“Boomer? Boomer Williams?”

“Yeah. You know Boomer?”

Both cops burst into laughter. That wasn't the reaction I'd expected, but I liked it a lot better than the angry expressions.

“I don't think there's a cop on the whole force who doesn't know Boomer,” the little cop said.

“Who do you think we turn to when we have to find a body that went into the river? You tell him where it went in, or over the Falls, or where it disappeared under, and he'll tell you where it will most likely end up—even if it does take a couple of days to surface.”

“Man, I wish I knew my way around my garage the way he knows his way around the river,” the little cop said. “Now, how do you know Boomer?”

“I work for him.”

“At the museum?”

I nodded. I didn't mention that I hadn't actually started working for him yet.

“I guess that explains it,” the little cop said.

I wasn't sure what it explained but I wasn't going to ask.

“You're here because you're a junkie for the Falls. You must be, or you wouldn't be working at the museum.”

I didn't say anything. If that explanation made them happy, then it worked for me.

“You had us worried, kid,” the big cop said. “We thought you might be a jumper yourself.”

“I wasn't going to—”

“We know, we know,” he said, cutting me off. “We just have to be careful, that's all. Do you know how much paperwork there is to fill out if somebody jumps during our shift?”

“Does that happen a lot?” I asked.

The two cops exchanged a look. “That's one piece of information you're not going to get from us.”

“Yeah,” his partner said. “That's one of those numbers they really don't advertise. Now, why don't you go home?”

“Sure . . . thanks.”

“And I don't want to see you even close to the gorge any more tonight,” the little cop said. “By the way,” he asked, “what's your name, kid?”

“Jayson Hunter.”

“Leanne Hunter's boy?”

“Yeah, that's my mother.”

His face broke into a big smile. “I went to school with your mother. One of the nicest people you'd ever want to meet. Your father was a pretty good guy, too.”

“You knew him?”

“I did . . . not from school, though . . . he was a few years older than me. Your dad was a bit wild but a good guy, especially to his friends, and he had lots of those. Shame about the accident. Long time ago now. You tell your mother that Bobby Watson says hey, okay?”

“Sure, I'll do that.”

I probably should have been glad that he knew my mother—it probably meant I was a whole lot less likely to get hassled in the future. But instead I just felt that small-town, everybody-knows-your-business feeling—the one that said no matter what I did, or who I tried to be, I was always going to be the kid with the alcoholic mother and the loser dad who took off with the circus and died in a motorcycle accident.

“You need a ride home, Jayson?”

“No, I'm okay to walk.”

“Okay, then. Go straight home.”

“I promise.” And I walked away before anybody could ask me any more questions.

 

 

 

 

“M
OST OF THIS JOB IS REAL EASY
,” Boomer said. “Like with this cash register. You scan in the items and it does all the addition. The customer gives you money, you punch in the amount, and the cash register tells you how much to give 'em back in change. Practically idiot-proof.”

“We'll see about that,” Timmy said. He made it sound as though he was taking that as a personal challenge.

“Probably the most important thing to remember is to never put the customer's money into the till until after the transaction's done.”

“Huh?” Timmy asked. I was glad he was there to ask the questions I felt too stupid to ask.

“Let's say the customer gives you a ten-dollar bill. You don't put it in with the other bills in the cash register. You put it right here,” he said, tapping the top of the money drawer. “And you only put it in the register after you've counted out the change and he's happy with the amount. Some people will try and argue that they gave you a twenty-dollar bill or even a fifty. When they do that, you just point down to the bill. That's the end of the argument most of the time. If they keep making a big fuss, we have one other thing we can do.”

“Kick 'em out?” Timmy asked.

“Go to the video,” Boomer said. He pointed up to a camera mounted on the wall above the cash register. “Every transaction is recorded.”

“That's like the casino,” I said.

“That's where I got the idea.”

“Do people try to do that a lot?” I asked. “Complain about the change?”

“More than you'd think. Some are just confused—an honest mistake. But most of them are trying to cheat you. I hate cheats. Nobody is gonna come into my business and cheat me. By the same token, nobody is going to come in here and get cheated . . . or shortchanged. Not by a dollar, not by a quarter, and not by a penny.”

I suddenly felt guilty. I wasn't going to do that, but I knew about how tourists were treated in other places— places like the arcade.

“I've lived my life trying to do the right thing. Maybe it hasn't made me super-rich, but people see me as a man they can trust. I treat people fair. When I say something, I mean it. I don't go back on my word. And this business is an extension of me, and while you two work here, you are as well. Do you think you can live up to that?”