The Falls (21 page)

“That's a good point,” Mrs. Bayliss said. “How many people here still sometimes feel like it's their job to keep their parent or parents dry?”

Everybody in the room raised their hand, including Timmy. Reluctantly I did the same. It wasn't that I necessarily felt that way, but I didn't want to be the only one who hadn't lifted his hand.

“How many people feel guilty and responsible?” she asked.

Guilty and responsible for what?
I wondered, but I raised my hand along with everybody else. This was getting repetitive. Couldn't we just go back to watching Becky cry?

“How many people here feel like it's their
job
to take care of their parents?”

I felt a shiver shoot up my spine. I
did
feel like it was my job. I raised my hand along with everybody else. It
had
been my job to take care of my mother, for years.

“And finally, how many people feel angry about that?”

My hand shot up into the air, faster than anybody else's.

 

 

 

 

I
BRUSHED MYSELF OFF
, trying to dislodge some of the dust and dirt that my clothes had picked up from all the dirty old boxes and bins. I coughed long and loud. There was a terrible taste in my mouth, and I could almost feel the dust coating my lungs. I guess I should have been more worried about that.

I'd spent the better part of the morning cleaning out the storage room at the museum. There were boxes and crates and containers that looked as though they hadn't been moved or stirred or disturbed for a long time. Years. Decades. Maybe centuries.

Boomer had mentioned that we could do that if we had time. And we had time, all right. Hardly anybody had come into the museum—hardly anybody had come in during any of the five shifts we'd worked—and I couldn't think of anything worse than just sitting around and doing nothing. It was better to be busy. At least, that's what I thought. Timmy disagreed. He figured there was nothing much better than sitting around, doing nothing, and getting
paid
for it. He'd joked around that this was the job he'd been preparing for his entire life.

I needed a break. A break and a Coke. I left the storage room. The museum was empty except for Timmy—who
was still sitting where I'd left him two hours earlier, behind the counter, feet up, staring at some videos.

“Whoa, what happened to you?” Timmy asked as I emerged.

“Work can get you sweaty and dirty,” I said. “Not that you'd know anything about that.”

“I know enough to avoid it,” he joked.

“Where's Boomer?”

“Out at the ticket booth.”

“Have there been many customers?” I asked.

“Three.”

“I'm not even sure why he sits out there,” I said.

“I think he just likes sitting in that booth with his paper and his coffee, reading and watching the people stroll by. It's sort of like sitting by the window at the Donut Hole, except he doesn't have to share it with anybody else.”

“So you've both just been sitting around doing nothing while I've been working?” I said.

“Doing
nothing
?” Timmy asked, as though he was hurt by my suggestion. “I've been doing plenty.”

“Plenty of what?” I demanded.

Timmy tapped a finger against the side of his head. “Thinking. Deep thoughts.”

“Yeah, right!” I snapped. “And what deep thoughts have you been thinking?”

“Mainly about that meeting last night.”

“The Alateen meeting?”

“Did we go to some other meeting that I've completely forgotten?”

“I just wish I could forget that one. What a complete waste of time,” I said.

“Is that really what you think?” he asked.

“Sure. What did you think of it?”

“I liked it. Donuts and pop form two of my favourite food groups.”

“I didn't mean the food.”

“The girls were good, too. I think I made a smooth move on that Becky girl when I brought her that pop, don't you?”

“I wasn't talking about the girls, either.”

“You're interested in the
boys
? Man, I had you wrong all these years. I had no idea that you swung from the other side of the—”

“Timmy, shut up!”

He laughed.

“I mean what people were talking about,” I said. “It was stupid.”

Timmy shook his head. “I thought there was some good talk.”

“What exactly did you think was so good?”

“Lots of things were good, although a lot of it didn't make much sense to me—at least at first.”

“And it does now?” I asked.

“It would to you, too, if you'd stop cleaning out storage rooms and spend more time thinking . . . deep thoughts.”

“Yeah, right. So what makes sense to you now?”

“Mainly that part about feeling responsible and guilty.”

“Do you feel responsible for your father drinking?” I asked.

“When they first said all of that I thought they were crazy. Why would I feel like it's my fault? He's the one
drinking the stuff. It's his fault, not mine. And then I started thinking. Sometimes I
do
feel like I should be able to stop him, but I just haven't figured out how, and if I was smarter or better then maybe I could—”

“Everybody feels like that sometimes,” I said, cutting him off. “But it's wrong. It's the person who's drinking that's to blame. Nobody else. Period.”

“I know that here,” Timmy said, again touching a finger to his head. “But sometimes not here,” he said, touching his stomach. “Sometimes I still wonder.”

“Well then just stop wondering. Been there. Done that. You're the kid. Your father is the adult. I learned that from all the AA stuff my mother spouts off about.”

Timmy chuckled. “Aren't you the one who's always saying that AA stuff is just garbage?”

“
Most
of it is. But occasionally something that they say makes sense. Occasionally. It's like the law of averages, you say enough and eventually something you say will be right.”

“That's why I talk so much,” Timmy said. “I'm trying to increase the odds. But some of the stuff they talked about last night . . . like feeling angry. There are times I'm so angry at my father that I'd like to take a baseball bat and part his hair in a whole new way.” He paused. “I guess it's different for you, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because your mother doesn't drink anymore, so you aren't angry at her.”

I didn't answer right away. I guess I shouldn't have been angry with her anymore. She had stopped. It was just that I still felt that way sometimes. Maybe it was more
about what used to be than what was now. That was stupid. Being angry wouldn't change the past. Nothing changed the past.

“Do you ever worry that she'll start drinking again?” Timmy asked.

“No . . . not really . . . not anymore . . . at least, not much.”

“That's one advantage I have with my father. He'd have to
stop
drinking before I could worry about him
starting
again. At least he's predictable.”

“My mother's not going to start again,” I said, defending her. “I know she isn't.”

“Don't get me wrong, man, I don't think she will. I'd trade places with you in a second. Actually, I was wondering . . .”

“Wondering what?”

He shook his head. “Never mind. It's not important.”

“Whenever somebody says that something isn't important it usually is. What is it?”

“Okay . . . I was just thinking . . .” he said, but he didn't continue at first. “You know things aren't easy with my father.” He paused. “Sometimes it's so hard that I don't think I can live with him anymore.”

“Where would you go?”

“I was thinking . . . I was wondering if maybe I could . . . if I could . . .”

“Stay with me and my mom?”

Timmy nodded.

I put a hand on his shoulder. “You don't even have to ask. You always have a place to go, man, you should know that without even asking. Anytime. I don't care if
it's two in the morning, you just come knocking on the door and it'll be open for you.”

“Thanks. Do you think your mother would be okay with that?”

“You gotta be joking. The only problem is she might never let you leave.”

Timmy smiled. “I might just take her up on that.” He paused again. “But really, I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I need to stay at home. It's not like my mother is coming back. Somebody's got to be there. My old man wouldn't last a month on his own.”

“It's not your job to take care of him.”

Timmy started laughing. “I know that. I was putting you on. Obviously you did get something from the meeting yesterday. Maybe there are a few things you've learned.”

“What I continually learn is that you're an incredible goof. If you move in, then
I'm
moving out.”

“Great! Then I can get your room.” Timmy started laughing again.

“How about if we get back to work?” I suggested. “Oh, wait a second,
I
could get back to work. You could
start
working.”

“I have been doing something work-related. You think I've been watching MTV?” he asked, pointing up at the video screen. “Check this out.”

Timmy took a tape and shoved it into the VCR mounted on the wall.

“What is it?”

“This is actual footage of somebody going over the Falls.”

He powered up the TV and it flickered to life. A group of men was unloading a large, white, cylindrical object off the back of a truck. There were ten or twelve guys, and they looked as though they were struggling under the weight and the size of the object.

“That's the barrel,” Timmy said. “Although it looks more like a small spaceship.”

“That barrel looks familiar,” I said.

“It should. It's sitting right over there.”

I turned around. There it was—the same barrel as in the video—in the corner of the room.

“Here, let me fast-forward to the good part.”

Timmy aimed the remote at the TV and the images started racing forward. He stopped. “Now watch.”

“What exactly am I watching?” I asked as the image on the screen rolled rapidly around and around.

“You're watching the camera that's
inside
the barrel taking a picture through the porthole,” Timmy explained.

“Inside?” I exclaimed.

There was a rush of trees and bushes and grass as the camera rolled around and around.

“That's the barrel rolling down the slope and toward the water,” Timmy explained.

Then there was a sudden drop and water started flowing and splashing all around, and spinning like the inside of a washing machine. Finally the barrel must have settled into the water and it began rocking back and forth.

“Here it goes,” Timmy said.

I watched in awe as the camera—the barrel—suddenly plunged over the lip of the Falls . . . and then the camera went blank. Timmy clicked off the TV.

“Wow,” I gasped. My whole body felt tingly.

“Pretty amazing, huh?” Timmy asked.

“Yeah . . . amazing.”

“I was reading about this guy.”

“You were reading?” I asked, sounding surprised.

“I know how to read, you know. Most of the time I just have better things to do. Today, reading was better than cleaning out the storage room. So do you want to hear?”

“Shoot.”

“His name is Dave Munday. You were watching the second time he tried to go over the Falls.”

“The second time . . . that's right, he's the guy that tried four times, isn't he?”

Timmy nodded. “The first time they put the barrel into the water too far upstream and the hydro authorities had time to reroute the water supply.”

“Reroute?”

“Depending on the time of day, more than half of the water goes into the hydro-generating stations and not over the Falls,” Timmy explained. “They saw the barrel coming and diverted the water supply. The water level dropped and the barrel got grounded. The second time he made it. That's what you saw in the video.”

“Man,” I said. “It would take incredible guts to go in once, but to go in twice would be something else.”

“Not twice.
Four
times. Remember?”

“Yeah, of course. What happened the other times?”

“The third time his barrel got stuck, grounded at the very edge of the Falls. They finally had to get a crane to lift it out.”

“And the fourth time he went over again, right?”

“Three years later. Inside a steel ball.”

“I can't believe anybody could go into that water four times. He's got to be the bravest man in the world.”

“You know what makes him even braver?” Timmy asked. “He can hardly swim, and he has a fear of water.”

I burst out laughing. “You're joking, right?”

He shook his head. “And he lives not far from here.”

“I betcha that Boomer knows him,” I said.

“No bet. Boomer knows everybody who has anything to do with the Falls, so he's gotta know the first person in history to go over the Falls twice.”

“That's something that nobody else will ever do,” I said.

“Wrong again, my friend. He was the first, but not the last. There was another guy named Steve Trotter. Two years after Munday did it, he went over the Falls for the second time. And this time he was in a barrel with somebody else.”

“A two-person barrel!” I gasped.

“It was the second two-man barrel, but this one was different because his partner was a woman named Lori Martin. She was only the second woman to ever go over. The first since Annie Taylor started the whole thing ninety years before.”