The Falls (10 page)

“No one is lying, Mrs. Erskine. Why would anyone be lying? We want only to help you.”

“If my husband is gone, he’s gone. How can that be helped? How can you help
me
?”

“Since your husband is missing, and since a man was witnessed at the Horseshoe Falls—‘falling’ into the river—”

“Gilbert wouldn’t do such a thing. I know what you’re saying: by ‘fall’ you mean ‘jump.’ I know what you mean. But Gilbert would never have done such a desperate thing, he’s a man of God.”

“We understand, Mrs. Erskine. But—”

“You don’t understand! Gilbert turned his back on me, but he wouldn’t have turned his back on God.”

Ariah spoke adamantly. It seemed to her that these ignorant strangers were deliberately provoking her. Wanting her to admit her complicity in Gilbert’s fate. Wanting her to confess.

One of the male officers said, clearing his throat, “Mrs. Erskine, had you and your husband—quarreled?”

Ariah shook her head. “Never.”

“You had not quarreled. At any time, ever.”

“Not at any time. Ever.”

“Was he upset?”

“ ‘Upset’ in what way? Gilbert kept his feelings to himself, he was a very private man.”

“Did he seem to you upset? During the hours preceding his ‘disappearance’?”

Ariah tried to think. She saw again her husband’s contorted, sweaty face. His teeth locked in a grimace like a Hallowe’en jack-o’-

lantern. She heard again the bat-shriek that escaped from his lips. She could not betray him, his shame as profound as her own.

Ariah shook her head, with dignity.

“And he left no note behind, you’ve said?”

“No note.”

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“No hint of—why he might wish to leave you? Where he might be going?”

Ariah shook her head, brushing a strand of hair out of her warm face. Oh, she was perspiring! Vulgarly put, sweating. Like a guilty woman, under interrogation. For hours she’d been chilled, shivering.

Now suddenly this place was airless, and very warm. The bowels of the earth opening in steamy gassy warmth. Ariah saw with a startled smile that she was wearing the white crocheted gloves her elderly great-aunt Louise had given her for her trousseau.

Trousseau!
Ariah bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“Prior to your honeymoon trip to Niagara Falls, while you were planning your wedding, for instance, there was no suggestion of a—

disagreement? Unhappiness on Mr. Erskine’s part, or yours?”

Ariah scarcely listened to this rude question.
No
.

The police officers regarded her with neutral assessing eyes. It seemed to Ariah that they exchanged glances with one another, so subtly she couldn’t detect them. Of course, they were practiced at this sort of thing. Interviewing guilty individuals. They’d become skilled at it as a trio of musicians. String trio. Ariah was the visiting soloist, the soprano who kept hitting wrong notes.

“We’ve sent out an emergency bulletin concerning your husband, Mrs. Erskine. And search teams are out along the river, on both sides, looking for the body of the—fallen man.” The woman in the gray serge suit paused. “Would you like us to notify your family now? And Mr. Erskine’s?”

The woman spoke in a kindly voice. But Ariah had an urge to slap her homely, bossy face.

“You keep asking me that,” she said sharply. “No. I don’t care to notify anyone. I can’t bear a crowd of relatives around me. I threw away that damned corset in a trash can.
I won’t return to that.
”

There was a startled pause. This time it was much more evident that the police officers were exchanging significant glances.

“ ‘Corset,’ Mrs. Erskine? I don’t understand.”

Because she was trussed up in one herself, she couldn’t comprehend how Ariah had escaped hers.

“Gilbert chose to leave me alone, and I will remain alone.”

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But the policewoman was as stubborn as Ariah, and not to be dissuaded. She said, “Mrs. Erskine, we have no choice. You’ll need your family for support and we must notify Mr. Erskine’s family, immediately. It’s standard procedure in a case like this.”

In a case like this.

It was then that the heavy mug slipped from Ariah’s fingers and fell to the floor, spilling water and cracking into pieces. Ariah wanted to protest to these strangers who were blaming her and pitying her and trying to manipulate her that she was not “a case like this”—nor was Gilbert Erskine “a case like this”—but the floor beneath her feet tilted suddenly, and she couldn’t get her balance to stand. There was a flickering of fluorescent lights like heat lightning and though Ariah’s eyes were opened wide she could not see.

Foolish woman, don’t despair. My justice is My mercy.

5

“ H e l l o, B u r na b y. Thank God you’re there!”

He was making the call from a pay phone in the lobby. He was in need of help. A drink also. Moral support. Dirk Burnaby was the man to consult at such dire times. Just to talk, maybe. Ask for expert advice. Solace. Any hour of the day or night. Poor bastard’s an insomniac, since the war. Likes to hear from his buddies. A bachelor gets lonely almost as much as a married man. Burnaby, the youngest in their crowd, is the lone bachelor. Always has women, some of them gorgeous showgirls from the Elmwood Casino, or models. Lucky bastard, but one day his luck will run out.

Colborne was wishing he’d brought his pocket flask with him, dying for a drink. They’d all had quite a few on Burnaby’s yacht last night.
The Valkyrie.
Beautiful forty-foot boat, gleaming white. Anchored in the river above l’Isle Grand, within sight of the Burnabys’

estate on the southeastern end of the island. Not that Burnaby lived in the old mansion. Burnaby a little drunk, joking he’s the Flying Dutchman of The Falls. What’s that mean?

Colborne was saying, “This poor woman. A guest at the Rainbow.

I’m thinking she’s sort of my responsibility. Till her family shows up.

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It looks as if her husband killed himself. Just this morning. Dirk, you listening? A Presbyterian minister.”

At the other end of the line Burnaby made a noncommital sound.

“We’re at police headquarters, they’re trying to interview her. I assured her she could keep the suite as long as she needs it.” Colborne paused.
Good public relations
he was thinking. But he was being charitable, too. He wanted Dirk Burnaby to understand that. In their circle, Burnaby was a generous, even reckless spender. He lent money he knew would never be repaid. He took on law clients he knew would never pay him, as he took on cases he knew he couldn’t win, or couldn’t win lucratively. Burnaby wasn’t a Christian but he behaved like a Christian is supposed to behave which made Colborne, a Christian, uncomfortable. So Colborne wanted Burnaby to know about the suite. “It’s a honeymoon suite she has,” he added. “Not cheap.”

This captured Burnaby’s attention.

“Honeymoon? Why?”

“They were on their honeymoon. Married yesterday.”

Burnaby laughed.

Colborne reacted indignantly. “Hey, Burn! God damn this is no joke. The woman is left alone here and she’s in a state of shock and is saying she doesn’t want to see her own family, even. I said I’d help her, but—what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Well, is she young? Good-looking?”

“No!” Colborne paused, incensed. “But she’s a lady.”

At Burnaby’s end of the line there was an ominous silence.

Why was Colborne calling his friend Burnaby, why from police headquarters, it must be he was in an anxious state. The previous night on
The Valkyrie
he’d lost at poker, $1,400 and most of it to Burnaby. Signing a check to his friend with a good-natured flourish.

Colborne had played shrewdly and seriously but the cards had gone against him. Burnaby had had all the cards. Whether Burnaby dealt or not, he had all the cards. His friends acknowledged Burnaby’s good luck, over the years. Most of the men in their circle had known one another since the early 1930’s, Mount St. Joseph’s Academy for Boys in Niagara Falls. Burnaby had been two classes behind Colborne, Wenn, Fitch, and Howell, but he’d played on varsity teams with
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them, football and basketball primarily. When he won, he was a gracious winner; when he lost, he was a gracious loser. But he rarely lost.

Possibly his friends were a little jealous of Burnaby’s success with women. He was a serial polygamist, they joked. Not that he married any of these women or even got inveigled into “engagements.” Somehow, Burnaby walked away clear. And he remained on friendly terms with the women, or usually.

As long ago as Mount St. Joseph’s, Dirk Burnaby had been the Peacemaker. One of the priests had called him that: “Peacemaker.” In fact, Burnaby had a temper himself. But his anger quickly passed, he was always more thoughtful, smarter than the other boys. Deeper.

More spiritual, maybe. Burnaby had a strange habit of apologizing with such sincerity you felt a thrill of happiness that you’d put him in the wrong, even if often he wasn’t exactly in the wrong. It seemed to pain him that someone might dislike him and that his friends might dislike one another.
What if one of us dies?
Burnaby would say. And he meant it! He was a guy who wanted his friends to be friends. And you wanted to please Burn, so you gave in. Burn made you a better person than you truly were, to please him. So it was even now. Adulthood hadn’t changed any of them much. A dozen times in the past twenty years Colborne had called Burnaby for help. A few years ago when Irma had ordered Clyde out of their house, Irma was filing for divorce, citing infidelity on Colborne’s part. Infidelities! As if the women had meant anything to Colborne,
they had not.
It seemed impossible to drum into Irma’s head,
they had not.
But women like Irma are slow to forgive. Stingy in forgiving. Colborne had been plunged into a sorry state. Living in a suite at the hotel (and trying not to see how his employees gawked and grinned at him behind his back), drinking too much. Eating too much. Losing money at the racetrack.

The women he’d been seeing had no time for him when he hadn’t money to spend on them, not that they were call girls exactly (though maybe they were, to speak frankly) but they could sniff out a lost cause. In eighteen months he’d bled away somewhere beyond fifty thousand dollars with nothing to show for it but a genital rash and a tendency to puke unexpectedly. Clyde had been sick with worry that his children would turn again him, though he supposed they’d be 66 W
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justified in doing so. A daughter, two sons. He wasn’t worthy of these kids. Irma was poisoning them with her tears and hurt feelings, and Clyde loved his kids, too, but God damn (he vowed) if he was going to crawl on his belly to beg forgiveness,
he was not
. This was tearing him up! So one night he bared his ulcerous soul to Dirk Burnaby, knowing that Burnaby would make things right. Burnaby had a successful law practice in Niagara Falls and Buffalo predicated upon his ability to help other lawyers with cases that were too complicated for them, or that they’d frankly screwed up. Burnaby, the man to call. A man you could trust not to betray your secrets. So Colborne went to Burnaby, and confessed his situation. And Burnaby listened, and immediately took action. Told Colborne to sober up, and Colborne did.

(To a degree.) Told Colborne to keep away from the race track over in Fort Erie, Ontario, and Colborne did. Told him how to behave—

“warmly, sincerely, like you love them”—with his family, and Colborne did. And Burnaby spent time with Irma, just the two of them.

Which was flattering to Irma. Burnaby told Irma that Colborne loved her so much, he had to test that love. And he would never hurt her again. And so the crisis passed. The Colbornes were reconciled.

Sometimes Clyde wasn’t all that certain that had been a good thing, but he guessed it was. Had to be.

Marriage, family. What else is there? You had to grow up. You had to accept it. He would make the marriage work bcause of Burnaby.

Owed it to Burnaby. Irma felt the same way.
We owe it to Dirk Burnaby
to stay together.

Now Colborne was practically pleading, “Dirk? C’mon meet us.

Down on South Main. We’ll drive Mrs. Erskine back to the hotel and have a few drinks in the bar. Us, I mean. Not her.”

It sounded as if, on the other end, Burnaby sighed.

“All right, Clyde. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

6

T h i rt y- t h r e e y e a r s o l d, and a tightrope walker. Over a chasm deep as the Niagara Gorge.

He knew: he was kin to those flamboyant, obviously deranged
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daredevils of the 1800’s. Risking their lives to dazzle crowds by walking a tightrope across the deadly Niagara Gorge, or, crazier yet, plunging over The Falls in barrels, kayaks, homemade contraptions of ingenious designs.
Look, look at me! Was there ever anyone like me!

He was descended from one of these. His notorious ancestor REGINALD BURNABY THE GREAT had walked an eight-hundred-foot wire strung across the American Falls on Independence Day 1869. It was estimated that over eight hundred onlookers avidly watched as REGINALD BURNABY THE GREAT (variously identified as a defrocked Roman Catholic priest from Galway, an ex-convict from Liverpool, if not an escaped convict from that seaport city) made the treacherous crossing in about twenty minutes, carrying a twelve-foot bamboo rod with American flags fluttering at both ends. During the crossing, women fainted; at least one woman went into labor. Judging from a daguerreotype of Reginald Burnaby taken on the eve of his crossing, he was a lean, swarthily handsome gypsy-looking individual of about twenty-eight with a close-shaved head, a drooping handlebar mustache, a fierce, just perceptibly cross-eyed theatrical stare. On the wire he wore a Union lieutenant’s coat (his own?) and a circus performer’s black tights, and his daring exploit was celebrated in newspapers as far away as San Francisco, London, Paris, and Rome. The second time Burnaby risked his life above the Gorge, in June 1871, sponsored by a Niagara Falls spa, he drew even larger crowds. The novelty of this crossing was that Burnaby was laced into a straitjacket from which he managed to free himself midway over the Gorge; the drama was that a sudden headwind came up from the Canadian shore, and spitting rain, and Burnaby was forced to crouch on the tightrope and, “desperate and ingenious as a monkey,” as the London
Times
correspondent described it, made his painstaking way from Prospect Point to Luna Island in approximately forty minutes. For Burnaby’s third crossing, in August 1872, crowds were even larger, estimated at over two thousand on the American side alone, and at least half that number on the Canadian side. This crossing was sponsored by the daredevil himself, allegedly in need of money to support his wife and newborn baby. For this, most controversial crossing, from Prospect Point to Luna Island across the 68 W
Joyce Carol Oates