Too Close to the Falls (12 page)

We stood at the lip of the gorge watching the pink neon flash in the distance, silently plotting our route down between the trees and rocks. I had a sick feeling in my stomach as I realized we were facing a straight drop that was solid ice. All that lay between me and the rapids was guts. I knew there was no turning back. I just forced my mind to narrow like a cattle chute and figure how I would get down. The trickiest part was making the last sharp turn on the ice before hitting the frozen river. The brown ice spots on the river had whirlpools under them. The river froze on the edges, but ran too fast to freeze over the whirlpools.

I knew the power of whirlpools. In the summer Dicky, Franky, and I, along with the other kids who lived along the river, used to throw cans into the whirlpools and watch them pop and collapse as the opposing currents crushed them; we marvelled at nature's power as she sucked them under. We assumed that our world was somehow all connected with foreign worlds piled one upon another, so we figured the cans eventually emerged in China, specifically Shanghai. We imagined the surprised face of a Chinese farmer who pulled a can of Campbell's tomato soup out of a rice paddy. Once, when we were fishing, Franky dropped his father's fishing rod into the water. Knowing both his family and mine would be furious because we were not allowed near the river bank, we desperately prayed to China for its return. We enacted our version of an Asian Shinto rite which consisted of Dicky and me taking tiny steps along the shore and bowing before Bobby while he screamed bizarre samurai grunts we had learned from comic books.

As we stood at the top of the escarpment capping what seemed like an iceberg, silently planning our runs, we heard a sled scrape behind us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blight on the landscape which turned out to be none other than Trent McMaster. I didn't even tell Franky and Dicky what had happened the other night when I was at Trent's with my parents, after the Friday fish fry at Schoonmaker's Restaurant. It was too strange to even be a funny story, and believe me, I could make most stories funny in the retelling.

Trent had suggested we go to his room because he had wanted to “share the biggest secret in the world.” Well, that really was a showstopper. I was quite surprised when I walked into Trent's room and saw a picture of hell painted by some nut named Salvador Dali, probably a relative of Loretta's. The people in the picture were burning in flames, their tormented faces upturned, pleading for help from the Virgin Mother who stood suspended in mid-air above the flames with her palms outstretched. The bottom halves of the unfortunate souls who were perpetually trapped in the flames of hell had already turned to charcoal. Mary's expression was one of sadness, sorrow, as if she wanted to say that going to hell was so unnecessary, yet that is precisely where we would wind up if we didn't repent. I'd seen that look on her face before. On
my
bedroom wall I had sets of painted woodblock cut-outs of Disney characters from different films. My favourite set was Peter Pan with Wendy, Tinker Bell, and Captain Hook. The hungry alligator swam below the big sailing ship as Hook walked the plank. What kind of kid
chose
mankind's descent into hell for their wall?

Trent closed his bedroom door. His usual hesitation had
vanished. As he got wound up he sounded almost like a Father Flanagan in full gospel tilt. He began by telling me there was something I needed to know about him. I figured for this I'd better sit down in his swivel desk chair. He told me he was a member of the “Blue Army.” I lifted one eyebrow indicating that I had no idea what the Blue Army was, and furthermore I had no desire to know what it was. I also wanted to get out of his room. As I had a chance to look around, I spotted all sorts of weird, literally hellish pictures, icons, statues, and altars on nearly every surface. I had told my mother that Trent was totally off his rocker, but she only said Trent was the type who didn't fit in as a child but would make an interesting adult. (My mother was, as usual, right. Trent turned out to be a distinguished Sanskrit professor who owns a world-class collection of Hindu puppets.) I really didn't want to hang around waiting for Trent to grow up.

As I began to rise from my chair, hoping to make a graceful retreat, he began speaking in a booming voice I'd never heard from him before. The voice of authority, the imposing gentleman who only comes out in his bedroom, the commanding officer in the Blue Army. He spoke with an ominous hint in his voice: “Cathy, I
know
what you think of me. But you don't have any idea who I
am
. Allow me to backtrack.”
Allow me to backtrack.
He was always trying to talk like an adult. “I fight for the immaculate heart of Mary — that's what we do in the Blue Army. I've been called upon to urge people to accept Her word. Our Lady of Fatima chose Lucinta, Francisco, and Jacinta, simple shepherd children, to share her three messages. We must pray the rosary and save souls from
that
,” he said, pointing to the garish picture entitled “Vision of Hell” which hung on his wall. “The second
message was to convert Russia and to establish devotion to Our Lady's immaculate heart and then there would be world peace. The third message is not going to be revealed until 1960, which is still four years away.”

He began pacing up and down on his Raggedy Ann and Andy rug. I was definitely not going to get involved in this conversation. I looked around at Trent's room. He had Hopalong Cassidy wallpaper and curtains with horses on them. His mother had decorated his room as though he was just your average boy. I guess when you're a mom you have no idea what kid God will give you. It's what Roy would call a real crapshoot.

Sensing I was losing interest, Trent blared, “Cathy, I have some big concerns here . . . I
know
the third secret. It has been entrusted to me by Our Lady of Fatima. She appeared to me above the wild rhubarb patch in the empty lot. She is afraid the last secret will never be revealed. She wants me to hold on to it until 1960 so that at least some American will have the secret in case the Russians bomb Rome, where it is locked in the Vatican.”

I couldn't resist asking with some of the derision I felt, “Why would Our Lady of Fatima travel all over the world, choose the USA, then New York, then Lewiston, then Third Street, then Trent McMaster?”

He raised his arms in the air and let them flap lifeless to his sides. “I don't know. I've asked myself the same question a thousand times. I
have
been interested in the miracle of Fatima for a few years and I have collected material on it whenever there is a Catholic book fair.” He pointed to a shelf chockablock with Fatima pamphlets and books, most of which were covered with kneeling shepherd children wearing little scarves. “I had to share
this burden with
someone
. Cathy, it's
hard
because I know that if this secret were to be revealed, it would help all of the world
today
, but I feel I have to keep it until 1960. The problem is there may be lost souls in between.”

My advice was simple as I got up from my chair. “You're doing the right thing. Just keep it secret.”

He seemed disappointed by my lack of debate on the topic. As I headed toward the door he said, “Well, Cathy, you can see how I can't be overly concerned with the Bloods and all the initiation rites. I've got a
lot
on my mind.”

I nodded my understanding and then slipped out of his room to join my parents. I immediately began agitating to get them mobilized for departure. Knowing my dad liked
The Jackie Gleason Show
, I pointed out that we only had a few minutes to run home and warm up the set or we'd miss the June Taylor Dancers.

Now Trent McMaster was here again, loping along on the sheet of ice to join us and give us some silly idea or other. He's also the type that could tell his mother we were on the gorge and get us all in trouble. “Hi, guys,” he squeaked. Thank God, he didn't have the nerve to wear something red. Franky and Dicky ignored him, and I nodded, but then looked the other way. I knew that my lack of enthusiasm made him feel crummy, because I was always nice to him when my mother and I went out to dinner with him and his mother. Of course, he didn't know that it was because my mom made me.

Franky said, “Listen, Masturbator, to be in the Bloods you have to sled to the bottom, and not turn till the Riverside Inn.”

“That's only a foot or two from the water,” Trent stammered,
adding, “The weatherman said it's dangerous today.”

“So play with the weatherman,” Dicky piped in.

“I'll go first,” Franky said. He got down on his sled and Dicky pushed him off. I never saw anyone go so fast. He leaned perfectly around all the stumps, but he was gaining too much speed. He had his hands on the front and we could see him trying as hard as he could to turn; he passed the pink Riverside Inn sign, turned ninety degrees, and stopped in the parking lot. He looked up triumphantly and signalled his success. We both raised our hands and gave the sign for the Bloods.

Trent was unusually quiet, although I heard his asthmatic rattle and saw thick disgusting yellow stuff frozen layer by layer under his nose.

Dicky went next. He didn't make as many turns as Franky and was going even faster. He looked squirmy; he began leaning one way then another. He tried dragging his feet, but nothing helped on the solid ice. Suddenly we heard a loud hollow thud and a snap as Dicky hit a tree. He lay there a long time. Trent said, “I think he's dead!” Finally Dicky stood up, staggered, and fell. He got up again and held up the thick curved cast-iron piece from the front of his sled, which had snapped off. He held it up as though he had participated in a joust and this was his crossbow, the way Robin Hood did with King Richard, in the Classic Comics. He turned all around to show it to Franky at the bottom and us at the top.

I was next. There was no point in talking about my terror. Trent pushed me off. As his hands touched my feet, I felt them shake through my fleece-lined red rubber boots. “Good luck,” he yelped. I told myself to keep making tiny turns; that would be my only salvation. I wasn't strong enough to carve turns in the ice.
Leaning and unweighting was my only hope. It was fast, faster than I'd ever imagined. I couldn't see any of my former landmarks. I went so fast it was a blur; in fact I couldn't breathe. Where was the big stump? The tiny road? What if I missed them and I was in the middle of the river? My face was so close to where the sun hit the ice I was blinded. Oh God, I don't want to drown. What if I don't go to heaven? Then I saw it — the pink flash of the Riverside Inn sign. Now I had to lean hard, almost off the side of my sled — I couldn't afford to think of heaven or hell — just turn the crossbow and lean — I was past the sign — no more pink — that gave me three feet maximum — I gave it my all — I was slowing down coming out of the turn — I stopped. I looked up and pulled alongside Franky. We looked like parked cars in a lot. He smiled ever so slightly. We pulled out our Pez dispensers; my tongue was dry. In my terror and with the wind, I'd stopped making saliva. The Pez just sat there like dry ice until I put some snow in my mouth.

I stood up and heard the babbling of water under the ice in the river behind me. Dicky was staggering, trying to get down; however, his feet kept sliding out from under him and he persistently crashed on the ice. I looked up to the top of the gorge. There, a pathetic blue smudge on the cliff's ledge, stood Trent. I saw his mitten go to his face, undoubtedly his germy menthol nose stick. After making the trip, it was obvious to me, he couldn't do it, now or ever. Why didn't I tell him that? I knew I could have told him at the top when I was alone with him. Anyway, he'd chicken out, he always did, saying, “Let's go to my house for Ovaltine,” hoping the cold would make us forget his cowardice.

God, he was actually crouching, getting on the sled. Even
Franky looked worried and shook his head. I wondered later if he would have heard us if we'd yelled then, at that exact moment. It would have been our last chance to have said we'd tried to stop him. My Pez dried up. He started down fast, faster, out of control from the start. As he got closer I could see he was lying on his sled like a bullet, making no effort to steer. He went straight down, gaining speed every second. His only hope was hitting a stump or a rock to slow him down. I hoped he'd had the brains to keep his head behind the steering mechanism so it wouldn't take the impact if he hit something. As he got near the Riverside Inn sign, there was no hope of a turn. He was mummified. He leapt off the pier like Superman on a board and hit the ice still moving. He shot out on the frozen Niagara River still travelling until he hit a brown patch of ice and stopped. He tried to stand, but the back of the sled sank. We heard a cracking, as though the world was unfolding like an accordion, and Trent McMaster was pulled under with his blue hat bobbing up and down like a forlorn buoy.