Chapter 11: The Waterfall

I was afraid to ask but did it anyway: 'Where is the sound of water coming from?' Audrey jumped with excitement. 'That's the waterfall on the other side of the cliff'. And she stood up. 'Come, I'll show you! I was planning to take you back on a different road anyway.' I knew I had to brace myself for one last road. The road back to safety. One last thing to do to get out of this mess. It partly felt like the recurrent nightmares I had as a kid, when I was waking up, in my bed, in a lather of sweat, after I had fallen from a cliff or tall building. Only that now it was real.

'You watch your step,' she added. 'We both shuffled past the mountain wall, as tight as we could. A few feet further, across the cut of the mountain, there it was. Though not as tall as I imagined, it still kept a menacing air. Isolated among two blocks of rock yet still drenched in the light of the sun, the water hit the mountain below in three tiers, after which it tumbled down onto a slope patched with redwood and, eventually, dropped out of sight. The atmosphere was rich in cool vapor. At that particular point I wished we hadn't done this at all. I looked down at the slippery cobbles and the 30-foot fall to my right and just didn't see a way out. 'You hold tight, yeah?' - I heard Audrey's voice resonating against the mountain walls.

'Give me your hand! Give me your hand, please!' and I just wouldn't take a 'No' for an answer. She felt that, too, and she conformed. And then, a few feet further, the crossing became narrower and narrower, and all there was left was a slippery ledge, wide enough to accommodate both feet. Barely. 'We have to get back' and again I wouldn't even fathom she would say 'No' to me.

'Come, we can do it!, and she giggled and groped the rocks in front of her with her feet. 'Okay. Let's fucking get this over with', I thought.

I hadn't had the chance to say goodbye to anyone. As we moved onto the ledge, I remembered a strange instance that had happened seven years ago - the day I moved to New York. My father was apprehensive about the whole thing, saying we should stick together and I should better look for work in L.A. ("It's still closer to home than crossing the entire the U.S", he would say). We both hate goodbyes - we all do in our family - and so I left town rather furtively, with no major fuss. My father was working that day. I was also about to miss my train, so I rushed out of the house, suitcases pounding against the stones, to catch a bus to the train station. Anyway, only now, seven years later, I was able to find out from Rodrigo Gonzales, a Mexican car repairman my father has known his entire life, that, on that morning, my father cried in front of a couple of his friends because I had left without saying goodbye. 'I could have at least given him a hug' - is allegedly what he said to Rodrigo. I don't know why I thought of this instance as we crossed the ledge. I wanted to let my father know that I know and that I was sorry.' It was getting so tiresome. I was focused on every step Audrey was taking while my mind was rushing to dark, untapped corners of my imagination.

How did I get here? Here - on the ledge, here - at this point, in my life. I was looking ahead and watching Audrey struggling with the descent. A rock she had stepped on came off and tumbled down into the unknown. I held her hand tight while she was using her other hand to slip her fingers into a cut in the wall. 'This is it.' I just knew it. If she falls, I will fall. I will not be able to tolerate the pain. I know myself. But she will not fall. She won't.

'You hold on to me tight, yeah?' she asked, looking up at me.

'I will hold on tight to you. Yes. Co-mme now!!' And I pulled her hand and she squeezed mine so hard it became blue. I then rolled my frame against her body, while pushing both of us into the wall and slid down the rest of the slippery slope onto the patch of land below us, safe from the chasm, and the descending water. She started laughing:' This is so fucking great! Wow! I fucking loved it!'

'You ok? Are you hurt anywhere?' and I checked her head for injuries.

'No, no. Are you ok?' And she checked my head for damages too, with adrenaline-fueled jolts of her hands. We should do this again!' - she screamed, jumping up and down.

I suppose I should somehow be content that it was all over and had ended well, but I was hit by an aftershock of worry, partly because of the events that had just unfolded and partly because of the effect of 'clouds lowering upon me', which I experience like Pavlov's dog, after bouts of intense adrenaline. I wish I had something that would 'bury them in the deep bosom of the ocean' but that would be affection or validation from someone and I don't see getting either of those, any time soon. As we headed back to Fayhill and crossed the land to the St Joseph Parish, I looked down at a couple of bruise marks on Audrey's leg. They were idle scratches and I just wouldn't care to say anything anymore. It would have felt like a petty, meaningless remark. We hadn't brought any water or Band-Aid with us and she seemed dismissive of them, so there really was no point in bringing it up.

I don't know what strange occurrence made us bump, totally out of the blue, into the unusual, frenzied atmosphere that descended over the church's main courtyard, or even how we crossed the Main Street past Alfredo's 'Mac And Macaroons' diner to get there. It all felt like we were in the woods and had then opened a portal to another dimension, but I guess my continuing mind-fiddling and over-care towards Audrey had something to say because I didn't take much notice of people or places along the way. What I did take note of was the two white vans, parked a hundred feet from the parish's main entrance, and the well-groomed appearance of three male silhouettes, dressed in white jackets and navy trousers, who packed and loaded what appeared to be metal detectors and other recording equipment in the back of their cars. I don't know if they were in total contrast with the background or whether the background was in total contrast with them, but the image of Father Mitchell, sitting down on the steps leading to the door of an adjacent chapel, dressed in his white robe, legs kept apart as if had been shoveling or working in a sewer for hours, and now taking a much needed rest with a smoldered cigarette in one corner of his mouth, certainly didn't paint the familiar picture I had grown accustomed with since my return from NY.

'They found nothing', mumbled Deacon Grant as he passed the chimere to Father Mitchell.

'They have their job to do. We have ours', uttered the priest, as he flicked away his cigarette stub and buttoned his cope. 'Let's try and start on time, tonight. Have most of the devotees arrived?'

'Yes, father', concurred the young deacon, and he might've wondered 'what a stupid question that was'. It looked like three times the size of our community had gathered for the service tonight.

'Good. Good...' And now he was taking way too much time fiddling with his garments.

'I reckon that meteorite is long gone by now, Father! They're looking for a needle in the haystack'. Even without looking I recognized the thick Irish accent of Chris Walsh, one of the only kids I know in town, because Walsh Sr is a close friend to dad, and the two of them play chess every other day in our living room.

'Is that what you reckon? I reckon you should spend a bit more time in prayer and getting ready for the service, young man. I see you fussing about and distracting the other altar boys while they're trying to concentrate and I don't like that. I don't like that in the slightest', and the admonished boy was taking his leave. 'Hold it!' and the kid was expecting further scolding. But Father Mitchell had no more words for him. He arranged the boy's cope (it looked perfectly fine from where I was) and, condescendingly, patted his cheeks, like he was marking cattle. 'Off you go, now!'