Falling by Anne Simpson Read Free Book Online Page B

know how he’d done it, hanging upside down like a fruit bat, with the water rushing away beneath him.
    And here was Ingrid with the firm, waxed hospital floor beneath her, though everything had given way. Her life had given way.

 
    WE’RE OKAY, THE TWO OF US , Roger said. We get by.
    We get by, echoed Elvis.
    They were eating a late dinner of tortellini and salad on the porch because Ingrid and Roger had spent the day in Niagara-on-the-Lake, tootling around, as Roger put it. Ingrid and Damian had been in town a week, and she’d shown him the Flower Clock, the Spanish Aero Car, Fort George. They could have gone to Crystal Beach that day, where Damian could use the kayak, but he offered to cut the lawn for his uncle just to spend time by himself.
    Sometimes Damian couldn’t be around his mother and uncle, listening to them talk about how Nancy Ann Jakubowski had lost her leg to diabetes and whether Jerry Sparks had ever come home from the Buddhist monastery on an island off eastern Thailand. When they realized how they’d been leaving Damian out of the conversation, they’d tried to draw him into it. But the people they were talking about had all been born at least thirty years before Damian, and he didn’t want to know what a knockout Nancy Ann had been before she gained weight.
    It had been a relief when they left Damian alone. He’d cut the grass absently in the heat of the day, and when he was finished he’d flung himself down on the lawn with a glass of lemonade, filled with ice, and watched a line of ants crawl over his arm. Now dusk had fallen and it was cooler. No one wanted to turn on the porch light as they sat there, though they could hardly see the food on their plates. Elvis was already in his pyjamas. He was sitting quietly, picking up the tortellini one by one and squishing them between his fingers before he ate them.
    There’ll come a time when I’m just no good for you, Elvis, said Roger. We’ll need to go to a nursing home. Well, I’ll have to go to a nursing home, at least, because I won’t be able to take care of anyone, much less myself. I’m an old wreck as it is.
    You do pretty well, said Ingrid.
    Oh, something happens at least once a day. Last week Elvis was late getting to the workshop because he lost his Thermos, and you got panicky, didn’t you, Elvis?
    Elvis was peering at a pocket of tortellini between his thumb and forefinger.
    He got a bit panicky, said Roger.
    Elvis put down the piece of tortellini and got up. He went down the steps.
    Elvis? said Ingrid.
    Friday, November 22, 1963, 1:10 p.m.
    JFK, murmured Roger.
    Friday, November 22, 1963, Elvis repeated. The date of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. Three months after the death of his son, Patrick Bouvier Kennedy, who lived thirty-nine hours –
    Elvis, said Roger.
    Both John F. Kennedy and Abraham Lincoln were shot in the head. They both had seven letters in their last names. Lincoln was shot at Ford’s Theatre, and Kennedy was shot in a Lincoln limousine, made by the Ford company.
    Ingrid went down the steps and put her hand on Elvis’s arm.
    Both of them were shot in the head, he said loudly.
    Elvis, there’s ice cream for dessert, said Ingrid. Chocolate swirl.
    Shot in the head on a Friday.
    Elvis turned on his heel and left them.
    He’s gone to the carriage house, said Roger.
    I’ll go, said Damian.
    It was dark in the carriage house, and when Damian went inside he bumped into a cabinet, making something crash inside it.
    Who’s that? cried Elvis. Who’s that?
    It’s okay, said Damian. It’s just me.
    I’ve got a big gun, said Elvis. There was a shuffling sound, a banging. I’ve got a Winchester 30.30 here.
    Elvis, it’s Damian.
    I’ve got a big gun.
    No, listen – it’s me. It’s Damian Benjamin MacKenzie. May 31, 1987.
    Elvis turned on the light. He stood like a large shambling bear, holding a gun. His hand was on the trigger and he was pointing the gun at Damian.
    Elvis – don’t. Is