The Fall Line Read online

  Farrell broke trail on the final ascent. He stayed hard by the edge of the forest so they wouldn’t be spotted from below by the men who ran the snow-grooming equipment. Halfway up, the snow became deep and slack like a dune of wind-swept sand; with every step little rivers of snow gave way and poured down the steep hill behind them. “Moves much more and we could be on a quick freight train down this hill,” Farrell said.

  Timmons gasped for air behind Farrell, steadied himself, then turned and plotted his position. “It’s your time to go down now, anyway.”

  “No. Too tricky to go alone.” Farrell said.

  “This is my last run,” Timmons insisted. “I want to drop in solo.”

  For a moment Farrell thought about arguing. But it all seemed stale. A tiny sapling jutted from the snow next to him. He reached out and snapped a fresh sprig off the crown. He pulled the elastic band of the goggles away from Timmons’s head and slid the fir branch inside.

  “Insurance,” Farrell said.

  Timmons nodded and patted Farrell on the shoulder. “Tear it up.”

  Farrell made a dozen tight turns in the moonlight, yet the snow that burst around his legs offered no pleasure. He cut left onto a ridge where he could see the entire length of the Apron. During the next twenty minutes the temperature dove and Farrell had to stamp his feet and swing his arms to stay warm. Timmons climbed close to the left wall of the cliff, using his skis as levers to pry himself higher and higher on the fabric of the Apron. His progress was slow. One time he slid six or seven feet and almost tumbled over backward, which caused Farrell to cry out: “Jesus!”

  Timmons caught himself and stood for a long while until he’d regained his balance. Another fifteen minutes and he’d made it to the top, a smudge on the mountainside. His movements were careful as he put on his skis, calculated not to disturb the sleeping bear. Yet even Farrell could see fresh powder settling and rolling around the tall man. Farrell whipped his head from side to side, trying to clear it, trying to think of all the ways this could go.

  Timmons got the second ski on after several tries. He picked up his poles. Without waiting, as if he knew the slope wouldn’t hold much longer, he jumped. He managed to make four swoops through the powder, each turn throwing a burst of pale silver glitter behind him. He dropped to his left at an unnatural angle. His body stuttered as if the snow underneath him were trying to catch its breath before a sneeze.

  Then it came—the woomph!—the burst of air from under the snow, the mountain’s terrible exhalation. Farrell grabbed a branch for support, sure now that Timmons was a goner. The snow sloughed and rolled like milk boiling over the edge of a sauce pan. Timmons stayed centered in the middle of the froth, a blue raft breeching white water. The unseen fingers of the avalanche reached up and squeezed Timmons; he popped to the surface and crouched on top of the running snow for a full two seconds, his hands cast in front of his chest as if he were in prayer.

  After running for fifty yards, the slide crested; as it did, Timmons let his left hand fall. He punched his right hand high over his head, the motion kicking him out of the course of the surging snow. The slide spread another forty yards and threw up a sparkling cloud. Timmons skied on as if nothing had happened, speeding like some old goat breaking for a ridge. Farrell stood below Timmons as he approached. Timmons flushed a spruce grouse when he came over the top of the knoll and the bird flew straight at Farrell, forcing him to duck down. Timmons schussed by. The moonlight illuminated his face: the doomed man’s lips were drawn back across his teeth, his cheeks fluttered, and his eyes were glassy, wide and set, as if he’d seen a ghost and laughed.

  Farrell caught up to Timmons at the parking lot. Timmons wouldn’t look at him. He just bent over, stepped out of his bindings, and said, “It’s seven-thirty. I need a ride to the airport; I’ve got an eight forty-five flight to catch.”

  Farrell nodded and in spite of himself he shivered; Timmons now seemed more of a phantom than ever.

  They drove the first part of the twisting road out of the canyon in silence. Six miles down, the road runs due west, revealing the city lights in the basin. Timmons opened his window and stuck his head out for a moment. When he pulled back in, his eyes were watering.

  “I love the way light plays off the mountains at night,” Timmons said. “You know: the shadows in the ravines and the big pastures all white like that one up there. After seeing something as beautiful as the Little Cottonwood, it’s hard to believe nature can be so tough.”

  “But not invincible,” Farrell said.

  “Pissing in the wind and keeping your pants dry is not the answer,” Timmons said thoughtfully. He broke into a wide grin. “But it gets you close and makes you feel a sight more comfortable with the inevitable.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Farrell agreed. “What now?”

  “I’m going home,” said Timmons. “I’m going to just be with my wife and my sons and see if simple acts, like holding them and kissing them and throwing a ball with them, are as soothing as the dramatic ones. The more I think about it, those two little boys are the best medicine I could have right now.”

  They arrived at the terminal thirty-five minutes later. Timmons handed his luggage to the skycap, then turned to Farrell. “You seem sick, too, my friend.”

  “I’m fine,” Farrell said defensively.

  Timmons shook his head: “One thing this has given me is a bulletproof shit detector. I’m not one to give advice, but I guess the only thing I can tell you after today is to go back to what’s important. It won’t cure you, but it will help.”

  He shook Farrell’s hand, then hurried off.

  Farrell started the truck and drove the streets of Salt Lake, confused and not sure where he should go. Light rain began to splatter off the windshield. He wanted to think of what Timmons had told him, to search for a lesson. Rather, every time he began to examine it, his mind jumped sideways to images of Inez, Page, and The Wave and their plan to ski the most radical terrain in the United States. Despite his resolve to find serenity in the deep-powder float, his heart fluttered at the idea of being poised high on a steep mountainside where his mind would become terribly acute, honed to the point where he could actually taste air. He knew from experience that at those moments time would drag in slow motion. He knew it was due to a tiny pink tissue in the middle of his head—the amygydal, a powerful neural organ that coats fear with chemicals that sharpen and focus the senses. In situations frought with danger, every hair on his body would stand on end, pulsing to the slightest change in temperature or pressure. His nose would become as powerful as a beagle’s. His eyes as strong as a hawk’s. Another juice would be secreted next door in the hippocampus—the section of the brain that controls the perception of time—and each second would seem to have the diversity and richness of an hour.

  Stopped at a red light near the center of the city, Farrell longed for the feeling of perfect clarity. He tried to calm the flutter in his stomach by summoning up pictures of wispy snowfalls in Montana, the cold-smoke powder of ski areas like Big Sky and Bridger Bowl. The daydream broke, replaced by Timmons. What did he prove up there on the Apron? That he’d had his moment? Sure he did, but soon his gross motor skills would depart, followed by incontinence and life in bed and …

  Farrell stomped on the accelerator. Ahead, lit by spot lights, he could see the Mormon Temple Square. He parked, not quite sure of his motives, went back into the camper, and retrieved Lena’s diary.

  A light wind kicked leaves across the cement when he passed through the south gate toward the temple. Pious music filtered through the trees, raising in him the sort of anxiety that he had previously reserved for the Stations of the Cross during Lent. The story of Judas and his thirty pieces of silver, a tale a nun taught him in the second grade, seemed especially pertinent.

  A quartet in a small stone building nearby played Brahms. Farrell entered and listened, admiring the serene glow on the faces of the musicians. After ten minutes, their blissful
smiles put him on edge. He left. Oak branches cracked over his head as he walked. Outside the Tabernacle, a massive building with a long, curved roof, a young woman told him that the choir was taking a break, but would begin its practice again soon. Farrell walked down the aisle with the diary under his arm, studying the dome and the balconies, running his hand along the pine benches. Choir members mingled on a raised stage in front of the bronze pipes of the organ, which rose a full two stories off the wooden floor.

  One of the women told a joke he couldn’t hear. Her friends laughed. Farrell resented their happiness. He tried to formulate an edge to the situation, imagining all the horrors that must occur behind the closed doors of Mormon homes: child abuse, wife beating, ignorance, drugs, racism. But the verbs to drive the nouns would not come. He slumped into a pew and glanced at the diary. He took the tiny key from his pocket and slid it into the mechanism. The click bounced off the acoustically perfect ceiling. He turned back the cover, saw Lena’s fine script, and moaned.

  The first page had been embossed by the company that manufactured the diary. The gold and black lettering said THE DIARY OF_______________. And on the blank line, she’d written:

  “Me?”

  Farrell squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, flipped forward past her years in college at Georgetown, past her early days as a nurse, to where he knew their story began:

  October 15

  I delivered twins today. Healthy twins. Nothing wrong. Two beautiful little girls. Their mom, Gwen, named them Jennifer and Theresa.

  John, their dad, cried when he held them and stroked their fine black hair. Me, too. Paula, the other nurse on duty, looked at me like I was nuts. I told her I’d just spent two years in oncology. She smiled and told me I’d get as used to this as I did to the cancer ward. I don’t think so. The magic in Gwen’s eyes is powerful and true and I don’t think repetition can dim such light, such life.

  I met this cocky guy, a banker down in the Loop at a party last week. His name is Jack Farrell and he has a sly way of peeking at your chest while he’s talking. Nothing blatant, but it’s there. The third time I caught his eyes dropping below my neckline, I just up and stared at his crotch, which seemed to shatter his composure; he excused himself and said he had to get a beer. I can be cocky, too: you don’t survive a childhood in Quincy, Mass. being shy.

  Later I was talking to my roommate, Christina, and she whispered that a guy was staring at me. Him again. I stared back until he looked away. Around midnight we started talking. I can tell he’s from New England, he says Maine. Probably spent every summer sailing. Anyway, five minutes into the conversation, he asks me out on a date. I asked him why I should. (Christina says I was born cold: it’s true!)

  Jack said it was something about the way I smelled. I told him it sounded like he thought I needed to take a shower. His face blushed and he jabbered how he didn’t mean it that way at all. I just laughed and said I needed to go outside, maybe take an air bath. When I walked away I could feel his eyes on my rear. I whipped around and told him he’d never get a date leering at me like that. The look he gave me was almost pitiful.

  He followed me onto the balcony and told me this funny story about trying to work in Guatemala when his understanding of Spanish was limited to Sí and Va Ya Con Dios! We laughed and he told me he could really use another beer. He gave me this same puppy expression. I couldn’t believe he wanted me to fetch him one. I asked him why I should. He said that if I didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to ogle my behind as I walked across the room. I told him to get his own drink, so I could study his.

  We talked to almost three in the morning. And yes, I admit it—he’s intriguing and handsome in his way. He’s lived all over the world. He travels to Mexico and South America on his job. And when he’s not being a jerk, he’s almost nice. Let’s face it, when you reach your mid-twenties, you’re willing to overlook some male traits you can fix!

  He became rather gentlemanly walking me out to find a cab at three a.m. Christina stayed the night at Wally’s.

  Anyway, when I was waiting for the cab, Jack stood out on Sheridan Avenue with me. He started telling me he lived in Africa. I called his bluff; his life is too fantastic. He assured me it was true, that he’d lived with nomads for two years. I’m a pushover for that kind of thing. He sensed a softening in my face, I guess, because he asked me for a date again. I said, My armpits are like magnets, huh?

  His face turned all red and I thought I’d gone too far. So I told him to call me sometime, but I didn’t give him the number. I left him with a research job. What’s on my mind is that he hasn’t called. And I kind of wish he would.

  I’m happy though. Twins were born again today. I helped.

  Farrell looked up wondering how it was that such a light voice had the power to thunder in his head. It had been so long since he’d heard her.

  He’d never danced in the streets before, but he found himself almost skipping along the sidewalks the night he met Lena O’Rourke. He remembered how her hair hung on her shoulders, wild and yet controlled; the way her legs flexed and rolled when she walked; and as she noted, the way her smell intoxicated him, hatching butterflies in his head. She smelled like a lake in the spring just after the ice has melted. Later in the evening Farrell decided she was the fresh ginger root he’d whiffed in the markets of Africa. At the same time, he knew that if he nuzzled her, she’d hit him with a right hook and somehow that had pleased him more than anything.

  The sound of someone scuffing their foot, like fine sandpaper across the varnished pine floor, broke his train of thought. Farrell opened his eyes to a little girl, no more than three, with blond hair and blue eyes, sitting in the pew in front of him. She giggled and waved. Farrell thought of Jenny and looked away. Just live one moment at a time.

  More choir members crowded the stage. Some broke into song, warming their throats after their break. A woman did deep knee bends. Others thrust their arms left and right, up and back. More men with their wives and children brushed by his seat. Some of the kids hung over the back of their benches, idly tracing their fingers on the wood. Farrell flipped forward a few pages.

  October 16

  Jack Farrell called me at work last night. Only two moms in the beds, early labor, so I took it. He asked if I remembered him? I said, Sure, you’re the guy who thinks I stink nicely. I heard some crunching on the line, but he didn’t say anything. I thought I’d blown it, then he sputtered and asked. I said, Sure, I’ll have dinner with you Saturday. He hung up straightaway.

  October 22

  I had a long night Friday with a mother named Sheila, a single woman who was bound and determined to have her baby naturally. She’s one of these New Age moms who see it as a badge of honor—didn’t want to be in the hospital.

  At midnight I started talking Cesarean. If there’d been a knife in the room, it would have been in me. When she’d finished a tirade about the C-section being a plot by the male-dominated AMA, and, I might add, a particularly brutal contraction, I told her, Fine—you want to put your baby in danger because of some half-baked theory, you do it. I think you’re going to have to learn that, as a parent, compromises are part of life. There’s a whole other part of this hospital dedicated to making kids comfortable while they die of reasons that even I don’t understand. You want to take a chance on your baby for some protest, you do it. Be prepared to accept the consequences. I’ll be outside waiting your decision.

  They performed the C-section at two-thirty. A pretty girl.

  Anyway, that was on my mind when Jack Farrell knocked at the door last night with three roses in his hand. I told him that the rule of the evening was this: that if I caught him trying to get downwind of me more than twice I was leaving.

  He was perfect. He told stories, he opened doors, he made me laugh. After dinner, we danced at a blues club on Sheridan Road. He told me he loves the fall, which I do, too. He said he skis, which I don’t and never want to—too scary. When the night was over, he didn’t push: he just sa
w me to the door and kissed me on the cheek.

  He’s going away for a week to Central America. But we made a date for next Sunday, here, dinner.

  November 5

  The Pinto’s busted again. I called Jack to tell him he’d have to make dinner. He was waiting at the L station with three roses and a tan that should be against the law in Chicago this time of year.

  He has a small, one-bedroom apartment filled with sculpture and paintings from all the places he’s been. One painting is of two African women pounding cereal in a big mortar. The colors were so brilliant I thought the artist had used oil. I looked closer and realized the whole thing was made of butterfly wings.

  Next to it was a photograph of Jack on skis flying off a cliff out West somewhere. He’s silhouetted against the sky and my stomach flip-flopped just looking. Jack said he loves the feeling of falling, of not knowing what will happen next. Me? When I go to movies I’m always begging people, even strangers, to tell me how they think it will turn out. Not knowing is exciting, but I’d rather have an idea of the end. Mom’s like that, too—two chapters into a book she peeks at the ending.

  Jack made chicken breasts sautéed in cumin and garlic, then drenched them in warm avocado and salsa sauce. Jack’s mom made him learn to cook when he was ten. He said she was a strong-willed woman who ruled their home more that his father did. His father died a long time ago. The muscles in his face tense when he talks of him.

  I changed the subject and we sat on his couch listening to an Aretha Franklin record. We kissed. Our first.

  The idiot asked me if I wanted to continue in the bedroom! I asked him if he got erections just looking at ice cream cones. He pushed back, glanced at his lap and asked me what I was talking about? I told him I read somewhere that men can get hard just looking at ice cream cones—it’s just a physical response.