On this Valentine’s Day, The Masters Review is celebrating Anti-Love with the second winner of our September Selects series, “Behind the Falls” by Paulette Pierce! Be sure to check out their profile this Friday. Congratulations, Paulette!
Lights are projected onto the water, reds pulsing into purples, greens fading into blues, and Lainey supposes they’re meant to be calming. Romantic nighttime ambience for cooing lovers taking smiling selfies. But as Lainey watches the whole hypnotic scene, the drone of the falls sounds like a coded call to action, one of those mysterious phrases that snap brainwashed soldiers into movement. It’s everywhere. It’s as inescapable as the wind.
When Lainey looks at Niagara Falls, all she can think about is Jenni Olson and the Golden Gate Bridge suicides. She remembers the hook of Keller’s leg under the blanket as they watched The Joy of Life, Olson’s narration about the city’s refusal to erect a barrier of protection around the bridge, Keller’s limbs fastened around her like a net strapping her in. It was a night of warmth and skin on skin, a distant memory now.
It’s nearly ten at night and the air is swirling with snowglobe flurries. The rapids volley the flakes directly into Lainey’s face, marking her cheeks with the force of tiny steam burns. Keller smiles and waves from the waist-high metal barrier, beckoning her closer.
“I’m good here,” Lainey says, but it’s swallowed by the sound of the falls, churning and crashing like an ancient death machine. She shakes her head instead.
The barrier is so low, it can’t be safe. If she steps closer, curls her hands around the railing, she knows she’ll lurch forward without ever deciding to do it. The falls will fling their watery tentacles outward, wrapping around her body and pulling her down into the plunge pool. Lainey stares into the water, wondering how quickly it would beat her body into nothing more than a living bruise, bones split in half like twigs snapped for kindling, and she thinks this is probably not a normal thought.
Lights are projected onto the water, reds pulsing into purples, greens fading into blues, and Lainey supposes they’re meant to be calming. Romantic nighttime ambience for cooing lovers taking smiling selfies. But as Lainey watches the whole hypnotic scene, the drone of the falls sounds like a coded call to action, one of those mysterious phrases that snap brainwashed soldiers into movement. It’s everywhere. It’s as inescapable as the wind.
“It’s the negative ions,” a gravelly voice says, and Lainey jumps back. He’s too close for comfort. The man is bundled as though about to embark on an arctic expedition: thick furred hat with earflaps, parka as puffy as a marshmallow, the high collar covering half his face. “They’re good for ya in small doses. But if you’re here for too long, they can kill ya. They’ve done studies!”
He says this last part with an upturn to the syllables, like he expects an argument, a skepticism about the factual basis of this claim.
“Oh,” Lainey says because the fewer words spoken, the least encouragement given. She’s been a woman in public long enough to glean the quickest routes of escape. While there’s something to be said for placating smiles to ward off danger, sidling off stage before it has even begun is preferable. Life should have trapdoors. She takes a step toward Keller, her fair isle beanie with the pompom on top like a flag planted in the ground to signify safety, but the man keeps on, louder this time.
“It helps your mood and your sleep. The mist is in your lungs right now. You can’t breathe purer air than this. You’re at the inception of it all, girlie. You’re home.”
