Falling by Anne Simpson Page B

“esca.” Fresca, thought Damian, but that wasn’t right. She’d had a crush on him, and he’d always tried to avoid her. Both girls had tears streaming down their faces and it hadsmudged their eyeliner. Some women hugged him, but the men just pressed his hand, which was usually better than being hugged by people he didn’t know.
    Thank you for coming, said his mother or his father.
    Damian was mostly silent.
    His mother murmured to Greg that her own brother wasn’t there. Her own brother.
    Then Trevor, dressed in a dark suit that was a little too big for him, so that the cuffs of the jacket came too far down his wrists. His tie was knotted neatly, but it was striped garishly in red, blue, and green.
    I’m Trevor, he said, speaking to Ingrid. I’m – he paused, swallowing.
    Trevor, Ingrid murmured, to give him time. Thank you for coming.
    I’m – I was a friend of Lisa’s. I have something for you. I’ll – maybe I’ll come back later and –
    Thank you for coming, Trevor, said Greg, taking over from Ingrid and passing Trevor along to Damian.
    There were tears in Trevor’s eyes, but he wasn’t crying.
    God, Damian, he said.
    Yeah. Damian hated Trevor, hated him standing there.
    I’m sorry, said Trevor.
    Damian studied his shoes, polished by his father that morning, and when he looked up there was an old woman with a walker standing in Trevor’s place.
    Oh, she said faintly and gripped Damian’s hand in her claw.
    And then it was over; it had gone on for two hours. His feet were tired. Greg had gone to speak to the bird-thin funeral director in the hall.
    Damian stood with his mother, gazing at the youngwoman who was not Lisa, but a wax copy of Lisa, lying before them in her dark green dress with sprigs of cherries printed on it. It was true that everything had been done to make her look perfect. She was wearing coral-coloured lipstick and there was a rosy blush to her cheeks, though she’d never bothered with makeup. It wasn’t Lisa. Lisa was long gone.
    Look at this, said Elvis. Roger says this is his pride and joy.
    Queen of the Mist
, read the black letters on the barrel lid. And in smaller, stamped letters:
Property of Annie Edson Taylor
. Elvis took out the large cork in the lid, inspected it, poked the cork back down snugly in its hole, and took the lid off the barrel. Inside was a mattress, stained and yellowed with age. Elvis put his head in the barrel.
    Oooooo
, he called into it. Then he climbed inside.
    What are you doing? cried Damian.
    Now Elvis was stuck, with his chest and head inside, legs outside. Pride and joy, he shouted, and the words reverberated.
    Pride and joy
.
    He kicked his legs, and the barrel fell over with a crash.
    Elvis, are you okay? Damian dragged him out of the barrel. Are you okay?
    Yes.
    You’re sure?
    My head isn’t okay, but the rest of me is okay, said Elvis. Do you have brain damage?
    Not that I know of, said Damian, supporting Elvis as he got up. But I could have had some brain damage if you’d shot me.
    Brain damage, Elvis laughed. You’re right about that. You’re right about that.
    There was a fine, powdery dust on his hair and eyebrows. He was laughing, and he put his large, pale hands over his mouth. When he looked sideways at Damian, his eyes were wide.
    Let’s go to the casino, he said when he could breathe again.
    No, I don’t think so.
    I want to.
    No, Elvis.
    He opened his mouth so Damian could see his tongue and throat, dark red. A strangled cry came out. He looked so strange with his mouth open, his molars showing, his face all twisted up in agony. Then he fled, vanishing out the door and into the night.
    Elvis!
    Damian stood for a moment at the doorway of the carriage house and then stepped out on the back lawn, not knowing which way Elvis had gone. If anything happened, it was Damian’s doing. He shut the door and went across the lawn to the big house. He opened the kitchen door quietly, but Elvis wasn’t in the kitchen and he wasn’t in