Jumping Page 12

  CHAPTER TEN

  And Then They Know

  WE ORDER FROM ROOM service again, as the sun is beginning to set. We've been here since the morning, and we're exhausted from it all. You'd think we'd been doing heavy lifting. We're too tired and confused to talk, but we can't help but talk.

  All of a sudden, we hear some loud thumping coming from outside, and we go to the window. A fireworks display has begun, down by the river, and I remember that it's Labor Day. A celebration must be going on, and it seems very appropriate. I have to smile. So does Miles. We watch for a while, as the colorful light blossoms explode into the twilight sky above the trees on the square, disappearing almost immediately, leaving little puffs of smoke behind.

  I look over at Miles and think of how comfortable I have become with him. We've been through some really unsettling, and even deeply disturbing, stuff together, but we've never lost our ease of interacting, our respectful way of waiting for each other and helping each other to whatever understanding seems possible. I'm grateful for that. I can't imagine going through this alone, which makes me think of what Uche said to Duncan Robert. None of us is supposed to go through any of this alone.

  We go back to the couch and settle in again.

  As he leans his head back on the couch, I ask Miles if I can look at the notes he's made in his notebook, because I did see him writing from time to time, as Duncan Robert talked, and I'm thinking he may have caught some things I didn't. He doesn't open his eyes, but he hesitates and then says, “Sure, but they're my notes, based on the questions I came in with and the answers I think I got. They're not based on what he said, but what I heard, if that makes any sense.”

  “It makes sense,” I say.

  He opens one eye to look over at me, raising one eyebrow, too. Then he closes it again.

  I sit on the couch, my legs tucked under me, reading his list of questions and answers aloud, as I sip my still-warm cup of tea. I realize the questions went unasked—we just listened. The answers are his, too, which is kind of eerie. He writes them in first person, as if it is his own jump he's writing about. They're kind of based in Duncan Robert's words and kind of not.

  “Questions,” he's written at the top of the page. A list follows, not numbered. There are answers, indented, after each question, just a few lines each.

  Tell us why you jumped.

  In good part because it was there. And nothing else really was.

  Tell us where you've been.

  Right here.

  Tell us about the jump.

  Exhilarating. First it was dark and I was afraid—afraid I'd made the wrong choice, like they all said. Then my heart lifted like a sail. All feeling left all other areas of my body and gathered in my heart. My heart swelled, and at the same time it felt light. Then I felt my heart burst. It's an incredible feeling, being turned inside out, made vulnerable to the world.

  I felt more aligned with the Void than I ever had with life. With life, I always felt out of sync—behind, out of step, anxious, frantic sometimes, not feeling enough of anything—smart, quick, tall, aggressive, handsome, good. With the Void, I felt perfect.

  Were you scared?

  Paralyzed. Unable to breathe. Not sure I could respond. But when I realized it was happening, I let go. I laughed, I cried, I was moved by my own actions. I couldn't believe what I had done. It was the most authentic act of my life—done by me, for me, and for no other reason.

  Did you feel alone?

  Honestly? I never felt alone. I felt completely surrounded by presences. They laughed with me, screamed with me, held onto me.

  Are you glad you did it?

  More than I can say. And I'm grateful to the Void, for its constancy, its inspiration, and its enlightenment. It has never left us. It is always there, waiting for the next one to jump.

  I closed his notebook in my lap. Miles has been watching me read, and as I look over at him, his eyes meet mine. We look at each other for a moment. We have to pack up and go back to our lives, to our jobs, to our friends and families. I'll be sitting at a computer screen, trying to fit this story into a manageable, publishable form, probably forced to squeeze half the life out of it to satisfy Henry. Miles will be preparing for school to start, to teach some inhumane number of classes to an uninterested flock of freshmen. He would describe them more charitably, I know, because he really does love his students. We'll both be trying to hold onto and sort out all that we've just heard. And waiting for more contact with Duncan Robert, the leader of our Team down here.

  We continue to look at each other, knowing the biggest question without saying it, feeling it filling the air between us.

  Are we the next ones to jump?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Carrie Jean

  THE MORNING SUN SLANTS through the trees and disappears into the dark hole that is the Void. A group of raucous crows gathers around the edge, squawking to each other the way they do, pecking at invisible things in the grass and in the air. The sun picks up the iridescence of their feathers, edging the black with purple and green. I wind my long hair into a loose bun, securing it with a stick, and think about how my Granny Noreha would call them a storytelling of crows, rather than a flock or a muster. In her tradition, they are the keepers of spiritual law through the telling of stories. I love their sounds and consider their presence a good omen. I stand at the edge of the woods that stop short of the Void. There is a little meadow in between, carpeted in dense, knee-high grass that grows right up to the Void, almost hiding it. Even from this distance, I can see the path of two sets of footprints crossing the damp grass, up to the edge of the Void. Crossing, but not returning.

  I saw them jump, both of them. They didn't see me, but I saw them. They stood a few feet back from the edge. Holding hands, they looked at each other, calm as ice. Then they ran the few steps to the edge and jumped, clearing the sides of the Void and disappearing. I held my breath, as if expecting them to reappear, peeking over the edge, telling me it was all a joke. I had been pretty sure they were going to do it, because I'd been called here, but still, seeing it left me breathless. I thought my heart had stopped with my breath. It was just so final. They existed in my world one moment and then they didn't. No sound, no panic, no hesitation, no leader and no follower.

  Should I have tried to stop them? Not that I could have. They walked into the clearing with purpose, and they hurtled themselves forward into the Void with the same purposefulness. It felt natural, easy. As it happened, I was mesmerized by it, as if into a trance. To be honest, intervening hadn't even occurred to me.

  I wondered what would happen to them now. I stood quietly for a while, not ready to abandon them yet. I'd known someone else who had jumped, and I hadn't been there to witness it. It helped to be here for this jump. So I stood and watched for a while, as the sun began to warm the clearing, and the crows continued holding court.

  I was so engrossed in my secret watching, I could not have noticed that someone else watched me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Miles

  I CLIMB OUT OF the little Cessna 172, tie the ropes to the lift struts and tail, slide the rudder lock in place, securely tethering her to her spot near the frozen dirt runway, between the runway and the hangar. I chock her tires and begin wiping off all the signs of flight on her—the bug juice, the dirt, the oil—as I was taught fifteen years ago by my first trainer. I automatically check for any signs of wear and tear as I do so. I feel the late afternoon cold in my hands as I work, and the multi-colors of the fall leaves are so bright they argue for my attention.

  This isn't my plane—I rent it occasionally, for $35 an hour—but I've been taught to treat every plane I fly as if it was, leaving it in good shape for the next guy. I have to pay for fuel, too, and any runway costs, but I still consider it a good deal, for what you get. I was bitten by the flying bug years ago, when I first read a battered copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, by Richard Bach, that someone had left on the Greyhound I was taking to see a girl, t
he name of whom I can't now remember. I'd been young and ‘high on life,’ as they used to say, excited about collecting experiences of all kinds, ensuring I'd have all kinds of stuff to write about, because writing was what I thought I wanted to do. It was a romantic notion, and flying was part of it, as were outdoor adventures, travel, and girls. I dabbled in all four, while getting my education, working odd jobs to support myself, and writing on the side, as I found time.

  The one real reason for flying, Bach said, “is the finding of life itself, and the living of it in the present.” Just as you get a broader view of the world from up there, you get a broader view of your own situation. I agree with that, and since life itself has provided much to stir me lately, I've taken to the sky again to settle my thoughts. After coming back from seeing Duncan Robert with Babe, I'd been overwhelmed, emotionally and intellectually. The aloneness and the silence in the plane had stitched my thoughts and feelings back together again, just as Bach said they would—leaving me feeling like singing, as I did on my best days up in that cockpit, knowing no one could hear. I was glad to be singing again, having wondered if I would.

  As I walked away from the plane towards my old pickup, I knew, first, I needed to talk with Silvia. I had just spent more time with her son than she had in over a year. Second, I needed to begin to get my affairs in order, so I could make the jump with as little on my mind as possible. I knew Babe was doing the same, and it wouldn't take either of us much, since both of us live fairly simply. We plan to jump in May, over spring break. It is mid-October now, which allows us both plenty of time to do what we need to do. We won't have the holidays with our families, since we don't usually spend them with family. Babe doesn't, because of work, and Silvia hasn't made much of any of the holidays since Duncan Robert left last year. Besides, her work as church secretary keeps her pretty busy during most holidays, so I'm usually on my own.

  Our parents have been gone for years now. We are only a year and a half apart in age, and we were always close growing up. We hung out together, sharing friends, all through school, and people often asked if we were twins. I thought that was more because we were always together than because we look a lot alike, which we do, though I see it as the usual sibling resemblance.

  I went off to college first, attending the university near Portsmouth, not far from the village, and she came up often, meeting whomever I met, learning all the places I knew, hanging out with me and my best friend Tom. I had been attending the university for a year, majoring in English, when Silvia came up to begin her studies in nursing. She wanted to be a midwife.

  Tom and I met attending many of the anti-war and human rights protests on campus, eager to voice our opinions on the over-involvement of our government in too many places in the world, from the Middle East, to Africa, to the South Pacific. We discovered we were both English majors, interested in becoming writers, and we decided to share a loft apartment. Silvia lived in the dorm and hadn't made many friends there, as I remember. So, the three of us were together most of the time, reading the same things and discussing them, seeing the same movies, going to the same protests.

  I often think the protests, more than anything, forged the relationship among the three of us, enlivening and uniting us in an enduring way. They were some of my fondest memories. Usually held around lunch time, they brought together students who had some free time, provided us with free pizza, and kept great debates going on the finer points of whatever U.S. engagement we were protesting. Silvia and I were impassioned protesters, and began to help to organize the marches and find funding for their operation. Tom was more along for the ride, enjoying the camaraderie of the gatherings and finding all kinds of things to write about. Protest was all I wanted to write about, though, from early on. I sought out all the forgotten vets I could find in order to collect their war stories, which I then could weave into an argument against war.

  As for Tom and Silvia, they're an example of why I've always considered good conversation the best aphrodisiac for a relationship. I could see how one conversational topic led to another and another for them, deepening their relationship incrementally. I can't say when I felt the energy change, but I soon came to fully understand the concept of “third wheel.” I was close to Tom and I could see they were both happy, so it was easy to be genuinely happy for them.

  Silvia and Tom's wedding came that following summer, and Silvia quit her studies because she was pregnant by then, with Duncan Robert. Tom quit, too, and they moved back to the village, where Tom tried to find work to support them. I never understood their move back. Tom was a writer at heart, and a good one. He needed to have time and place to do it in order to thrive. I lost the everyday contact I'd had with them because of that move, and threw myself into completing my master's degree in the writing program, funded by a teaching fellowship.

  I soon discovered that my real interest, and my strength, was in teaching. I liked doing it, and I liked myself when I did it. I knew that my writing, while serviceable, would never be as good as Tom's, and that knowledge didn't break my heart the way I thought it would. More and more, I wanted to tell other people's stories, particularly war stories, which I found deeply moving, and I knew they could provide background for my teaching.

  I talked with returning vets, coming home after tours of duty in Iraq, though there weren't many returning at that time unless they'd been terribly wounded. I discovered that several of the older faculty on campus had fought in Vietnam, and their stories had had time to merge with the details of who they were then and are now in a way that made them powerful tools for teaching. I continued to enjoy teaching; it made me think and laugh and feel really alive. It wasn't as all-consuming and solitary as writing was. I found I had room to be, which suited me, and I happily settled into the routines of teaching, reading and writing that continue to define my life. Life was good, and I assumed it was for my sister, too.

  What I didn't know, however, was that Tom and Silvia were heading for divorce, a decision they would make when Duncan Robert was three. Later, after talking at length with Silvia over late-night coffees, I wondered if Tom's trying to be something he wasn't had just worn them all out. There wasn't a job left in the village he hadn't tried and failed at, and not tending to his writing regularly seemed to rob him of something essential for his well-being. The part of him that knew joy diminished almost to the point of non-existence. So, he took what was left of himself out of the marriage, said good bye to his son, and promised to still provide for them in whatever ways he could. Tom told me he thought it was too late for him to try to be a student anymore, so he set out to write, supporting himself any way he could, which was easier when he was alone. He had some success with his writing, too, and sent money to Silvia regularly.

  I know Silvia and Duncan Robert haven't seen Tom since, his work and life taking him in and out of the country. Silvia has kept him as the dad in Duncan Robert's life, not letting his absence obscure the fact, hoping they'll connect at some point. She stayed on in the village, liking that she could at least give Duncan Robert constancy in that way. She has worked almost twenty years now as secretary at the one Catholic church in town. Though she neither practices the faith nor believes in it, she feels herself lucky to be an essential part of the community. Duncan Robert grew up well supported, on all sides. I'm struck by the sad irony that he was named for two fathers—Silvia's and my father (Duncan) and Tom's father (Robert), but he never knew either of them. And of course he's never really known his own.

  The divorce, however, gave me the unexpected gift of knowing Duncan Robert. I had some vague romantic notion of being the popular uncle, the one who only got to visit occasionally, and was all the more loved and longed for because of it. That was hogwash of course, and I instead found myself working hard to woo this active, discerning kid who regularly looked at me sideways, measuring the sum total of me in that look. I had no way of knowing what that look found in me, or didn't find. But without a shadow of a doubt, it began to matter to me mor
e and more.

  I finally admitted to myself that I was captivated by this boy—how he thought, what he might say, what he might do next—I had begun to love him. Duncan Robert was teaching me things that I couldn't learn anywhere else. So when I completed the master's program, contrary to what I thought I would do, I took a job teaching at the community college not far from the village so that I could be near Silvia and Duncan Robert. This arrangement also suited me better than I could have imagined. Duncan Robert and I grew to be very close, camping and hiking together, sharing books and music, and all the things that mattered most—including, eventually, his jump.

  So, I'm here at Silvia's, to tell her about Babe's and my conversation with him. I pull into her driveway behind her old Subaru Forester, the back of the car still plastered with anti-war stickers. I pause a moment to see if she has any new ones. I savor the old ones—Republicans for Voldemort and How many lives per gallon? I spot one I haven't seen: How far can you go without destroying from within what you are trying to defend from without?—Dwight D. Eisenhower. Good one, unexpected source. I'll have to ask her about it.

  I follow the side brick walk, some signs of early frost in the shade of its borders, to the back door of her little cape cod, which is complete with black shutters at the narrow windows and fanlight above the front door. The back door opens directly into the kitchen, where I know she'll be. She has lived in the same house for all the time she and Duncan Robert have been in the village. I love her house. It feels like home to me. I open the door to see her, as expected, at the kitchen sink, washing lettuce.