Craig Davidson - Cataract City

I blinked, disbelieving my own eyes. A cell phone.

I picked it up. It worked. The signal displayed five full bars.

Drinkwater pulled his legs to his chest, encircling them with trembling arms. “You can’t trust anyone,” he said.

The city holds you.

And not just this one. Every city has that potential. A city holds you inside itself. The feeling is as comfortable as nesting in a warm cupped palm. And if that hand should tighten into a fist — hell, most times you’ll barely feel it.

A city knows the shape of things and it shapes itself around you — or perhaps you shape yourself around it. The result is the same. The city doesn’t really change. The city changes you. In my city, you come through hard if you come through at all. But I think people can be more beautiful for being broken.

We all occupy our own square of space and time. We have our memories and no one else’s. We live one life, accumulating it in our minds as we go along. The city is part of that, too. The city is networked into the memories of everyone who walks those same streets, who works at the same factories, who plays baseball on the same diamonds where the dust still hangs along the base-paths minutes after a player’s passage.

We city dwellers know the same things about our home, even though we each see them from our own vantage. I know the worn earth along the river’s edge, tromped smooth by adventurous children. I know small lawns fenced with green chain-link. I know backyard pools with empty cans of Laker floating on the surface. I know plastic drinking glasses beaded with sweat from the Kool-Aid inside. I know two boys walking down a secret path to fish rock bass out of the basin, fishing poles slung over their shoulders like carbines. I know the forever surge of the Falls that roars with the blood in my veins. I know of night woods that run thick with white wolves. I know the slow sweet nectar of a Sunday afternoon as it shades into evening, twilight braiding down the streets and across a still river whose waters run deep, street lamps popping alight to hold back the swallowing night.

Still, you can come to resent your own home. You can fill yourself with the need to escape it. I remember feeling that way, then looking across Lake Ontario at the steel spires and reflective glass of the bigger city in the distance, unable to fathom the industry taking place there. But my smaller city, Cataract City, made sense in an elemental way, the same way wrestling did back when I was a boy.

These days I drive the city sometimes, alone at night. I drive past the places that built me, remembering. Past Derby Lane at post time, the air crackling with electricity as Harry sends the hare zipping down the rail. Past the weed-scudded lot where the Memorial Arena once stood and where my childhood idol had flown in the ring, unfettered by gravity.

Those places created me. Time shifts and passes more quickly now, and I sense things will never seem as real as they did in those days. Still, there’s a vital current that runs through the heart of Cataract City, too. That current twists and bends and flows into still pools from which there is no exit. And there is a shadow side to that current, an undertow that flows towards the Falls. In it you can see things toiling, things shifting. And there are always hands to beckon you over.

Often I find myself at the Falls early in the morning when the tourists are gone. I picture the old man behind the falling water, he of the translucent skin. I think of the men and animals who’ve passed through his swallowing garden — Bruiser Mahoney, Igor Bearfoot, my dog Frag — and gone on into everlasting light. It no longer embarrasses me to think these things.

We all survived — me and Dunk and Drinkwater. I guess that much is obvious. I made the call on Drinkwater’s phone; ten minutes later the medevac chopper was buzzing overhead.

It was a near call for Duncan. Stage 3 hypothermia with severe ataxia. Minor brain damage due to oxygen loss. The medics pumped his lungs, flooded his system with Adrenalin and glucosamine.

He pulled through. Of course he did.

Drinkwater was in rough shape, but he’s a tough bastard, too. He’d lost three pints of blood from where Duncan plugged him and was bleeding out fast. They slapped on a tourniquet, pumped him full of coagulant and transfused him at the Niagara Gen — where, in one of life’s little ironies, my own mother performed the blood transfusion.

He went into a five-day coma and came out in time to face charges of attempted murder. Silas Garrow had survived, too, and was more than pleased to point a finger at Drinkwater.

As for myself: I lost two toes to frostbite, plus the tips of three more. It messed with my balance for a while — you’d be amazed how accustomed you get to distributing your weight across all ten toes — but I got used to it. The surgeons opened up my elbow, pumped me full of anti-infection meds and stitched me up proper.

The captain has me riding a desk pending further evaluation. That’s fine. I’ve been thinking about quitting the force anyhow.

There’s a saying around Cataract City: The sun’ll even shine on a dog’s ass some days . I’d never really understood that turn of phrase before, but now I know what it means: Sometimes you fall ass-backwards into good luck. And, yeah, the sun was shining bright that day.

Duncan left Cataract City shortly after he recovered. He hugged his parents, said goodbye to the rest of us. He’s off to find Ed. And I’m sure he will. He’ll go to the ends of the earth, just like he said. And I’m sure that when he does find her, she’ll take him back. If ever a pair were meant for each other it’s those two.

A month after he left I got a postcard in the mail. It had the portrait of a bosomy lass in a red bikini on the front, with the words: Wish You Were Her . On the back was a note written in Dunk’s clumsy all-caps scrawl:

OWE ,

HEY MAN WHAT’S SHAKING? I’M SITTING IN THIS MOTEL ROOM, FLIPPING CHANNELS. WRESTLING’S ON. GOT ME THINKING OF YOU … TO BE HONEST I DON’T KNOW WHY. THE DOCTORS SAID THAT, YOU KNOW … THEY SAID WHEN A BRAIN IS STARVED FOR OXYGEN, IT’S LIKE BLACK HOLES CHEWING INTO IT. THEY SAID YOU COULD EVEN FORGET YOUR OWN MOTHER! ANYWAY, I SAW IT ON AND THOUGHT OF YOU. AND IT WAS A GOOD FEELING. SO IT MUST HAVE BEEN SOMETHING SPECIAL EVEN IF I CAN’T REMEMBER ANYMORE. I HAVEN’T FOUND HER YET. I WILL .

That note filled me with ineffable sadness, but I know all minds hold on to what is necessary and jettison the rest. I’d just have to carry those memories for both of us.

Dunk gave Drinkwater fire when I would’ve happily let him freeze to death. He’s a better man than me. The admission bears with it no shame. If you encounter one of the world’s exceptional specimens and happen to fall short of that standard, where’s the shame in that?

I’m still kicking around. Sam Bovine and I go to the Cairncroft Lounge, which sits beside the Food Terminal on Lundy’s Lane. It’s a middle-aged meat market, to be frank — but what am I if not middle-aged meat?

I met a nice girl there, Gayle. She works at the Bisk. Nilla Wafers line. Skin sweetly perfumed of vanilla. Divorced, one child. I like them both a whole lot. We’re talking about me moving in, and I’ll do it if she’ll have me.

The other day I drove across the river to the Attica prison just east of Buffalo. The day was clear and clean. White ribbons of smoke pumped out of the smokestacks at OxyChem.

I parked in the prison lot, sat on the hood of my car. The yard lay behind a maze of reinforced chain-link banded with razorwire. The inmates milled in the yard, playing pickup ball or lifting free weights.