Free The Falls by Joyce Carol Oates Page A

wasn’t certain she’d spoken at all. The ornate brass four-poster bed with the crocheted canopy had been, it seemed, hastily straightened, the spread drawn up over rumpled bedclothes, and heart-shaped cushions placed on it. Your immediate, erroneous impression was that someone, or something, might be beneath the spread. That the bed had been made up struck the concierge as a fastidious touch: Mrs.
    Erskine had expected visitors, and wanted things to look neat. But The Falls X 53
    the air smelled distinctly stale. A man’s hair oil, a woman’s cologne, an odor of slept-in, soiled sheets . . .
    What happened in that bed? What shock, what misery. What revelations.
    The red-haired woman averted her eyes. For a precarious moment she swayed on her feet.
    The concierge asked politely, uneasily, “May I check the bathroom, Mrs. Erskine?”
    “Yes. Of course. There’s no one.”
    A light was burning in the bathroom, but the room was empty.

Dampened towels had been replaced on racks, and the shower curtain tucked into the big claw-footed tub. In the sink were several strands of dark hair: not Mrs. Erskine’s. And on the counter beside the sink was a man’s zipped-up toiletries case of no special distinction. But it was there.
    Not a good sign, the concierge thought.
    Suddenly the red-haired woman said, with a breathy laugh, “His toothbrush is inside, I checked. You’d think he would have taken it with him, wouldn’t you? But I suppose it’s easy to buy a toothbrush.
    Wherever you go.”
    Next, they checked the closet in which Mr. Erskine had hung his clothing, which Mrs. Erskine said hadn’t been disturbed so far as she knew. They checked the top bureau drawer, in which Mr. Erskine had placed neatly folded white undershirts and boxer shorts, black silk socks, several freshly laundered white cotton handkerchiefs, and a pair of cuff links. On a luggage stand was Mr. Erskine’s suitcase, empty except for a paperback book titled The Niagara Gorge: History and Pre-History, and, another bad sign, a man’s leather wallet.
    “Mrs. Erskine, may I—?”
    “Yes, of course. Take it.”
    Self-consciously the concierge examined the wallet, which contained the minister’s identification and photo, driver’s license, several blank checks torn from a checkbook, a half-dozen coins and bills of various denominations including fifties. The photo showed a dark-haired, beakish-nosed, narrow-faced young man wearing scholarly eyeglasses, unsmiling. This was Reverend Gilbert Erskine? The departed husband of the red-haired bride?
    54 W Joyce Carol Oates
    A fanatic. The set of that mouth. Those eyes!
    Exactly the kind of man, the concierge thought, to throw himself over the Horseshoe Falls.
    “Mrs. Erskine, may I take this photo of your husband? The authorities will need it. And you’d better take this wallet, and keep it safe. Never leave valuables in a hotel room.”
    The red-haired woman accepted the wallet from the concierge with lowered eyes, as if embarrassed. She made no attempt to count the bills which, the concierge had swiftly estimated, came to several hundred dollars.
    They returned to the parlor, where Mrs. Erskine drifted to the window to gaze out blankly into the distance. Was she looking toward The Falls? Or—the sky? In profile, she did possess an antique sort of beauty. Her face seemed both ethereal and resolute, like a profile on an old coin. Again the concierge saw, or believed he saw, faint red marks like a man’s fingers on her pale, delicately-boned throat.
    The reverend. Must’ve been. Who else?
    While the concierge and the others made another quick search of the parlor, the red-haired Mrs. Erskine remained motionless at the window. As if thinking aloud she said, dreamily, “The Falls. Is it singular, as you speak of it? Or—are there several Falls?”
    Dale said, “We just say ‘The Falls.’ Not meaning the city but the river. It’s more than just the actual place, the American Falls, the Bridal Veil,