The Habit of Art: Best Stories from the Indiana University Fiction Workshop

Six Ways to Jump Off a Bridge

SIX WAYS TO JUMP OFF A BRIDGE [19] Six Ways to Jump Off a Bridge BRIAN LEUNG Understand Blue Falls, how it got its name, how in dry years, in autumn, water slips over a flat edge, sheer and perfect, a wide liquid sheet reflecting a clear day—blue as an unraveling bolt of satin. But most years are not dry and most days are not completely blue. Not this morning, certainly, as Parker Cheung leans on the railing of the deck behind his home where he sees the falls and the observation bridge bisecting the line of water. Today is misty and the falls are loud, full after three days of rain. And there are people on the bridge. Parker counts four, one of them the sheriff, Katie Buckle. Someone’s gone and jumped again, he says to himself. He takes a last drink of tea and walks inside, shaking his head. Parker considers his dark living room, the National Geographics and Reader’s Digests stacked everywhere, the mugs with their various levels of evaporating green tea. The answering machine in the corner blinks a single unchecked message. It could be his daughter, Susan , but he’s afraid it won’t be and so he’s left it alone all morning trying not to think about it. Parker looks outside at the bridge, searching for the sheriff again. She’ll be around soon to ask what he knows. BRIAN LEUNG [20] At first he doesn’t see her, but then she’s back on the bridge, a brownand -khaki thickness with a heavy walk. Maybe I’ve still got time, he thinks, turning to straighten the room, something he’s still not used to even though it’s been two years since his wife died. This was her part of their marriage, running the house, raising their daughter. He took care of the egg ranch, Cheungs’ Eggs “Something to Crow About!” But now that his wife is gone, he’s shut down the business, and he hasn’t spoken to his daughter in nine years. But there is the message on the machine that came while he was showering and it could be Susan. She might have remembered today would have been her mother’s sixtieth birthday. Parker starts by collecting the dirty cups, setting them in the already-full sink. He turns on the tap and hot water sputters out. The kitchen smells like fish, more so than usual, and he remembers last night’s meal. He lifts the lid off a cast-iron pot, the head of a small red snapper offering a milky stare, a xylophone of bones strung behind. He throws the fish out the kitchen window and watches for a moment as three cats that he insists are not his fight over the carcass. Beyond them is the bridge from a slightly different angle. Everyone has left except the sheriff. She is facing away, toward the falls, resting both hands on the railing. That’s not the side people usually jump from, Parker thinks. It’s too close to the falls. The water isn’t shallow enough for death and no one jumps off Blue Falls Bridge just to get seriously injured. The first one to go over was Jason Glass. He was sixteen. Parker saw it, too. It was in the evening, he remembers, after dinner. They had steamed salmon dumplings and bok choy. He was full and walked out on the deck while his wife and daughter cleared the table. The night was cool and it now seems an important detail to him that it rained the next morning and didn’t stop for three days. It was dusk and the bridge looked like something etched, a sequence of thick black lines. He saw someone pacing, not someone, actually, just a form moving back and forth. Finally the figure stopped, and a voice SIX WAYS TO JUMP OFF A BRIDGE [21] cracked through the twilight air, the form bolting across the bridge. It was running, yelling “I’m Superman!” as it pushed off the rail. Parker shuts off the water until there is just a small whining stream for rinsing. He starts with the silverware because that’s how his wife had always done it. The water is warm and the wetness makes his hands look almost young. He thinks again of the Glass boy. He has never forgotten...