Jason’s heart was racing as if he’d run five miles instead of climbed fifty feet. A delicate sensation of vertigo shimmered through his inner ear.
He took a breath and looked out over the town, laid out in perfect, regular rectangles that marched down to the levee. On this dark, cloudy morning, Cabells Mound looked drab. The older buildings were frame and often set on little brick piers, and the newer homes tended to be brick and set on slabs or conventional foundations. There was a little trace of the South in the white porticoes with their little pillars that were grafted onto the front of otherwise unremarkable buildings. Elms and oaks stood in yards. The river ran right up to the levee here because there was a landing, and because a little to the north there was a lumber mill that loaded its product onto barges. The river was an uneasy wide gray mass, very full, at least halfway up the side of the levee. Jason realized with a touch of unease that Cabells Mound, were it not protected by the levee, would be under water.
Because the river was so high it was carrying a lot of junk with it, and Jason could see an entire cypress tree floating past, a splayed clump of roots at one end and still-living foliage at the other. Three crows sat in the green branches and watched the world with curiosity as it moved by. Black against the opalescent surface of the water, a tow of sixteen barges made its way in the opposite direction, heading for St. Louis.
There were very few people to be seen. It was Saturday morning, and many, perhaps most, of the residents were off at the shopping malls of Memphis or Sikeston.
He turned south, saw the green of the old Indian mound beneath its tangle of timber, the peak of his house above the line of trees that marked the end of the cotton field.
Jason was above it all. His heart was racing in his chest like a turbine. He looked down at the ground below, and though he wasn’t even halfway up the tower, the green turf seemed a long distance away. Maybe, he thought, the very first time he went down the rail he shouldn’t start at the very top. He could start partway down, just to get his reflexes back and make sure he could handle the curve that would tend to throw him off the rail as he gathered speed.
He went down a few stairs, until the distance to the ground did not look quite so intimidating, and then sat on one of the metal steps and took off his sneaks. He leaned around the metal center post of the tower and threw his shoes to the bottom of the stairway. They hit the mesh door at the bottom in a ringing splash of metal. Jason checked his skates, make sure the wheels spun freely and the brakes worked, then laced them on. Stood, adjusted his knee, elbow, and wrist armor, put a hand on the rail so that he’d know where it was.
Usually, when he was going to ride a rail, Jason would start on the flat, get some speed and momentum, and then jump onto the rail for his grind to the bottom. But now, on the tower, he was going to have to jump straight up onto the rail from a standing start, which meant that his balance was going to have to be perfect right from the beginning.
His pulse crashed in his ears. His vision had narrowed to the length of that metal rail that spiraled down out of sight to the bottom.
A gull sailed overhead, cawing.
Jason bent, jumped up, kicked. Landed on the rail—yes! —clicked in!—back foot athwart the rail in the royale position, front foot bang on the center of the rail, arms out for balance. And began to move. Down—yes! —arms flailing at first, then steadying. Rear skate grinding down the rail, checking his speed. He leaned opposite to the direction of the curve, enough to counter for centrifugal force that threatened to throw him off—yes! —he needed only a slight lean, he wasn’t going very fast.
The ride was over in mere seconds. Yes! He threw himself off the rail, spun neatly in air, landed fakie—a cool landing after all, even if it was only a few feet—he spread his arms and let himself fall backward into the chain link. It received him with a metallic bang.
“Yes!” he yelled as he bounced off the mesh. He readied himself to spring back to the top.
“Reckon not,” said a very grownup voice.
He told himself afterward that he should have just sprinted for the top, skates and all, hopped on the rail, and wheel-barrowed to the bottom. That would have been Edge Living. That would have been the way to go. Then the experience that followed would have been worth it.
But instead he turned around and caught sight of the policeman, and then he froze.
“Get your ass off public property,” said the cop.
His name was Eubanks, a skinny little bald guy with a big voice, and he seemed to specialize in following Jason around and telling him not to do things. It was Eubanks who told him he couldn’t skate in the courthouse parking lot, or on the streets—old and potholed though they were—or on the sidewalks, which were even more beat up. Eubanks had even chased him off the parking lot at the Piggly Wiggly, and the city didn’t even own the Piggly Wiggly.
“Get your ass over here!” Eubanks yelled.
Jason turned, trudged up a few steps to get clear of the chain mesh, and prepared to hop over the rail to the ground below.
“Get your damn shoes,” said Eubanks.
Jason turned, trudged down the stairs, picked up his sneaks, and headed up the stairs again. He vaulted over the chain link to the ground, and stood waiting for instructions.
“Get into my car.”
Jason walked as directed, went behind some hibiscus, and saw Eubanks’s prowl car just sitting there, in a position to spring out at any speeders racing down Samuel Clemens Street. The car had probably been there all along.
Bastard was probably taking a nap, Jason thought.
“Into the back,” Eubanks said.
“I’ve got my bike over there,” Jason said.
“It can stay there.”
“It’s not locked or anything.”
“Not my problem,” said Eubanks.
Jason got in the back of the prowl car, behind the mesh partition where the real criminals rode. Eubanks got in the front and started the car.
“You’d of broke your neck if you’d fallen off,” Eubanks said. “And your mama would have sued the town.”
“She would’ve said it was karma,” Jason said.
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” Eubanks said, and gave a little disparaging laugh. “Your mama’s the New Age Lady.”
My mom’s the New Age Lady, Jason thought in despair. That’s probably what the whole town calls her.
Eubanks pulled out onto Samuel Clemens, then followed it to the highway. Jason recognized some kids from the school at the corner, in the gravel parking lot of the Epps Feed Store. Among them was the boy who, the other day, had taken such pleasure in announcing that Jason’s mom was going to Hell. He spotted Jason in the back of the prowl car, nudged his friends, and pointed.
The kids silently watched as Eubanks waited to make his left turn onto the highway. Jason stared back. Then he raised a gloved hand and waved. Gave a little smile.
Might as well get whatever mileage he could out of the situation.
He wasn’t arrested or anything. Eubanks took him home, past where Mr. Regan was buffing his bass boat, then pulled to a stop in front of Jason’s house. Mr. Regan watched while Jason, still in his helmet, skates, and pads, marched across the lawn to the front porch with Eubanks as his escort. Batman the boxer barked loud enough to call the attention of the entire Huntley family to the spectacle. Jason’s mom met Jason and Eubanks at the door.