confusion of grief, wondered if Burnaby, a stranger, might turn out to be the missing husband?) Mrs. Erskine struck him as fierce and plain and haughty as one of those straight-backed red-haired girl-women in certain of the watercolors of Winslow Homer. The prim lit-The Falls X 71
tle schoolmarm at the blackboard, in profile, detached from the observer’s admiring eye; the red-haired girl in an orange dress lying in the grass reading a novel, oblivious of any onlooker. This woman’s pale freckled face shone as if she’d scrubbed it, hard. Her faded rust-colored hair fell in lank coils and wisps about her head as if she’d given up on it. There were half-moons of perspiration beneath the arms of her organdy dress, and her stockings sagged at the ankles. Her eyes were moist, shifty, bloodshot. She was nothing like the sorrowful woman Dirk Burnaby had been led to expect, and much more interesting. As Clyde Colborne nervously chattered about what the police had told her, what was being done and would be done, the red-haired woman looked pointedly away, paying little heed to Colborne, or to his friend Burnaby who towered over her, flaxen-haired, handsome and gallant in a navy blue blazer with nautical brass buttons and neatly pressed white cord trousers, a manly-stylish figure out of Esquire . He, Dirk Burnaby, whom women adored, and some of them happily married rich women, ignored by this woman! He had to smile.
Ariah Erskine interrupted Colborne to tell him she didn’t intend to return to the hotel just yet, she was on her way to the Niagara Gorge.
If Colborne wouldn’t drive her, she’d take a taxi. Or she’d walk. She’d been informed that authorities believed that her husband had “fallen”
into the river that morning, and the search teams were out. A Coast Guard crew was out on the river. She had to be there to make the identification, if the “fallen” man was, in fact, Reverend Erskine.
Colborne said, shocked, “Mrs. Erskine, that isn’t a good idea. You don’t want to be there. Not if—”
“They’re searching for a man. A body. I don’t believe it can be Gilbert but I must be there.” Mrs. Erskine tried to speak matter-of-factly but Burnaby could detect a tremor in her voice. She stood before the men with her head turned to one side, refusing to meet their eyes. “I will have to be a witness if—if they find this man. I will have to know .”
Colborne objected, “But, Mrs. Erskine, it would be much better if you waited at the hotel until—”
“No. Nothing can be ‘better.’ If Gilbert is dead, I will have to know .”
72 W Joyce Carol Oates
Colborne looked appealingly to Dirk Burnaby, who was staring at this stubborn red-haired woman with a kind of fascination. He didn’t know what to think of her: his brain had gone blank. The bizarre thought came to him, she was so petite, couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds, a man could lift her and sling her over his shoulder and walk away with her. Let her protest! He heard himself say, “I don’t think you caught my name, Mrs. Erskine? I’m Clyde’s friend Dirk Burnaby. I’m a lawyer. I live about two miles away in Luna Park, near the Gorge. I’ll do anything I can to help you, Mrs. Erskine. Please prevail upon me.” This was a wholly unexpected remark. Burnaby would not believe he’d uttered it, an hour later. Colborne gaped at him, and the red-haired woman turned frowning to him, squinting upward as if she hadn’t exactly remembered he was there. She opened her mouth to speak but did not. Her lipstick was eaten away, her thin lips appeared cracked and dry. Impulsively, Burnaby squeezed her hand.
It was a small-boned hand, small as a sparrow, yet even in the crocheted white glove the fingers felt hot, eager.
The Widow-Bride of The Falls:
The Vigil
F or seven days and seven nights she kept her vigil.
For seven days and seven nights the Widow-Bride of The Falls was to be found at the Niagara Gorge, on Goat Island or on shore;
tle schoolmarm at the blackboard, in profile, detached from the observer’s admiring eye; the red-haired girl in an orange dress lying in the grass reading a novel, oblivious of any onlooker. This woman’s pale freckled face shone as if she’d scrubbed it, hard. Her faded rust-colored hair fell in lank coils and wisps about her head as if she’d given up on it. There were half-moons of perspiration beneath the arms of her organdy dress, and her stockings sagged at the ankles. Her eyes were moist, shifty, bloodshot. She was nothing like the sorrowful woman Dirk Burnaby had been led to expect, and much more interesting. As Clyde Colborne nervously chattered about what the police had told her, what was being done and would be done, the red-haired woman looked pointedly away, paying little heed to Colborne, or to his friend Burnaby who towered over her, flaxen-haired, handsome and gallant in a navy blue blazer with nautical brass buttons and neatly pressed white cord trousers, a manly-stylish figure out of Esquire . He, Dirk Burnaby, whom women adored, and some of them happily married rich women, ignored by this woman! He had to smile.
Ariah Erskine interrupted Colborne to tell him she didn’t intend to return to the hotel just yet, she was on her way to the Niagara Gorge.
If Colborne wouldn’t drive her, she’d take a taxi. Or she’d walk. She’d been informed that authorities believed that her husband had “fallen”
into the river that morning, and the search teams were out. A Coast Guard crew was out on the river. She had to be there to make the identification, if the “fallen” man was, in fact, Reverend Erskine.
Colborne said, shocked, “Mrs. Erskine, that isn’t a good idea. You don’t want to be there. Not if—”
“They’re searching for a man. A body. I don’t believe it can be Gilbert but I must be there.” Mrs. Erskine tried to speak matter-of-factly but Burnaby could detect a tremor in her voice. She stood before the men with her head turned to one side, refusing to meet their eyes. “I will have to be a witness if—if they find this man. I will have to know .”
Colborne objected, “But, Mrs. Erskine, it would be much better if you waited at the hotel until—”
“No. Nothing can be ‘better.’ If Gilbert is dead, I will have to know .”
72 W Joyce Carol Oates
Colborne looked appealingly to Dirk Burnaby, who was staring at this stubborn red-haired woman with a kind of fascination. He didn’t know what to think of her: his brain had gone blank. The bizarre thought came to him, she was so petite, couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds, a man could lift her and sling her over his shoulder and walk away with her. Let her protest! He heard himself say, “I don’t think you caught my name, Mrs. Erskine? I’m Clyde’s friend Dirk Burnaby. I’m a lawyer. I live about two miles away in Luna Park, near the Gorge. I’ll do anything I can to help you, Mrs. Erskine. Please prevail upon me.” This was a wholly unexpected remark. Burnaby would not believe he’d uttered it, an hour later. Colborne gaped at him, and the red-haired woman turned frowning to him, squinting upward as if she hadn’t exactly remembered he was there. She opened her mouth to speak but did not. Her lipstick was eaten away, her thin lips appeared cracked and dry. Impulsively, Burnaby squeezed her hand.
It was a small-boned hand, small as a sparrow, yet even in the crocheted white glove the fingers felt hot, eager.
The Widow-Bride of The Falls:
The Vigil
F or seven days and seven nights she kept her vigil.
For seven days and seven nights the Widow-Bride of The Falls was to be found at the Niagara Gorge, on Goat Island or on shore;
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