Falling by Anne Simpson Page B

dried it on paper towels in her bedroom. By the time she left Saskatchewan, she’d saved fifty-seven different shades of hair, each tied in a loop, and deposited into one of six zippered plastic bags. Black, brown, red, blond, grey, white. She’d carried them on her way Somewhere Else.
    At twenty after four each day, Jasmine began locking up the museum. It took her ten minutes to make sure – even though she
was
sure – that the windows were locked and the doors bolted, before she put on the alarm system. It was like tucking a child into bed, she thought, as she went down the steps of the museum.
    Tarah arrived home an hour later than Jasmine, slinging a few grocery bags on the kitchen table.
    You did your hair again. Jasmine picked up the change on the table.
    I did it before work today – it’s called Magenta Madness. Tarah turned in a circle, arms out gracefully. What do you think?
    Nice. I like it.
    And Jordan didn’t come in – you know, Mr. Kawasaki. After both of us killed ourselves trying to give him the tattoo of his dreams. Honest to God.
    A jerk. Jasmine started washing the romaine lettuce in the sink.
    Yeah. Tarah took orange and yellow peppers out of a bag and stopped to study her fingernails. I’ll have to change my nail polish. You know, there was this guy today – have you ever come across a tall guy with blond hair? She heldthe fridge door open with her knee, a jug of milk in one hand and carton of eggs in the other. He was asking about you.
    I don’t know anyone like that. Jasmine patted the romaine leaves with a piece of paper towel.
    He was
beautiful
. Tarah slammed the fridge door with her foot. That light’s off in the fridge again. I mean on a scale of one to ten –
    Jasmine grinned at her, opening the fridge to check the light. You’re actually rating him? That light – yesterday I sort of wiggled it and it worked as long as I didn’t slam the door. So, okay, this guy, what did you tell him?
    Nothing.
    Nothing?
    Are you kidding? He could have been anyone.
    The Lundy’s Lane Museum was closed by the time Damian got there, so he returned the next day, early, and sat on the steps until it opened. No, he thought. Sitting there he’d look like a fool. He got up and went across the street to Tony’s Watch Repair, where he paced in front of the window. Watches covered with a grainy dust. Fake Rolex and Cartier watches. Girlwoman. There she was. He could see her reflection in the glass through the letters of Tony’s Watch Repair as she climbed the steps to the entrance of the museum and opened the red door.
    Jasmine. Her name was Jasmine.
    He crossed the street slowly, went up the steps, and stopped. A bit of time; he had to give it a bit of time. The door opened to a world of dimness inside, and he stepped over the threshold into the dark, waiting for his eyes toadjust. There was a desk in front of him, but no one was there and he flipped through a photocopied guidebook to the museum, a coil-bound brochure with plastic covers.
Welcome to Lundy’s Lane Historical Museum
. There was a bell on the desk with a silver knob on top that could be pushed down –
dinggg!
– but he didn’t ring it. He put three dollars in the woven basket with its hand-lettered card:
Adults $3.00, Children & Seniors $1.50
.
    Taking the photocopied guidebook, he went around the desk into a shadowy corner where a happily grinning mannequin knelt beside a birchbark canoe. The mannequin, identified by a sign hanging from the wall
(Mature Ojibwa Male)
held a paddle clumsily in his hands, but for some reason he wasn’t in the canoe. He was outside it, kneeling, about to start paddling air. Near his bent knees was an animal skull, where the water might be expected to flow.
Wolf Skull
, stated the card next to it.
    Hello.
    Damian jumped. I – I didn’t see anyone at the desk, so I just came in here. I put three dollars in the basket.
    I saw that, she said. Enjoy your visit – there’s more upstairs.
    She