Off the Wall

Charlotte Roth

Word Count 1777

The anticipation is palpable. The school year is over, and I can't wait for the city pool to open, to spread my beach towel in the grassy area beneath the flood wall, grease my body with tanning oil, hang out with friends, and dive into the icy blue waters of the freshly painted pool.  

The town has no deadline for opening day. My small town, Pineville, Kentucky, is cradled in the heart of the Appalachian Mountain. The city pool will open when it is ready. I'm walking with my best friend, Ruth Ann, to hang out with other friends, Patty and Stacy Owens, who coincidentally live only three houses from the floodwall on Laurel Street, which runs parallel to the football field. Another friend, Teresa, arrives at the same time. As middle schoolers, we have no cares and nothing to do other than lament and obsess in wonder of when the pool will open. The suspense is killing us. Our summer is on hold. We want the fun to begin—and now.

Stacey suggests we go check on the pool's progress for ourselves. 

"How exactly do we do that?" I ask.  

"We walk down the floodwall," he replied.  

We all look at each other. "NO WAY," we spew in unison.  

"Why not?" Stacey asks. 

Patty, a year and a half older than the rest of us, reasons: "First of all, standing on the floodwall is illegal. Second, if we get caught near that pool, we get suspended from swimming for a week after it's open, and third, if we get caught, Mom and Dad will KILL US!" 

Stacey wins.

Stacey steps up on the wooden truss guardrail and hoists himself onto the three-and-a-half-foot floodwall. Ruth Ann is next. I step up on the railing and look over. It's my first close-up view of what hides on the other side of the concrete wall surrounding my small town. I see the beautiful, expansive Cumberland River flowing fast and peacefully. I'm nervous as I struggle to balance myself on top of the narrow wall; my legs turn to jelly. Teresa gets behind me, and Patty brings up the rear. Slowly, one by one, as if on a tightrope, in a nice single file, our circus act embarks on our journey. 

On the poolside of the floodwall, we see the familiar alley. On the opposite, the river bank is covered in tall weeds, wildflowers, brush, and sedges—some as tall as I am. The slope is steep, and the river seems so far away. A lot of strange creatures live down there, I think. Moving slowly, we balance on the concrete tightrope, arms outstretched like airplane wings, one step at a time, heel to toe, heel to toe, heel to toe. We have two blocks to go as we bicker about what a bad idea this is. We can't stop now. It never occurred to us that Laurel Street was the lowest point of the floodwall. The further we travel, the higher we are from the ground. We are up at least fourteen feet by the time we reach the point of viewing the stadium bleachers. There is no jumping down, no exit. 

As we approach, we hear the roaring water flowing through the city water line emptying into the pool. I can smell the chlorine—the sweet smell of summer. We made it. I breathe it in deeply. The view from this high is fantastic. By our calculations, we should have only one more day of waiting. The water is above the freshly painted six-feet sign and rising. The twelve-foot deep end is three-quarters full. We carefully lower our bodies to sit on the floodwall high above the ground, legs dangling, mesmerized, watching the water roll mightily into the pool. The bottom of the pool is painted the same color as the sky. I yearn to jump in and feel the water buoy me through the summer as I float carefree day after day. Total bliss is waiting. 

We savor the moment. The sun beams down, roasting hot. No shade, no breeze. Sweat rolls down my flushed cheeks. I need a drink of water. We can't stay long, I say. 

Carefully, we rise, balance back to standing position, and begin the tightrope walk back in reverse order. I'm still in the middle. Patty leads the way. We raise our airplane wings and carefully heel to toe toward the Owens' street.

I know what lives below on the river side of this wall, even though I can't see them. Copperheads, rattlesnakes, water moccasins, river rats. Out of fear of falling, I refuse to lift my hand to wipe the sweat off my forehead; a continuous drip of salty liquid drips into my eyes. I wish the sweat could reach my mouth. A cotton tongue makes it hard to swallow. There might be cottonmouths, I think. Yikes.

When we reach nearly eight feet in the air, I remember bobcats, ticks, and chiggers. I need off this wall. 

We can't stop talking about how lucky we are that no one saw us at the pool or on the flood wall. We are such good kids, no one would believe them anyway. Basking and baking in our accomplishments, we laugh our giddy and cocky laughs. I laugh to mask my nerves.

I am overheated when we reach the part of the flood wall about five feet from the ground. With only a block and a half to go before we can climb down, we start walking faster. As our confidence grows, so does our speed. I'm prancing light as a fairy, heel to toe, heel to toe, heel to toe.

Then it happens. 

My jelly legs wobble. Losing my balance, I fall off the wall into the tall brush, rolling down the river bank toward the river. When I lose momentum and finally stop, I look up, I am in a jungle. I see nothing but the clear blue sky high above. Stunned and terrified, I jump up as quickly as I can. I stand in weeds taller than me, trying to regain my balance and composure. I'm too close to the river. The incline back up is steeper than it looks from the floodwall. The weeds and wildflowers are thick and strong as I swat them out of my way, trying to create a path toward my friends' distant, frantic voices. 

Smashing and stomping with my feet, swimming with my hands against the current of the brush, I hysterically trudge toward the shouts of my friends. Finally, I see them standing on the floodwall. Their facial expressions say it all—I'm doomed. I make it back to the wall, where I walk as close to my side of the concrete wall as I can as my friends stay high and safe above me. I attempt to create a path through the thick brush along my miserable walk. My friends keep my pace; they keep me talking as I shuffle as fast as possible, swathing and clearing a path. I keep my ears tuned to them, but my mind is swarming in hysteria, thinking only of copperheads or water moccasins, cottonmouths wrapping themselves around my bare ankles. I imagine the rattlesnake rattling nearby, watching me. I imagine rats nipping at my feet, ticks in my thick hair sucking out my blood. I remember tales of river rats as large as dogs. How will I ever get back over the floodwall? From down here, I can't even touch the top. 

At last, the gang reaches the wooden truss and gets off the wall easily, on the side of civilization. I am still further down on the riverside without a truss to stand on. Patty and Stacy belly-lean over, stretching their arms to enable each of them to grab my wrists as I stand on my tippy toes. With four hands and all the strength they can muster, they pull me up. I use my feet to climb up the wall like Spiderman. Our adrenaline gives the three of us superhero powers. Finally, I get my belly over the wall, painfully scraping it with every inch, as the four of them gently pull me to the ground. I tremble so hard that my voice quivers when I speak. I hurt everywhere. We make our way to the Owen's house, sneak my filthy self past their dad, straight to the bathroom where I clean myself up without using the white hand towel.  

  I call my mom and tell her only that I am hurt—that I fell. We stand in front of the Owen's house until Mom arrives—in record time.

I get in the car, and Mom examines me. I hadn't noticed my swollen left wrist that hurt to her touch. I cry out in pain when she moves it. 

On the ride to the hospital, I come clean and confess my transgression to my mother. I tell her I nearly drowned in the Cumberland River. Hoping for sympathy and forgiveness, I get neither. Her silence makes me more anxious. I got nothing.

In the emergency room, the x-rays show my arm is broken at my wrist. The scrapes and cuts are cleaned and treated with ointment; the small knot on my head is not a concussion. I will wear a hard cast past my elbow for most of the summer. My head pounds at the possibility. The reality hits me.  

On the ride home from the hospital, I get the lecture: "You know better, you are lucky you are alive, I expect better, yada, yada, yada…" My punishment is to wear the hot cast for the next six to eight weeks. Self-inflicted, Mom reminds me. 

The heat of the summer shrivels my heart. I cannot swim. I cannot lay by the pool in the hot sun— the cast bakes my arm. My arm itches if I go outside in the heat; I use Q-tips, straws, and sticks to try and scratch my arm down the cast. My left arm is broken, and I am left-handed, limiting my life even more. 

Lonely and miserable, I remain home alone while my friends play in the cool, blue pool water, diving off the low dive and making a splash. Jumping off the high dive, plunging through the water, and finding the bottom of the pool with the tips of their toes. The only water I struggle into is the tiny bathtub half-filled. No chlorine, no swimming. I blame the floodwall. 

I resented that flood wall until years later when the raging waters of the Cumberland River rushed over that wall like its job was to fill the swimming pool with dirty flood waters. 

Charlotte lives with her husband and two Havanese princesses in Louisville, Kentucky. Her work has appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul’s Christmas 2022 Edition, The Longridge Review, and The Boom Project Anthology. She writes creative nonfiction, teaches primordial sound meditation, and spends as much time as she can on the beach with her grandsons. Home will always be Pineville, Kentucky, that small town nestled in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains, where most of her stories begin. You can follow her on Instagram @croth502 and X( formerly Twitter) @croth502.