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Authors: Ryan Winfield
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beneath his arm, and hurried off down the stairs.
The headline in the morning newspaper read:
DAREDEVIL DOLLY
BAREFOOT BASE JUMPER STRIKES AGAIN
Witnesses on the street had watched her land. A few claimed to have seen her running around the block and climbing into a waiting car, although what make or model none could say. She was described by some as being extremely short, and by others as being unusually tall, but all could at least agree thatshe had been barefoot, appearing like a vision from the overhead fog and touching down in the street with the nimble grace of a sparrow, before gathering up her parachute and vanishing just as quickly as she had appeared. Speculation in the article ran wild: “She’s a communist spy.” “She’s doing it for nuclear disarmament.” “No woman would dare it, I say; she must be a man wearing a disguise.” “She’s a fame seeker.” “Thrill seeker.” “She must be Scandinavian; only a Swede would be crazy enough to jump from a building in the fog.”
The next day the papers had moved on.
But David Hadley had not.
Their rooftop encounter had rattled his psyche more than a little, and no sooner had he descended to his office cubicle, concealing her boots quickly beneath his desk, than he found himself already obsessed with finding her again. He wanted to see those smiling eyes; he dreamed already of hearing her call him “darling” one more time. Plus, he should thank her, shouldn’t he? She had, after all, narrowly saved him from suicide. But mostly he wanted to seek her out because he found himself pondering what exactly she had meant when she had said, “What if you have to let go of your life to truly live it?”
She had said much more in their brief talk, he knew, but these were the words that had echoed in David Hadley’s mind as he stood on the ledge, watching her drop away into the fog. And now he had to know how it felt: falling like that, rushing toward certain death, then choosing at the very last second with the pull of a cord to live. And, like everyone else, including the newspapers, he also had to know why.
If there was a positive side to his new obsession, it was that David no longer thought about suicide. Nor did he stop at the liquor store on his way home ever again. Instead he would walk to the library after work and spend evenings with his face pressed close to the blue screen of the microfiche machine,searching for a picture or a name. There were several prior jumps reported in the newspapers—one from the Space Needle, after the painting crew had inadvertently left the roof access hatch unlocked; one from scaffolding on the famed Smith Tower; and another from a communications antenna atop Queen Anne Hill—but no one had a clue as to her identity. Investigators had only recently decided, after several eyewitness accounts and the aid of one hastily shot and grainy tourist photograph, that the jumper was actually a she. Which left them to wildly hypothesize as to why a pair of men’s size-nine boots were left behind at the scene of each jump—with the exception of the most recent one, of course, since David Hadley had those boots sitting now beside his bed.
He was not proud of it, but because he had no one in his life to hide anything from he was not ashamed either, and each night before going to sleep, David would take the socks from the boots and hold them to his nose as he drifted off to sleep. The fragrance was of wool and leather and a hint of something else too—something subtly sweet that reminded him of summers as a boy. He was not sure why he smelled her socks like this. Many months later, when it was almost too late, he would come to understand that it was because he already loved her. He had resigned himself that day on the roof to falling nine hundred feet to end it all, but he never would have guessed he’d fall much farther in less than the time it took to turn and look into her smiling eyes. All he knew for sure was that he
The headline in the morning newspaper read:
DAREDEVIL DOLLY
BAREFOOT BASE JUMPER STRIKES AGAIN
Witnesses on the street had watched her land. A few claimed to have seen her running around the block and climbing into a waiting car, although what make or model none could say. She was described by some as being extremely short, and by others as being unusually tall, but all could at least agree thatshe had been barefoot, appearing like a vision from the overhead fog and touching down in the street with the nimble grace of a sparrow, before gathering up her parachute and vanishing just as quickly as she had appeared. Speculation in the article ran wild: “She’s a communist spy.” “She’s doing it for nuclear disarmament.” “No woman would dare it, I say; she must be a man wearing a disguise.” “She’s a fame seeker.” “Thrill seeker.” “She must be Scandinavian; only a Swede would be crazy enough to jump from a building in the fog.”
The next day the papers had moved on.
But David Hadley had not.
Their rooftop encounter had rattled his psyche more than a little, and no sooner had he descended to his office cubicle, concealing her boots quickly beneath his desk, than he found himself already obsessed with finding her again. He wanted to see those smiling eyes; he dreamed already of hearing her call him “darling” one more time. Plus, he should thank her, shouldn’t he? She had, after all, narrowly saved him from suicide. But mostly he wanted to seek her out because he found himself pondering what exactly she had meant when she had said, “What if you have to let go of your life to truly live it?”
She had said much more in their brief talk, he knew, but these were the words that had echoed in David Hadley’s mind as he stood on the ledge, watching her drop away into the fog. And now he had to know how it felt: falling like that, rushing toward certain death, then choosing at the very last second with the pull of a cord to live. And, like everyone else, including the newspapers, he also had to know why.
If there was a positive side to his new obsession, it was that David no longer thought about suicide. Nor did he stop at the liquor store on his way home ever again. Instead he would walk to the library after work and spend evenings with his face pressed close to the blue screen of the microfiche machine,searching for a picture or a name. There were several prior jumps reported in the newspapers—one from the Space Needle, after the painting crew had inadvertently left the roof access hatch unlocked; one from scaffolding on the famed Smith Tower; and another from a communications antenna atop Queen Anne Hill—but no one had a clue as to her identity. Investigators had only recently decided, after several eyewitness accounts and the aid of one hastily shot and grainy tourist photograph, that the jumper was actually a she. Which left them to wildly hypothesize as to why a pair of men’s size-nine boots were left behind at the scene of each jump—with the exception of the most recent one, of course, since David Hadley had those boots sitting now beside his bed.
He was not proud of it, but because he had no one in his life to hide anything from he was not ashamed either, and each night before going to sleep, David would take the socks from the boots and hold them to his nose as he drifted off to sleep. The fragrance was of wool and leather and a hint of something else too—something subtly sweet that reminded him of summers as a boy. He was not sure why he smelled her socks like this. Many months later, when it was almost too late, he would come to understand that it was because he already loved her. He had resigned himself that day on the roof to falling nine hundred feet to end it all, but he never would have guessed he’d fall much farther in less than the time it took to turn and look into her smiling eyes. All he knew for sure was that he
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