In
New York, I catch the train to Niagara Falls on the American side. Tomorrow, I
want to walk over the bridge to Canada. I’ve done it before — I do it every
chance I get. There’s something fascinating about crossing borders on foot, walking
from one country to the next. For the moment, though, the train is chugging
through towns that look mighty appealing. I wish I could stop, disembark, poke
around for a while. But trains aren’t like buses. They stop in cities. Besides,
it’s getting late, and there’s still quite a distance to go.
Soon
enough, it’s pitch black outside, and I begin wondering how far the train
station is from the center of Niagara Falls. Normally, a walk never bothers me,
but I’m not certain that a stroll through nighttime city streets is a cozy
idea.
Sitting across from me is a very nice looking older couple,
the sort of bland folks you usually don’t notice because they’re busy blending
into the scenery. Both are of average height, average weight and…well…rather
beige. She wears glasses and her hair is tortured into short neat little curls;
he also wears glasses, has a receding hairline. They are also friendly.
“How far are you going, dear?” Mrs. Bland asks me.
“I’ll be spending the night in Niagara Falls.”
“Do you know people there?”
“No, but I’ve booked into a hotel in the center.”
“How will you be getting into the city?”
I smile with relief. “That’s exactly what I was about to
ask you. Is the center far from the station?”
“Oh yes,” says she. “It’s quite far.”
“How far?”
“Well, it depends…”
On what? “I was hoping to walk.”
“Oh no. You can’t do that. It’s too far.”
“How far is too far?” Since I’m used to crossing whole
countries on foot, my idea of far isn’t everyone’s.
“Oh, at least an hour’s walk. And you can’t walk it, not
at night,” says Mr. Bland.
“Because?”
“Because the train station is way out in the middle of
nowhere. And you’ll have to walk through areas that are quite dangerous,” says
Mrs. Bland.
“In
case you don’t know,” adds Mr. Bland, “the crime rate in Niagara Falls is 91%
higher than the national average, and Niagara Falls is ranked as the forty-fourth most
dangerous city in the entire United States.”
“Right.” Becoming a victim of violent crime
doesn’t really fit into my evening’s plan. I prefer the idea of a glass of red
wine, something wonderful to eat, and a good bed. “Isn’t there a bus? How about
a taxi into town?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t count on the bus, not at night.”
“I wouldn’t count on the taxis either. You’d have to
phone the taxi company and get someone to come out and fetch you. And that
means you’d have to wait around. The station is really in a desolate part of
the city.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t even know if there’s a pay phone, but maybe you
have a cell phone.”
“No, I don’t.” Inwardly, I begin to quail at the idea of
a walk through dark dangerous streets where local psychopaths with night vision
and long fangs wait for people just like me, with my suitcase of unsold books
and my backpack.
“If
you’d like,” says Mr. Bland, a man who can obviously read minds, “I can drive
you into town.”
“Oh, I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” It’s a lie,
of course. I’m desperate for them to rescue me. And very grateful for the
offer.
“No trouble at all. Our car is parked in the lot right
beside the station.”
“Then, thank you.” And for the rest of the train journey,
I’m as amenable as possible.
Niagara
Falls was a city I visited with my parents back in the 1950s. The Canadian side
was to me (a child) rather boring green parks, but on the American side it was
a real city with the stately buildings of the early twentieth century in its
lively center.
The
original inhabitants of the area were Iroquoian-speaking indigenous people of
the Neutral Confederacy, and they were already hostile when Europeans began
arriving. The situation degenerated further with competition in the fur trade, and
it resulted in open warfare. But there was no stopping the influx of immigrants.
By the end of the nineteenth century, thanks to the power that could be
harnessed from the Niagara River, Niagara Falls had become a city of heavy indusry.
There was also tourism, but that was less important than the production of the petrochemicals,
abrasives, paper, rubber, plastics,
and the metallurgical industry.
By
the late 1960s, the prosperity was
over. The falls were a hindrance to modern shipping, and the aging industrial
plants were abandoned for cheaper-to-run facilities elsewhere. The local
economy plummeted even further when a disastrous urban renewal project resulted
in the complete destruction of the city center and tourist district and its
authentic old buildings. Replacing them were malls, parking lots, and the
hideously bland architecture of the 1970s.
A
further scandal to hit the city was that of the Love Canal Model City, a 70 acre planned community seven miles downstream
where, in the late 1950s, one hundred homes
and a school were built to serve the working-class community. But from the 1920s on, this same area was used
as a dump for municipal refuse as well as for 21,000 tons of halogenated organics, chlorobenzenes,
pesticides, and dioxin—the chemical
byproducts from the manufacture of dyes, perfumes, solvents for rubber and synthetic
resin. Only in the 1970s, did the odors,
seeping residues and disastrous
health problems cause the Love Canal neighborhood to be demolished. This area was also America’s first
nuclear dump, and it is said to be still radioactive.
When we arrive in Niagara Falls it really is quite late.
There are only a few of us dribbling out of the train—everyone seems to have disembarked
at earlier stations. I stick to the Blands like glue, following on their heels,
lest they escape and leave me stranded. When we reach their car, Mr. Bland
grabs my gear and stores it in the trunk, despite my insistence that it can
stay in the back seat with me. “No, no, you’ll be more comfortable this way.”
And off we go.
As
we leave the parking lot and pass in front of the station, I can’t help but
notice the waiting line of taxis, and the city bus pulling in around the
corner. Well, obviously the Blands never notice these things because they have
their own car. And why complain? I’m safe and snug.
“Thanks again for offering to bring me into the city.”
“No need to thank us,” says Mr. Bland as the car passes
empty weedy-looking fields caught in yellow moonlight.
“Mercy
is part of our mission.” Mrs. Bland’s smile is complacent.
Mr. Bland half turns. “Are you interested in spiritual
things?”
“Spiritual things?”
“Helping one another. Church activities and praying
together.”
“No, I can’t say I am.”
“Don’t you think about what Christ has done for you?”
“No,
I must admit I don’t.” Now that they have me in their clutches, they aren’t
going to give up easily.
“I
hope this isn’t a subject that’s making you uncomfortable.”
“Not
at all.” We’ve entered passing a stretch of uninviting industrial wasteland.
I’m not too excited by the idea of leaping out of the car, but I do have the
feeling that I might be in the company of extraterrestrial pod people from Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
“No,
I’m sure that’s true,” says Mr. Bland with a smug smile. “Even atheists like talking
about their views of God. In my experience, even people who don’t respond positively
toward the gospel, appreciate talking about their problems in life, and those
are the very things that causes them to seek God.”
“We’re not trying to force our ideas on you,” says Mrs.
Bland.
“Oh
no. We’re like the apostle Paul in Acts 17:17 who reasoned with the people. We
have no intention of force feeding you.”
“But
you should be more open, you know. The Holy Spirit works inside human beings in
ways that we cannot understand or predict.”
“We could take the time this evening to read the bible
together and see what God has to say about things. What do you say?”
“Thanks for the invitation, but I’d rather go to my hotel
and get a good night’s sleep.” I don’t mention the wine or the dinner.
“You
could come to our evangelistic Bible study group tomorrow.”
We
have reached the city’s outskirts and streets are dark, dreary, and empty. But Mr. Bland is driving so slowly, I have the feeling we'll never arrive anywhere.
“We
were like you, once upon a time. We, too, were lost sinners who rightly deserved
God’s judgment. Then we saw that Jesus came to take the judgment for us. To
suffer in our place on the cross. And once He was dead and buried, he was raised
to life again on the third day, and He ascended to the Father’s right hand from
where He reigns over all.”
We’ve
reached the city center, thank goodness. There are even lights in a few places
and perhaps even humans. Mr. Bland has slowed until we are creeping along the
streets at a snail’s pace. He’s in no hurry to let me go. Dreams of a good meal
and a glass of wine are receding before my very eyes.
“Jesus
sought us, and He saves us if we trust him.”
“Well,”
I temporize, “I suppose that’s a great comfort to you.”
“Don’t
you believe in the wonder of salvation?”
We’re
now almost at a standstill in the middle of an empty street in the town center,
and far ahead I can see the lit sign of my hotel. I’m almost panting with
relief. Even Mr. Bland can see that he hasn’t much time left. He pulls over to
the curb. Turns.
“God
made humans in his image so that the world would be filled with his reflectors.
And can you tell me why God created the universe? Here’s why: God created the
world for his glory.”
It
sounds a bit egotistical to me, but I keep my mouth shut.
Mr.
Bland follows me as I leave the car. “I have some literature you might be
interested in.” He snaps opens the trunk and hands me a wad of pamphlets.
“Look. Just look at this.” He unfolds a drawing of happy smiling men, women,
and children sitting, picnicking, throwing balls, playing guitars, offering
each other cakes.
“Do
you know what this is? This is a picture of paradise. This is where we go after
death. Where we will all joyfully join those who have passed away. Mothers and
fathers will be back with their children again. Husbands and wives will be
reunited.”
“That
could be complicated, you know.” I clutch my bags.
Mr.
Bland quirks an eyebrow.
“I
mean, what happens to all the widows and widowers who married again? What about
the murdered who have to meet those who killed them? Do I have to run into
Hitler? Stalin? Serial killers and other mass murderers?”
His
smile is beatific. “God will take care of everything. You’ll see.”
More about my books and
passionate life can be found at http://www.j-arleneculiner.com
and http://www.jill-culiner.com, and on my story podcast at
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