Fall from Grace (11 page)

“Annabelle,” said Bobby, and she looked up.

His brown legs had a fuzz of hair upon them. He wore sneakers but no socks. She looked at the muscles in his calves, and thighs.

He put his grocery bag on the hall table.

Annabelle looked down again. She let the strap of her handbag fall from her shoulder. She leaned over to put it on the floor. It was going to be all dusty, when she picked it up again.

She felt him moving toward her. He took her chin in his hand and tipped it up. She saw that he was looking at her mouth. He reached out to kiss her, and Annabelle opened her mouth to him. They kissed each other for a long time, and then he took her upstairs.

The mole was still there, next to his left hipbone, and once more his body was long and strong against hers, and her hands and her mouth remembered him well.

T
HAT MORNING WARREN got the eight-thirty ferry from Langdale. He spent the thirty-five-minute trip on the deck, which turned out to be the only half hour in a month that he'd felt cool.

He watched a tug chugging along, pulling a log boom; he'd considered that line of work himself, once. Might have done it, too, if it hadn't been for Wanda, who hadn't liked the idea of his being away from home that much.

There were a lot of things that Warren knew how to do. It was a good feeling, knowing you could earn your living in more ways than just one. It gave you security. He'd learned this from his first employer, Bobby Ransome's dad, a busy, jolly person who'd had all kinds of irons in the fire.

A couple of kids were fooling around by the railing, brothers, Warren figured, about eight and ten years old. Warren was just about to warn them about falling overboard when their parents came up and did it for him. Then the father tried to get the kids to go with them to the cafeteria for a cold drink, but there was no way those kids wanted to go inside. So their folks sat on one of the benches on deck and watched the boys run up and down.

Warren soon saw Horseshoe Bay in the distance, and he returned to the van.

By noon Warren had done his Vancouver errands and was waiting for a table in the White Spot at Twelfth and Cambie. He had a burger, fries, and a chocolate milk shake and used the washroom, then climbed back in the van and headed east on Twelfth, which eventually led him onto the freeway. Half an hour later he turned off at the Fort Langley exit and made his way toward his parents' house.

They'd moved to the Valley ten years ago, to a house on two acres. Warren had always thought it was far too much property for them. But his folks—especially his mom—liked to garden. There were great huge pieces of lawn, and a whole bunch of rhododendrons, but there was also a place his mom called her cutting garden, where she planted flowers to bring inside. And there was a vegetable patch, too. Also raspberries, gooseberries, strawberries and rhubarb. Warren didn't have the faintest idea what happened to all this produce.

Warren was glad of his folks. It was one thing he had over Bobby Ransome, he thought. Bobby's real dad was dead, now. And he'd died in a peculiar way, too.

Warren turned off the country road onto a driveway bordered by ornamental plum trees that were covered in pink blossoms every spring. Now their leaves were a rich shade of maroon.

It had happened more than ten years ago, just before Bobby got arrested. Mr. Ransome was looking for bottles and beer cans by the side of the road and up came this big buck. It charged, and Mr. Ransome got gored and trampled to death. Apparently it was mating season.

Warren pulled into the parking area near the front door and tooted his horn. His mother came out onto the porch and shaded her eyes with one hand, waving at him with the other. She was kind of dumpy, his mom was, but she had a sweet face and her gray hair was thick and curly.

The worst part of it all, to Warren's mind, was the fact that the damn deer was still standing over Mr. Ransome's body hours later, when a cop car stopped to see what was going on.

The unnaturalness of it is what had troubled everybody. Deer didn't go around killing people, for Pete's sake. And if once in a blue moon something weird happened and they did, why they sure as hell wouldn't stand around and gloat over it. You wouldn't think.

Warren's dad appeared from around the house. He was wearing a pair of old jeans and an undershirt with no sleeves. He said it was the thing he enjoyed most about being retired; he didn't have to get dressed up every day. But Warren thought there was a big difference between not getting dressed up and going around looking disreputable.

He got out of the van and went up to his mom and gave her a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Wanda's not with you?” she said, peering back at the van, shading her eyes again.

She knew Wanda wasn't with him. When Warren was being brutally honest about his life he admitted to himself that his mother wasn't all that fond of Wanda. And so she tended to forget important details like the fact that Wanda had a job.

“No, she's not with me, Mom,” he said.

“Come on around back,” said his dad, putting his arm around Warren's shoulders. “I'll take a break. We'll have a beer.”

“Maybe you want to go in the pool, Warren,” said his mom. “I'm sure I can find you a suit.”

“No thanks, Mom,” said Warren. “Not today.”

He followed his dad around the house and they sat at a patio table in the shade of a big yellow umbrella. After a while his dad remembered the beer, and got up to get it. Warren noticed the big lawn mower parked under a tree beyond the pool. He frowned.

“You're not mowing the lawn, are you? In the middle of the day? In this heat?” It was even hotter out here in the Fraser Valley than it was in town.

“Nah,” said his dad. “Just checking the carburetor.”

Warren looked at him fondly. His dad had made his money selling real estate, but he was every bit as good with machinery as Warren was.

His dad, knowing what Warren was thinking, winked at Warren and said, “It's in the genes, boy.”

After a while his mother came out with a plate of sandwiches. Warren gazed at them hungrily. “Why'd I have that burger?” he said, and reached for a sandwich anyway.

They ate the sandwiches, and Warren and his dad had another beer, and then his dad got up and wandered back to the lawn mower. His mother watched him until he was far enough away to be out of earshot.

“So how is she?” she said quietly.

Warren shook his head. “This is downright ridiculous,” he said. Then he sighed. “She's okay.”

“How are the kids?”

“They're okay, too.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, opened it, took out a photograph. “Here. This is for you.” His mother looked at it like it might bite her. He poked it at her, impatiently. “Here. Take it.”

Slowly his mom reached for the photograph, turned it right side up, and looked at it. She looked at it very hard, so hard that her shoulders hunched over and her forehead creased. Then she put it down on the table and fumbled in the pocket of her slacks for a Kleenex. She dabbed at her eyes, blinked at Warren, and pushed the photograph at him.

“Really, Mom. This is so stupid.”

“It isn't my doing. Not anymore.”

When Annabelle was fifteen she'd gotten pregnant. Warren did not like to think about this because it was Bobby Ransome that did it. (What the hell
was
it about Bobby Ransome, anyway?)

“Talk to her again,” he said to his mom. “I wish you would.”

His mom had made Annabelle get an abortion. Which seemed like the best thing at the time. But it ended up being a very bad thing. It ended up being something Annabelle never got over.

“She won't listen to me. She'd hang up on me, if I tried.”

And then later, Annabelle got married. And then she got divorced. Warren and Annabelle's folks did not approve of people getting divorced.

“When was the last time you tried?” he said to his mom. “Huh? When did you call her up last? Or write her a letter, to that post office box she's got?”

And then she got married again. To Herman. Which turned out to be the last straw for the folks, because they thought Herman was definitely not right for Annabelle. So they refused to speak to her anymore. They said they were disowning her.

(Warren remembered telling Annabelle this. All she said was, “As if they'd ever owned me in the first place.”)

His mom stood and picked up the sandwich plate. “I send her a card every Christmas.”

And then, later, when they changed their minds, why it was too late, for Annabelle had turned against them.

“When did you phone her last? Talk to her? Tell her you love her?”

His mom gave him a look that made him hurt down to the bottoms of his feet. “What good would that do?” she said bitterly. “Annabelle doesn't care if we love her or not.” She went into the house.

Warren put the photograph back in his wallet.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and stared at the pool. It was funny how the water was really colorless; it was the pool that was bright blue, not the water at all.

Everybody figures that family problems get themselves sorted out, after a while, thought Warren. Everybody always thinks, this'll pass, this'll mend itself. But sometimes, Warren knew, things didn't pass, they didn't get mended. Sometimes they just got worse and worse, without anybody meaning for that to happen.

His father returned to the table and sat down. He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his face. “Where's Mother?”

“Gone inside,” said Warren.

His dad glanced through the open patio doors into the empty family room. “So,” he said quietly to Warren. “How's Annabelle?”

Warren felt very weary. He took out the photograph. “Here,” he said, handing it to his dad. “See for yourself.”

S
TEVEN FELT THE late-afternoon sun on his back as a series of hot breaths, as though it were a large animal following him, silently following him up the steep incline. It burned into his back, and then he passed among trees through shade and coolness, and emerged once more into sun, felt it sear his skin through the thin white T-shirt.

There was a path, of sorts, that led steeply upward, curving around the carcasses of fallen trees, brushing against banks of ferns, steering him through a tunnel of greenery that smelled rank and moist despite the heat. He climbed confidently, though he'd never been here before, never been on this side of the cliff before. It was like being backstage in a theater. So this is what holds it up, he thought, as he climbed, his camera hanging around his neck.

He was sweating in the heat but he didn't mind; he could feel the wetness gathering in the middle of his back and under his arms, soaking his T-shirt, and he didn't mind; he liked the feeling that he was working hard, it reflected his hope that perhaps, finally, he could be once more deserving of reward.

On either side of the path grew brush and ferns and tree trunks and stinging nettles. Steven heard nothing, as he climbed, except his own labored breathing, and the scuffling of his sneakers on the hard-packed trail. He climbed on, aware of the money belt hugging his waist, aware of the muscles in his thighs and calves, aware of his sweat.

He had to stay calm, he told himself, and speak reasonably, and if he did that, everything was going to be okay. Staying calm and speaking reasonably, that was the important thing. He would make his declaration, and present his offering, and he would be respectful and repentant.

He'd gone over and over it in his mind, while lying in bed staring at the ceiling; while walking the streets of Sechelt; while mowing his mother's lawn. He'd been going over it for days, and finally he was calm, finally he was ready.

Suddenly he stumbled, and threw out a hand to break his fall, but his feet went out from under him and he had to scuffle on his hands and knees to keep from tumbling down the path. “Shit,” he muttered, breathless, his camera swinging wildly from its leather strap, striking him on the chin. He edged cautiously off the path and clung for a while to the slim trunk of a young fir tree. Then he checked his camera, brushed dirt from his legs and hands and started upward again, moving more slowly, taking more care.

The sun watched and waited and from between the trees pitched shafts of fire at his back; they struck at the nape of his neck and started a headache there. He could see it in his mind—a flame of an ache created by the sun striking against the bones of his neck.

The sweat was dripping from his forehead and when it got into his eyes it stung.

He hoped he would arrive first. He was feeling shaken and uncertain, now; rattled by almost falling, and by the heat-ache in his neck. The words he'd had ready had fled. He knew he could get them back again but he needed a little bit of time.

He wiped sweat from his face and floundered upward, assailed by the sun. His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding and his head hurt. This was not an easy climb at all, he thought, and tried not to feel angry about that.

Then the path turned, abruptly, and he was on even ground, standing alone in a clearing. Tall grass, sun-dappled, grew beneath the trees. It was very quiet. His breathing sounded loud in the stillness, and his heart was making a lot of noise, too.

But he would soon be composed again. Then he would repossess his arguments and when it was time he would present them, he would be prodigiously convincing, and all would be well, he would be free, and his life would stretch before him unblemished and beckoning.

He looked around with satisfaction at the level, grassy place. He stood in shade and saw sun-shafts piercing the dry grass, and saw the brush that concealed the cliff edge, and saw the trees soaring skyward.

And saw a figure emerge from the forest.

“Hello, Bobby,” said Steven, turning to face him.

“W
E'RE ONLY GOING out for a couple of hours, right?” said Cassandra. She was staring up at the mast of Alberg's rented sailboat. It seemed disproportionately high; she thought it likely that an error had been made, and that as soon as they tried to hoist the sail the mast would crack and, with a bleating sound, break in two.