Fall from Grace (16 page)

Gillingham returned, carrying, Alberg noticed, not one hand towel, but two. He gave Alberg one and patted his own face with the other before sitting down again, this time in a chair next to the sofa.

“Thank you, Alex,” said Alberg, mopping his forehead. He thought longingly of the veranda at the front of the house, and the big weeping willow tree under which his car was parked.

“I don't know when to go back to work,” said Mrs. Grayson to the doctor.

“Don't think about that yet,” said the doctor. Alberg watched, his irritation rekindled, as Gillingham reached over to pat her hand, which had emerged from behind the quilt to lie limply in her lap. “Take it one day at a time. One thing at a time.”

“Mrs. Grayson,” said Alberg. “Tell me exactly what he said, when he told you he had to meet somebody.”

“Well,” she said, frowning at the quilt, “it was Friday night, I guess. I asked him if he'd like to go to Percy and Hilda's for supper on Saturday. That's his aunt and uncle. And Steven said, sure” —her eyes filled with tears—“he had to meet somebody, but it wouldn't take long, he'd be back in lots of time.”

Alberg waited while Velma Grayson sobbed, and Alex Gillingham comforted her.

He wondered if all this sweating might end up reducing his weight by a couple of pounds.

“Did he mention the ferry?” said Alberg.

“What?” she said, wiping her face with a tissue. Then she stopped, thinking. “Yes. You're right,” she said, nodding to herself. “That's why I figured it was someone from here. Because he didn't say anything about the ferry.”

“So he told you he was meeting someone, but he didn't say where, or why, or who.”

“That's right.”

“And he didn't mention having a lot of money, or being owed money, or owing money himself.”

“No.”

Alberg glanced at his notebook, trying to hide his exasperation. “Do you know if he'd been in touch with anyone since he arrived?”

She thought for a moment. “Well, once when I came home from work, he was on the phone. But I don't know who he was talking to.”

“An old friend, maybe?”

“Maybe. Except—he didn't have many friends, really. I mean, maybe he does now, but not when he was living at home.”

“Did he go out? See people? Drive around? Anything?”

She shook her head quickly. “No. I'm sorry, Mr. Alberg, not to be able to help you more—Oh. Wait. He did go back to Vancouver once.”

“Tell me about that.”

She drank the rest of her tea, and cradled the mug in her hands. “Well, he called me at work. Last Thursday it was. Said he had to go into town. He'd be back on the six-thirty ferry. But I wasn't supposed to hold supper for him. So I didn't.”

“What was he going to do in town?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you want more tea, Velma?” said Gillingham, and she nodded.

She and Alberg sat there in silence. Alberg thought the room had begun to shimmer, like a highway mirage.

Gillingham came back and set the refilled mug on the end table.

Alberg was convinced that he'd never be cool again. “What can you tell me about his life in Vancouver? His friends—hobbies…”

“Nothing,” she said dully. “I saw him maybe three times a year. In Vancouver. And he'd call me now and then. But I have no idea how he spent his time, what he liked to do, who he liked to do it with.” Once more, she wept. “And now I'm never going to find out.”

“When did he leave home?” said Alberg quickly, before her sobs could take firm hold.

“After high school. He went to Vancouver.”

“And then what?” said Alberg, after a pause.

She picked up her mug and drank some tea. “Well, first he got a job in retail. I forget exactly what. And then Harry died—my husband Harry was a logger, and he died in an accident that summer, so Steven came home for the funeral and so on. And then he went traveling for a while.”

“Uh-huh,” said Alberg. He moved a little in his chair, cautiously, and found that his shirt was wetter than ever.

“For—oh, more than a year, it was. But he kept in touch with me. And eventually he ended up back in Vancouver. That was the spring of nineteen eighty-two. And he took photography, and got a job, and—” She looked at Alberg blankly. “And that's all I know.”

“Who did he work for?”

“He's been on his own for a couple of years now. Free-lancing.”

“Mrs. Grayson,” said Alberg, struggling to control his frustration, “if I've understood you correctly, your son had been gone for ten years without a single visit home. What brought him home this summer?”

She shook her head. “I don't know.”

“You must have been very happy about it.”

“Very,” Velma Grayson said somberly.

“But surprised, too.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Well?” said Alberg, desperate. “What did he say, when he told you?”

She found a tissue somewhere beneath the quilt and wiped her eyes. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Alberg, oh I do wish I could help you. But he wasn't—forthcoming. You know? He just said he'd like to come home for a while. And I was so glad to have him here, I didn't really care what the reason for it was.”

Alberg looked around the living room. It was too damn hot to think straight. Velma Grayson looked ridiculous huddling underneath that damn quilt when the temperature had to be at least a hundred degrees in here. He swiped at his face with the towel.

Mrs. Grayson reached from the cocoon of her quilt to touch Alberg on the arm. She gazed at him searchingly, but didn't speak.

Alberg found he had nothing to offer her; no speculation, no comfort, no judgment. Finally he patted her hand. “May I look at his room now, please?”

“D
ID YOU HEAR about Steven Grayson?” said Warren, late that afternoon. “He fell off a cliff.”

Annabelle laughed. “Oh sure he did.”

“He did,” Warren protested. He was in Annabelle's kitchen, pouring himself some coffee. “Don't laugh about it, Annabelle. He died, for Pete's sake.”

Annabelle set down her iron. “Died? But—what happened?” she said, sitting down at the table with him.

“I told you, Annabelle,” said Warren patiently. “He fell off a cliff. Yesterday, it happened.”

“But he—I heard he'd come home.”

“He did come home. It happened here. Over on Thormanby Island. You know that bluff at Buccaneer Bay? Well that's where it happened.” He shook his head. “It's funny how things work out, isn't it?”

“Now, Warren,” she chastised him. “We don't know anything for sure. We just guessed, and we could've been wrong.”

“It's water under the bridge now, anyway,” said Warren. “Listen, Annabelle.” He helped himself to cream and sugar. “I've got to talk to you.”

Everybody in the world wants to talk to me, thought Annabelle, exasperated. But she glanced at her brother and thought, you practically can't see the man's face for the worry on it.

“I saw the folks yesterday,” he said, and drank some coffee.

Annabelle's eyes narrowed. She got up and returned to the yellow dress she'd been ironing. She'd known that was why he'd come; it was almost always why he came. And she admired his steadfastness, though in this case there was no point to it.

“And how are they?” she said politely.

“Fine, just fine,” said Warren. He seemed distracted, though, and nervous. “I gave them a picture of you and the kids,” he said.

“You what?” said Annabelle, astounded.

“Remember when I took one that day, a couple of months ago it was, out in your garden?”

“I remember. But you certainly didn't tell me you were taking it for them.”

“I wasn't,” said Warren quickly. “But it turned out so good. And they hunger for a look at you, you know that, Annabelle.”

“Now don't start, Warren.”

“You've gotta do something about this,” he said doggedly. “It's just so stupid. Those kids, they need grandparents. They could be out there right now, swimming in the pool, eating the vegetables.”

“They get vegetables right here,” said Annabelle, furious. “And they don't need a swimming pool. Why they've got the ocean to swim in, for goodness' sake.”

Warren stood up and went to the door. He looked outside, his hands in his pockets, and for a while neither of them spoke.

Annabelle hung up the dress. It was a yellow one that hugged her breasts and revealed her throat and her arms and had a full skirt that swished around her legs. She would wear it tomorrow, when she saw Bobby, she decided, plucking a blouse from the ironing basket. A small, pink blouse—Camellia's. Annabelle thought about Steven. It was very hard to believe that someone so young—someone she'd actually known—was suddenly dead. She had to be more stern with Camellia about climbing trees. She spread the blouse on the board and smoothed the fabric with her hand, then picked up the iron.

“Annabelle,” said Warren. “Nothing's going right.” His voice sounded so bleak that Annabelle lifted her head. “There's stuff going wrong every time I turn around.”

“Warren,” said Annabelle. “You worry too much. You've always worried too much.”

“No,” he said miserably. “This is different.”

Annabelle unplugged the iron. She went to Warren and led him by the hand to the kitchen table. “Sit down. Tell me.”

“Wanda doesn't want to have kids.”

Annabelle nodded. “That doesn't surprise me. Not after having an abortion. I know I didn't want to have them, after mine.”

“But then you did, Annabelle.”

“Yes. I changed my mind. Wanda will change her mind, too. I'm sure of it.”

“But it's been ten years, Annabelle.”

“Only five since you got married, though.”

“She says when she's thirty,” said Warren, after a pause.

“Well for goodness' sake, Warren,” said Annabelle irritably. “I'm sure I don't know what you've got to be upset about, then.”

“But she's only twenty-seven.” Then he added, “Twenty-eight in September.”

Annabelle said, “That's no time at all. And you'll have plenty to keep you busy, too. Why, you're going to have to fix up a room, and make a sandbox; heavens, you might even want to buy another house.”

“That could be,” said Warren after a moment. “I hadn't considered that. The preparations.”

“Now,” she said briskly. “What else?”

Warren hesitated. “I saw you with Bobby Ransome today,” he said flatly. “That's a big mistake, Annabelle.”

Annabelle started rummaging in the ironing basket. “I was with Erna today, Warren. We ran into Bobby. He just happened by.”

Warren was shaking his head sorrowfully. “Annabelle, quit it. There's nobody knows you better than me.”

She slapped the ironing board. “Bobby Ransome's an old friend of mine. I guess I can pass the time of day with an old friend if I want to.” Her face was hot with anger.

Warren held up his hands. “Listen, Annabelle, there's no criticizing going on here. I'm afraid for you. That's all.”

“Well don't be,” Annabelle snapped.

Warren sat in silence, his head down.

Annabelle stared at the clothes waiting to be ironed. “You have seriously injured my good mood, Warren.”

“I saw him having a coffee with Wanda the other day, too,” Warren said miserably.

Annabelle's heart did a little skip but she didn't say anything, she didn't even blink.

“I tell you,” he said heavily, “the man's an infestation.”

Annabelle couldn't help smiling. He looked so dejected, she got up and gave him a hug. “Warren,” she said, “if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that you don't have to be jealous of Bobby.” She sat down opposite him. “Warren—Warren. Look at me.” She waited until he did so. “Wanda loves you, and she doesn't love Bobby Ransome. Maybe she used to, when they were married. Or maybe she only lusted after him, like I did.” Warren looked quickly away. “But whatever. The only person she loves now is you.”

“Maybe,” said Warren reluctantly. “Maybe you're right.”

Annabelle pushed her chair away from the table. “I'm definitely right,” she said, and plugged in the iron again.

Annabelle pressed her children's clothes, dresses and shorts and T-shirts and jeans, and she chatted comfortably to her brother, and she permitted Bobby to move restlessly along the edges of her mind, seductive and dangerous.

A
LBERG CLOSED THE door to Steven's room. He looked around for the heat vent, and closed that, too. Then he hurried to the window, undid the latch and pushed it open as far as it would go. He leaned out, taking great gulps of hot summer air, which by contrast felt cool and refreshing. He thought he might stop at the beach when he left here, and wade into the cold Pacific right up to his neck. And probably have a heart attack.

After a while he turned back to the room. It contained a single bed with a tartan coverlet, a bedside table and a bureau, and in the corner near the window, a desk and chair. On the table sat a lamp and an alarm clock. There was another lamp on the desk.

Alberg opened the drawer in the bedside table and gazed interestedly upon a plastic bag containing what looked like marijuana, an ashtray and a book of matches. He also noticed a roll of butterscotch LifeSavers.

He shut the drawer and went over to the bureau, which held underwear, socks, a pair of pajamas, two pairs of jeans, some gray sweatpants.

There was a closet with a beaded curtain instead of a door. Inside he found two dress shirts, a pair of slacks, a bathrobe, several short-sleeved T-shirts. On the floor were two pairs of sneakers, some slippers, and a pair of good leather shoes. Two sweaters, folded, sat on the closet shelf, along with a shoebox containing shoe polish and brushes. Also two suitcases, both empty.