Fall from Grace (28 page)

She knows she felt it go in, she knows she has to think about that but she can not think about that now—now she only hears the sounds, the grunting, and cursing, and shuffling, and hard breathing, and then some shouts, children crying, oh dear God no please and yelling it out, no no no, and Herman sobbing and then a
thwacking sound
and then oh God his shriek—

Annabelle had never before in her life heard such a sound. But when she heard it, she recognized it. It was the sound you make when it's the last sound you'll ever make. It was the shriek of dying.

“W
HY DIDN'T YOU call me?” said Alberg to his daughter.

“She wanted her brother. She said her brother would call you. He did, didn't he?”

“Yes, he did.”

“So that was okay, wasn't it?”

“Are
you
okay?”

“It was self-defense,” said Diana, ashen-faced. “And her daughter, he was beating on her daughter, too.”

“Sit down, Diana.” He stepped out into the hall. “Keep her in the interview room,” he said to Sokolowski. “Tell the rest of them I'll see them in a minute.” He went back into his office and closed the door. “We'll need to get a statement from you.”

“It was self-defense.” Her voice was shaking. So were her hands.

“It's okay, sweetie. You'll be okay. You just tell it exactly as you witnessed it.”

“We were sitting at the kitchen table—”

“Not now,” said Alberg quickly. “Not to me. I want you to tell it to Sid Sokolowski.” He took her hands, which felt very small and cold. He looked at her helplessly. “I love you, Diana.”

“I love you, too, Pop.”

“It's a damn circus around here,” muttered Sokolowski from behind his desk. “What with all these damn kids.”

And Bobby Ransome had disappeared.

“Any word from Thormanby?” said Alberg.

Sokolowski shook his head.

Alberg leaned on the desk. “Listen, you know Diana was there when the Ferguson thing happened; would you take her statement?”

“Sure,” said the sergeant. He looked down, pondering something, and Alberg knew what it was. He was wondering what the hell Diana had been doing out there. He wanted to know that himself.

“Do you have to talk to the kids?” said Warren. He put his arms more tightly around the girls; eight-year-old Arnold was sitting on Wanda's knee. He hoped she knew how good she looked, with a kid on her lap.

The big blond cop looked at the kids and smiled. “I'd like to talk to them, yes.” He got down on his haunches in front of Warren and the girls. “Would that be okay with you?” he said to Camellia and Rose-Iris. They both nodded. Well they were a lot calmer now, thought Warren, and the cops were probably used to talking to kids, so it'd probably be okay. He felt uncertain, though, because he was the only relative around—the only functioning relative, anyway.

“I'll tell you, sir,” he said to Alberg, “I'd feel a lot better if I could call my folks. Would that be okay?”

“Sure,” said Alberg.

“They live in Fort Langley. It's long distance.”

“That's okay,” said Alberg. He stood up and said to the woman behind the reception counter, “Would you make a call for Mr. Kettleman here, Isabella?”

So Warren gave her the number.

And then he and the kids went with the big cop behind the counter, and Warren talked to his dad, who said they'd get over to Sechelt right away, and that's sure what Warren had wanted to hear.

“The police want to talk to the kids, Dad,” he said, trying to keep his voice low, even though he knew this Isabella woman could hear every word.

“Well sure they'll want to talk to the kids, Warren,” said his dad.

“Is it okay then?”

“Sure it's okay,” said his dad.

But Warren was very glad somebody else had been there, too, so the cop had more than Annabelle's word, and her kids' word, to go on.

He stayed there with them when the cop asked them questions. And then he got asked some questions, too. And so did Wanda. He looked around for the girl who'd brought Annabelle to the house but he didn't see her.

“She's talking to another officer,” said Alberg, when Warren inquired, “down the hall there.”

“So what's going to happen to Annabelle?” said Warren finally, since nobody was volunteering any information about this.

“I'm going to talk to her now,” said Alberg. “Meanwhile, you and your wife can take the kids home with you.”

“Yeah, but before I go,” said Warren. He stood up then, for some reason, and with his right hand on Rose-Iris's shoulder, and his left hand on the top of Camellia's head, he said, “I want to know what's going to happen to my sister.”

“I can't tell you that just yet,” said Alberg. “But I'll know a lot more after I've spoken to her. Give me half an hour or so. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Warren reluctantly. Wanda stood up, holding Arnold's hand, and the five of them went outside to Warren's truck. He was very surprised to realize that it was still Friday, and only four-thirty in the afternoon.

“M
AY I PLEASE CHANGE my clothes?” said Annabelle.

Her upper lip was badly swollen, she had a black eye, and there was a bandage on her forehead, just at the hairline.

“In a few minutes,” said Alberg. “Your sister-in-law has brought something for you to put on.”

“It won't fit me,” said Annabelle, clasping her hands.

“They're your own clothes,” said Alberg. “She went to your house to get them. First of all, Mrs. Ferguson, I must inform you that you have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay.”

She was shaking her head.

“And that if you can't afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you.”

“I don't want a lawyer.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Okay. I'm going to turn this tape recorder on. Now, tell me what happened.”

Annabelle shook her head back and forth, back and forth. “Oh no, oh dear, such a mess, such a mess.” She began to weep. “God forgive me. It was me. I killed him.”

“No,” said Alberg. “You didn't kill him.”

Annabelle froze. “He's—I—he's not dead?”

“He's going to be okay.”

Every trace of color washed from Annabelle's face. “Thank God,” she whispered. She ran her fingertips over her face, repeating “Thank God, thank God,” touching her injuries, stroking them tenderly. “But I hurt him,” she said.

“He's hurt, yes.”

“Will I go to jail?”

“That's not up to me.”

“Am I under arrest?”

Alberg sat down in the other chair. “No, Mrs. Ferguson. You're not under arrest. But you have to tell me what happened.”

She turned away from him, touching her face again.

“Mrs. Ferguson.”

“How are my children?”

“They're fine. They're with your brother and his wife.”

“Arnold, too?”

“All of them. All three of them.”

Annabelle wiped her cheeks with her hands. “Where's—where's Herman?”

“In the hospital. Tell me what happened,” said Alberg gently.

She stood up, and went around to the other side of the table.

“I don't know if I can,” she said, looking at the door.

Alberg waited.

“He hardly ever hit me in front of the kids.” She leaned against the wall. “I don't know how he found out,” she said wearily. “Maybe he didn't.” She pushed her hair away from her face, and winced when her hand brushed against her swollen lip. “He guesses. And of course I feel guilty. Because either I am guilty, or I was guilty, or I will be guilty. And so part of me thinks I deserve it—
part
of me,” she said, and for the first time Alberg saw that there was anger in her. “Only part of me.”

She slumped against the wall again. “He came into the kitchen, we were sitting down having a cup of tea—” She looked at Alberg. “Your daughter was there,” she said, as if she'd just remembered. “She was there. And in the middle of it all, I saw her looking around, and I knew she was looking for something to hit him with.” She turned away, weeping, her cheek against the wall. “She's a stranger. And she was going to hit him.” She closed her eyes and took a big breath. “She was going to hit him, and Rose-Iris was hanging on to him, and I was just standing there. Waiting for him to beat me some more.

“I could see on his face that he didn't want this to be happening. I felt so terrible for him, just for a minute.”

She turned away and moved hesitantly to the end of the room, her left hand never leaving the wall, as if she were blind.

“He's never known what to do about me. So he hits me. But he never hit the kids before. Never.”

She stopped, huddled in the corner. Alberg got up to hand her his handkerchief. She took it, and wiped her face. He sat down again.

“Rose-Iris was yelling at him to stop, and calling him ‘Daddy.' And he said, ‘You're not my kid, you little bitch.' Something like that.” She moved out of the corner. “When I met Herman, he said he didn't care that I was pregnant with somebody else's child. He said he didn't want to know who it was. He said we'd have our own kids, too, and he'd treat them all the same. And he did. Right up until today.”

She sat down, and for a long time she didn't say anything. When she did begin again she spoke abruptly, impatient to get it over with.

“He kept hitting her, and I got up, and I took a knife out of the drawer and I stuck it into him, and he fell down on the floor. We ran out of the house and got in your daughter's car and she drove us to Warren's house. And that's all. When can I see my children?”

“Right now. I'm going to release you on what's called a promise to appear. You'll have to appear in front of a judge. I'll let you know when.” He stood up. “Make sure you stay away from Herman. Okay?”

Annabelle nodded. “I never told anybody,” she said, staring at the floor.

“You never told anybody what?”

“Who her father is. Not until today. Today I told Rose-Iris, because she asked, and I had to.” Tears were spilling from her eyes.

“It'll be okay.”

“And Warren heard. Because he was there.”

“I'll get your clothes for you,” said Alberg, going to the door.

“Nobody knew,” said Annabelle, through her tears. “Until today. Not even Bobby knows.”

Alberg stopped, with his hand on the doorknob. “Bobby who?” He turned around. “Bobby Ransome?” Annabelle nodded. Slowly, Alberg sat down again.

W
ARREN WAS SITTING in the living room with his folks, who had arrived about an hour earlier, and Annabelle's three kids. His head was awhirl every time he looked at Rose-Iris, because Rose-Iris was nine going on ten which meant that Bobby Ransome had been getting the both of them pregnant at the same time, Wanda and Annabelle.

And Warren didn't like the thought of that one little bit.

If Wanda hadn't had an abortion, her kid with Bobby would've been the same age as Annabelle's kid with Bobby. They would have been related.

Wanda, of course, was furious to learn this.

What a mess, thought Warren, feeling bleak and lonely.

His dad was sitting there looking at the kids in wonder, as if he'd never seen kids before: pictures come to life, that's what they were to him.

His mom was sitting on the very edge of the sofa. Her knees were pressed together and so were her ankles. She was wearing white slacks and a pink top that didn't tuck in, because her waist was kind of thick. Her face had a surprised look on it.

Nobody was saying much. They were all waiting for the phone to ring, for the police to tell them Annabelle could go home.

Camellia was lying back in Warren's arms sort of like she'd collapsed there, her head resting against his left shoulder and her legs flung out, one of them hanging down and the other lying over his right knee. She had her right hand on top of his hand, which was on the arm of the chair, and her left hand kept going up to her face: Warren thought maybe she felt like sucking her thumb and wasn't doing it because it would have been babyish.