Fall from Grace (30 page)

“Oh yes he will,” said Warren miserably. “He'll come back. You just watch and see if he doesn't.”

But Wanda ignored him, and called the cops.

“It's just a matter of time,” said Alberg, more to himself than to Sokolowski. They'd checked Bobby Ransome's parents' house and had found no sign of him.

“So how come you're not going home?” said Sokolowski.

“How come you aren't, either?”

Then Carrington knocked, and opened the door. “I've got good news,” he said, “and bad news.”

“Just give it to us,” said Alberg irritably.

“A woman called, now we know what Ransome's driving. That's the good news. The bad news comes from the hospital.”

I
T WAS EVENING when Annabelle got home. There were a few clouds stretched thinly across the horizon and the sun, burning through them, turned the clouds and all the world to gold.

Annabelle stood next to the old gas pumps and looked at the house with the window wall and wondered what the judge would say. Would she have to go to jail? It wouldn't be good for Rose-Iris to have two parents who were jailbirds. Annabelle giggled a little at this, but she felt tears trembling in her eyes because what on earth would become of them, her children, if she were to go to jail? She took a few deep breaths, to steady herself.

She couldn't see into her house because of the sun shining on it. From a distance, she thought, these windows will look as if they're made of gold.

She walked toward the house and around the corner and approached the animal cages, to look in upon the foxes and the monkeys. She would have released the foxes, except she was a little afraid that they might bite her. She would call the SPCA first thing in the morning. She noticed that the animals had plenty of water, and wondered who had given it to them. She thought of Herman and turned quickly around—but no, he wasn't there, he was in the hospital… they'd told her he wouldn't die, but he'd lost a lot of blood—lost a lot of blood, thought Annabelle; but he won't die; won't die.

Maybe the judge would want her to appear quickly. Maybe tomorrow, she thought. Maybe I won't have to go to jail.

Pull yourself together, Annabelle, she told herself sternly. She drew herself up and walked purposefully toward the house. She opened the screen door, crossed the hall—and then she was in the kitchen.

She had been steeling herself for this. She had to confront the kitchen before seeing her children again. She had to look at the scene of her crime, and wash Herman's blood from the floor, and weep, and fashion a penance for herself.

And so she entered the kitchen. And looked bravely around her.

And saw that there was nothing to confront.

The kitchen was spotless and serene. No blood to clean up. Nothing was out of order, out of place. It's Wanda, she thought, amazed. Wanda, who had come to collect the clothes Annabelle was now wearing, must have cleaned up the kitchen. And watered the animals, too. Annabelle, frowning, put her hands on her hips and surveyed the kitchen critically. She felt she had been robbed of something.

Finally she went into the room with the window wall and sat down in the lawn chair. She was very restless. Something, somewhere, was quickening.

Or maybe it was just not being able to clean up the blood.

There is not much of Herman in this house, she thought—and out of the blue she was struck by a desolation so intense that she doubled over, whimpering, her eyes squeezed shut, breathing with as little of her lungs as possible: a terrifying blackness had engulfed her. Lightly, she rubbed the center of her chest, saying to her pain, please please let go please let go; she willed it to dissolve, to sink into her bones and tissues, to become part of her; it's all right she said, silently, soothingly to her pain; it's all right, and she thought of pains she might have had that would have been worse.

The evening was deepening, thickening, as Annabelle went from her house and along the hard-packed trail and through the brush into her garden, which was awash in a dusky glow and the fragrance of roses. Her rose garden had begun and ended with Bobby. It was a private joke. Notches on her belt—a coded record of her sexual explorations. There was no rosebush for Herman.

Annabelle's roses were pale perfumed smudges in the twilight. She couldn't decide—did she want to leave this place, this droll house with its wraparound window wall, this garden with seven rosebushes as its centerpiece? How many times had she moved in the last ten years? She couldn't remember. And each time, she'd moved the roses too and each time, they had survived. But Annabelle thought they might die if she tried to take them from this garden.

And maybe she, Annabelle, oughtn't to be uprooted again, either.

She left her garden and returned to the house. She flipped on the floodlight, and the kitchen light. She must phone Warren, who would be worried. And she must bring the children home.

Then she heard Warren's van: he'd brought them to her, then. Quickly she looked into the kitchen mirror: would they flinch from seeing her?

Bobby knocked on the screen door. She regarded him for several seconds, she in the kitchen, he outside, and she was reminded of seeing him before in just that way, through the screen; only it was day, then, and the sun was pressing against the side of his face, glittering in his hair.

He opened the door and came inside without being invited.

“Jesus,” he said, looking grimly at her injuries. “I heard about it from Warren. You okay?”

Annabelle nodded.

“He's not okay, though, huh?” said Bobby.

“He's not going to die,” said Annabelle.

“That's good,” said Bobby. “I guess.”

“Do you think they'll send me to jail?”

Bobby laughed. “Nah.” He looked at her more closely. “Seriously?”

Annabelle nodded.

“The way I got it from Warren, you were protecting the kid. That right?”

Annabelle hesitated. “Yes.”

“No way you'll go to the slammer. You press charges, you could get Herman sent there.”

His hands were in his pockets, and he was jangling something, car keys, probably, Annabelle thought.

“Annabelle, I'm on my way outta town.”

“I thought you probably were. Sit down for a minute.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Bobby. He sat down at the table. He sat like Herman did, straddling the chair. “But before I go, I wanted to see you. And tell you that I saw the kid.”

Annabelle nodded

“She's a real pretty little thing. I dunno if you knew,” said Bobby, his arms resting on the back of the chair, “when I got sent up, Wanda, she was, uh, expecting. And she had an abortion. Because of me going to prison. I mean, she didn't know how she'd look after it, on her own. Well you know, for Godsake.”

“Yes,” said Annabelle.

“Well anyway,” said Bobby, “I just wanted you to know, I'm glad you didn't get rid of yours.”

“Of course I didn't get rid of her. Why did you think I got you to sleep with me again, after all that time, and you married to somebody else, except to get pregnant?”

Bobby stared at her. “You're puttin' me on.”

Annabelle shook her head. “I knew we could do it, you and me. Because we had before.”

He gazed at her. “You really wanted a kid bad, didn't you?”

“I wanted four of them. The three I have. And the one I
did
get rid of.”

“So,” said Bobby uncomfortably, after a minute. “Is she smart, or what?”

“Smarter than you are,” said Annabelle, and she laughed out loud.

“Yeah, you got that right,” said Bobby, grinning.

They were looking at each other and smiling and their eyes seemed to catch in midair. Annabelle felt like crying.

“Annabelle, you know, I was broken up about it when you went and married what's-his-name, the guy who couldn't have kids.”

“Lionel.”

“Yeah. Because there I was, I'd gone back to high school and everything, just for you, to prove myself—”

“You do things for yourself, Bobby Ransome. Like we all do.”

“Yeah, well. Probably you're right.” He looked at her for a long time. “You gonna be okay?”

“Sure.” She ducked her head and was looking down at the tabletop, blinking hard against tears, when horrendous noises erupted with terrifying suddenness out in the yard.

“Fuck,” muttered Bobby, springing to his feet. “What the hell's that?”

Annabelle heard bellows of rage, and smashing sounds. Uncomprehending, she stood up and stared at the door.

“What the fuck's goin' on?” said Bobby, frozen in a half crouch.

Annabelle moved to the door and looked through the screen. “Oh my God,” she cried, and ran outside. “Herman!” she screamed. “Stop it! Stop it!”

In the floodlit yard he was flailing at the remaining two animal cages with a tire iron. His shirt was torn and bloodstained. He was shouting things that were unintelligible.

“Herman! Stop it!” said Annabelle, but he ignored her. She turned swiftly, to run to the telephone.

“What the hell's going on?” said Bobby, coming through the screen door.

At the sound of Bobby's voice Herman stopped banging at the foxes' cage. He turned and stared at Bobby, thunderstruck. He looked from Bobby to Warren's van and back again. “You fucker,” he said, and he staggered toward Bobby, raising the tire iron.

Bobby started backing up. “Forget it, man,” he said, and Annabelle could see that he wasn't afraid, just wary. He was a lot bigger than Herman, and he wasn't injured, and those things seemed to make up for the fact that Herman had a weapon.

“Bastard,” gasped Herman, reeling toward Bobby. “I'm gonna kill you, you bastard.”

“Herman, no,” said Annabelle, and she thought to herself I cannot do it again even if I had the knife in my hand this very minute I could not do it again.

Herman stopped, and turned to Annabelle. “Bitch. Whore.” He changed direction, and moved toward her with unexpected swiftness.

“Hey, Herman, hey!” called Bobby. “You son of a bitch come on over here, come on, come and get me, you're yellow, man, come on—leave her alone, don't touch her you bastard!” He was racing across the hard-packed earth. “Put that down!” Herman lifted the tire iron. Bobby swept down upon him, grabbed it, and brought it down hard on Herman's head.

“Oh Jesus,” said Bobby, panting. He dropped the tire iron and took hold of Annabelle.

Annabelle heard sirens, and they became louder and louder as she watched blood trickle in a thin stream over the hard-packed earth, which was too dry to soak it up.

“Oh Bobby. Ahhhh… Bobby…”

“Shh,” said Bobby, weeping, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Shh, Annabelle, shhh. It's okay. It's okay.”

“N
O HARD FEELINGS.”

That's what Bobby had said when the cops dragged him and Annabelle into the police station, and he'd seen Warren and Wanda waiting there.

“No hard feelings.”

Warren hoped fervently that he'd meant it. Because in today's world even killing somebody wasn't necessarily enough to lock a guy up for the rest of his life.

Now they were back in Warren's house, which was very crowded; he thought it looked like an emergency shelter, with people sleeping all over the place. And that's pretty much what it was, when he thought about it.

They'd given their bedroom to his folks, who'd hung around waiting for Annabelle until they'd missed the last ferry, and of course there wasn't a room to be had in town, what with all the tourists. So Warren and Wanda were camped out in the rec room in the basement. There was a second bedroom which Wanda used as a sewing room; it just had a cot in it. So Annabelle would go on the cot, and the three kids could sleep on the floor.

Things were pretty strained, which wasn't surprising. Annabelle in particular was white in the face and shaking all over. After she'd been to the cops for the second time that day, she'd come here to the house and gathered the kids around her, hugging all three of them at the same time, and it'd been quite a while—a minute or two, at least—before she'd seen that her folks were there too.