Fall from Grace (9 page)

Eventually she heard a car, and she knew the reporter had arrived. She weeded for another few minutes, and then curiosity got the better of her, and she went through the brush onto the path that led to the house.

And there was Herman, his arms going around like a pair of windmills, gabbing at a young woman holding a notebook. She looked so thoroughly out of her element that she reminded Annabelle of the reporter in that movie about Nashville; the one who wandered around in a parking lot full of school buses making things up for her tape recorder. Annabelle realized, as she got closer, that the difference between them was that this young woman knew she was out of her element, and it was making her furious.

“Here's the lady from the paper,” said Herman. “This is my wife,” he said proudly to the reporter.

Annabelle smiled. “Would you like some iced tea?”

The girl shook her head. Her face was flushed. “No, thank you,” she said. She was an attractive person, thought Annabelle. She had long, wavy hair and a heart-shaped face and a figure that was both curvaceous and sturdy.

“How come you didn't bring a camera?” said Herman.

“I'm a reporter,” said the girl stiffly. “Not a photographer.”

Annabelle sat down in a lawn chair near the house. She didn't move it into the shade of the trees because she didn't want to be that close to the animals.

“You can't have a story like this and not have pictures,” Herman was protesting.

“If my editor wants pictures he'll send a photographer later.”

“Okay, fine,” said Herman. “Now here's your raccoons,” he said, leading the way. “You saw your squirrels, you saw your foxes, you saw your monkeys, now here's your raccoons.”

He'd changed his clothes, Annabelle noticed. He'd put on a white shirt over his undershirt, and a belt was holding up his jeans, instead of suspenders.

“Have you had a lot of people stop by?” said the reporter, clutching her notebook to her chest.

Herman hesitated. “Not yet. Not enough people know about it yet. I gotta get more signs put up. Your piece in the paper'll help a lot.”

“What'll happen to them in the fall?” said the girl, staring at the raccoons.

“Whaddya mean, what'll happen to them? I put more stuff in their cages,” said Herman, “so they can make nests, like, keep themselves warm.”

“How much do you know about animals, anyway?” said the reporter, and Annabelle heard the dismay in her voice, even if Herman didn't.

“Not much,” he said stoutly. “I'm learning from the wildlife guy. He tells me what I gotta do, and I do it.”

“I don't understand,” said the reporter, shaking her head. “I mean, you can't possibly be earning your living doing this.”

“Never said I was,” said Herman. “Carpentry's my livelihood.”

“Then why?” said the young woman.

My goodness, thought Annabelle, suddenly pensive. She's practically in tears.

“Why what?” said Herman, exasperated.

“Why cage up these animals?” the girl shouted.

“Well how the hell,” Herman shouted back, “how the hell can I have a goddamn zoo without goddamn cages?”

They stared at each other.

The girl snapped her notebook closed. “I've got all I need, thank you,” she said, and marched off toward her car.

Herman glanced at Annabelle, who quickly wiped from her face the pity she'd felt there.

C
ASSANDRA HELPED THE Ferguson girls load their books into two plastic grocery bags and watched as they went off up the street, the younger one skipping. Then she went to the staff room, which she shared with several part-time volunteers.

It was reached through a doorway behind the library's U-shaped counter, next to the shelves of books being kept on reserve. It contained a couch, an armchair, a round kitchen table with three straight-backed chairs, two coffee tables and a stand-up lamp. The floor was covered with strong but ugly carpeting that was the color of cement.

Cassandra looked around glumly, and made a half-hearted attempt to gather up armloads of
Publishers Weekly
,
Quill and Quire
and
B.C. Book World
. But there were newspapers everywhere, too, and the sink was cluttered with dirty glasses and coffee mugs, and the small refrigerator probably needed cleaning, and certainly the drip coffeepot sitting on the counter did.

There were no windows in the staff room, only skylights, and on summer days like this one the heat was merciless.

Cassandra slumped into the green plastic armchair; there was a tear in the seat, and the back of it was coming off. The Sally Ann wouldn't take this chair, she thought, fingering its bilious arms, as a gift. If she wanted to get rid of it she'd have to pay somebody to cart it away. Which was probably exactly what had gone through the mind of Betty Trimble before she had graciously donated the damn thing—on condition, of course, that Cassandra arrange for its transportation to the library.

Cassandra no longer uttered automatic bleats of gratitude when people offered her things. Now she spoke a cautious thank-you and said she'd be by to look it over, whatever it was. She resisted telling potential donors to take a hike, or call the junk man, because after all, the library had come by its coffeepot and its fridge, as well as the hideous green chair, through people like Betty Trimble.

I really must get this place cleaned up, she thought, surveying the room. She pulled a tissue from the pocket of her dress and dabbed at the sweat on her face. But not today.

One of the volunteers appeared in the doorway. “There's somebody out there wants to see you.”

It was Diana Alberg. “Do you have information here about animal rights?” she said.

Fifteen minutes later Diana was seated at a table in the reading area, surrounded by books and pamphlets and magazines. Cassandra, cataloging books behind the counter, glanced up once in a while. She was thinking about the framed photograph that she'd seen on the mantelpiece in Karl's living room. It was a picture of his two daughters with their arms around his smiling ex-wife. Maura was tall and slim. She couldn't be called beautiful, exactly—but she was striking; dramatic-looking. Janey, the older daughter, resembled her. Cassandra had felt awkward, looking at the picture, and then depressed, and then royally pissed off. She hadn't said anything, but the next time she'd found herself in Karl's living room the photograph had been gone.

Diana was taking notes, absorbed in the material Cassandra had helped her find. Cassandra thought she looked very young, even though she'd graduated from university several months earlier.

They didn't know each other well, yet. Cassandra had found Diana to be intelligent; opinionated; impatient. She had a sense of humor. And a healthy curiosity about the world.

And what, I wonder, thought Cassandra, gazing at Karl Alberg's younger daughter, does Diana think of me?

After a while Diana closed the books, piled the magazines and pamphlets on top of them, picked them up, and went back into the stacks.

Cassandra followed her. “You don't have to do that,” she said. “Here, give them to me, I'll put them away.”

“Thank you very much,” said Diana politely. “You've been a great help.”

Cassandra took the material from her. “Are you doing research for an article?”

“Sort of,” said Diana. She glanced quickly at Cassandra. “Have you any opinion,” she said, “about animal rights?”

Cassandra looked thoughtfully at the three
Ficus benjamina
, each seven or eight feet tall, that stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows. “I believe that they have some,” she said carefully.

“Do you wear fur?” said Diana.

Cassandra shook her head. “I eat meat, though,” she admitted.

“Yeah,” said Diana.

Cassandra thought for a while. “I wear leather, too, I'm afraid.”

“Yeah,” said Diana. “How depressing. So do I.”

Cassandra thought some more. “I only buy cosmetics from The Body Shop,” she said. “You know. No experiments on animals.”

“That's good,” said Diana, nodding. “Me, too.” She looked at Cassandra and said, “I think people should take action, when they believe in something.”

“I think so, too.”

Diana glanced toward the door. “Well, I'd better go. Thanks again,” she said, turning away.

“You're welcome.”

Diana hesitated, then faced her again. “You and my dad,” she said.

Cassandra's heartbeat became faster, lighter. She lifted her chin slightly, and straightened her shoulders.

“What—uh—,” said Diana, flushing. She stopped and lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “My mom's getting married.”

“I know.”

“Do you think Dad will go to the wedding?”

“Do you want him to go?”

“I just want—I wish it were possible for everybody to be friends.”

Cassandra nodded. “That would be good, wouldn't it,” she said gently.

“J
ESUS CHRIST.” There was more weariness than anger in his voice this time.

“I just want to talk to you,” Steven said quickly. “That's all.”

“Yeah, but I don't want to talk to you. What are you, asshole, some kind of retard? Don't you understand English, or what?”

“It's not so much to ask, is it?”

“It's a helluva lot to ask, you creep. I never want to lay eyes on you again.”

“Look,” Steven pleaded. “Just once. Just for ten minutes. Maybe only five. Let me say my piece, and give you this—this package I've got for you, and then I'll never bother you again. I promise.”

Bobby didn't hang up. Finally, “Shit,” he said.

“Okay?”

“Damn you.”

“Okay?”

“You'll have to come to where I'll be.”

Steven rested his forehead against the wall and closed his eyes. His relief was so great he thought he might weep. “Anywhere,” he said. “I'll go anywhere.”

W
ARREN GOT HOME from work at the usual time on Friday but he didn't go to work on the siding, he changed his clothes and then he just sat in a chair in the living room for two solid hours and worried, and fretted, and agonized. By the time he heard Wanda coming up the steps he was damn near frantic. He knew it would probably be a good idea to pour her a ginger ale and let her sit down first, but he just couldn't wait.

He rushed to the door. “Wanda,” he said, blurting it out, “I saw you today.”

“Oh?” she said, putting down her purse on the little table in the hall.

“Yeah,” said Warren miserably. “I saw you with Bobby.”

He didn't know what would happen now. He was relieved to have it out in the open, but he was terrified, too.

“At the coffee shop, you mean?” said Wanda, taking off her high-heeled shoes one at a time, putting them side by side in the hall closet.

“Yeah,” said Warren, who ached all over.

“Well why didn't you say something? Why didn't you sit down with us?”

He'd gone in there with Norman, from work, and Norman had spotted them right away. “Don't look now,” he'd said out of the side of his mouth to Warren, “but there's your lady all cozy with her ex.” And it had cut Warren to the quick to hear this, and then to see it.

“Oh Wanda,” he cried, “don't lie to me; you're seeing him, aren't you—you're seeing Bobby.”

There was such astonishment on Wanda's face that he knew instantly how wrong he'd been. And first he felt relief, a torrential amount of relief, and then he felt so stupid he could have died from it.

And of course Wanda got mad. She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. “You are such a jerk, Warren Kettleman. I don't know how I ever let myself get mixed up with such a total jerk.” She stomped off down the hall, her bare feet banging on the hardwood floor.

He sat down in the living room again, and waited. Patiently, for once.

And finally she emerged from the bedroom, wearing a red dress with her hair all soft and curly, looking like some kind of a flower. This was a big relief to Warren. It meant they were still going out for dinner.

He wished he hadn't said anything to her. But he knew that if he hadn't, it would have eaten away at him.

“You look real good,” he said, in apology, and took hold of her hands. He'd planned to kiss her, but she turned her head away.

“Come on,” she said. “I'm hungry.” She swished past him and out the door and he followed, locking the door after him, hurrying to catch up with her.

When they were in the van, driving, Wanda said, “It's your sister you ought to be keeping an eye on.” She gave her hair a shake. “Not me.”

Warren damn near drove off the road.

“I don't know anything,” Wanda said quickly. “Not for sure.”