by L. R. Wright
“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.
Chapter 47
WARREN 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.
Rose-Iris was sitting on the floor between Warren’s chair and his dad’s, and she’d made Arnold sit next to her. She’d told him she needed him there—Warren had heard her whispering to him. So Arnold was sitting there with his knees drawn up, looking out for Rose-Iris. Who had some cuts and bruises on her, but nothing serious. At least that’s what they’d said at the hospital. Warren thought it was pretty serious, all right.
“Warren,” said his dad, “why don’t your mom and I take the kids off for a hamburger.” He reached down to smooth a piece of Rose-Iris’s hair away from her face; Warren was astonished at how gently he did this. “Give us a chance to get to know them a little.”
Warren and Wanda exchanged glances. “How about it, kids?” said Warren’s dad.
The kids seemed to think it was all right, so they went off with Warren’s folks, and Warren and Wanda sat alone in their living room, staring at one another.
They’d been sitting there for not more than fifteen minutes when there was a knock on their front door, and
Warren went to see who it was.
“Hiya,” said Bobby. “You got a minute?”
Warren, looking at him, wanted very badly to say no. But he brought him into the living room, and Wanda said she’d go and make coffee.
“So you need a set of wheels,” Warren said heartily, having figured out why Bobby had come.
“Yeah,” said Bobby. “Something cheap.” He was sitting forward on the sofa with his feet apart, forearms on his thighs, hands hanging loose.
“What do you want to spend?” said Warren.
“I dunno,” said Bobby. “Two, three grand, maybe.”
“Old man Ivory has an ’85 Aries he wants to sell,” said Warren. He sat down on a leather chair that used to belong to his dad.
Bobby didn’t respond to the Aries.
“It needs rubber,” said Warren. “And it blows a little smoke. But the body’s good.”
Bobby looked at him with amusement.
Wanda came in from the kitchen. “Coffee’ll just be a minute,” she said.
“Okay,” said Bobby, and his gaze followed Wanda as she left the room.
“So what are your plans?” said Warren, leaning back into the leather chair, trying to get his body to relax.
“Plans,” said Bobby thoughtfully, as if he’d never heard the word before. He looked away, toward the open window, and the hot summer evening that lay beyond it. “How do you figure he knew I was here, Warren?”
“What?” said Warren. He glanced toward the doorway. “What’s that, Bob?” He wondered if the coffee was already made, and Wanda only had to pour it into cups, or if they were going to have to wait for it. Even with one of those automatic drip things it seemed to take a long time to make a couple of cups of coffee. She’d probably make a full pot, too, which would take even longer. Warren took a quick glance at Bobby, who was looking down at his hands, shaking his head.
“The stupid prick,” said Bobby.
He didn’t say it very loudly. Warren decided to pretend he hadn’t heard.
“Yeah, that’d be a good car for you, Bob,” he said. “I’ll give old man Ivory a jingle in the morning, then I’ll get right back to you. Wanda,” he said fervently, springing to his feet. He took the coffeepot from her. “Hey, I’ll get the cups and stuff, let me get them,” he said, handing back the pot.
“Oh dear Jesus,” he whispered in the kitchen. He put his hands flat against the wall and leaned in so that his forehead was pressed there too. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered.
He went over to the counter and threaded his fingers through the handles of three coffee mugs. He shoved three spoons into the breast pocket of his overalls, clutched the cream and sugar in a clumsy embrace and went back to the living room.
“Why on earth didn’t you use a tray?” said Wanda, exasperated, and Warren wondered if she was deaf or dumb or blind or what, she looked perfectly calm, and she was sitting there on the sofa right next to Bobby just like he was a normal person. Warren put the things down, spilling a little cream in the process.
“Good grief,” said Wanda, and she hopped up and went perkily out of the living room.
Warren stood in the middle of the room feeling blank, like a piece of paper nobody had thought to write on. He just stood there, watching the doorway, listening to Bobby’s steady breathing coming soft and slow from the sofa, until Wanda reappeared with a dishcloth. And then he just stood there watching her wipe up the spilled cream. And then he just watched the doorway again, blank and patient, until finally she came back and plopped herself down on the sofa and started stirring sugar into her coffee. Warren took a deep breath and sat on the very ed
ge of the leather chair.
“I don’t know how he knew you were back, Bobby.”
Wanda, frowning, looked up at him. “Who?”
“Somebody musta told him,” said Bobby.
“Who?” said Wanda.
“But why would he want to know?” said Warren.
Bobby poured cream into his coffee and Warren watched the two things swirling around in there, white and black, mixing together, turning coffee-colored. He smiled at the thought.
“What on earth are you guys talking about?” said Wanda.
She was feeling poutish, Warren noticed. He was damn sure that wouldn’t last long.
Bobby was looking at him now, and his eyes were still cold, but the expression on his face wasn’t cold.
“I’m fucked, buddy,” said Bobby. “I am well and truly fucked. You know that, don’t you?”
“If you say so, Bobby,” said Warren carefully.
Wanda pulled away from Bobby, just a little. She picked up her mug and held it in both hands, blowing delicately on the hot coffee. Warren saw that Wanda had decided not to talk for a while. When she was quiet, Wanda listened very hard, and her mind got very sharp. So this was good, thought Warren.
“He felt guilty,” said Bobby. “The fucker felt guilty.”
He got up from the sofa, moving in that swift, smooth way he had. Bobby was a big man, and you didn’t know how rapidly he could move until he was suddenly right there next to you instead of only on the way.
“Do you know why I’m here, Warren?” he said, leaning down, close to Warren’s face. “And it’s not about buyin’ a fuckin’ car.” Warren stared at him, unwilling to speak, unwilling even to think. Bobby turned away. “Ah,” he said. “What’s the use. I don’t think I give a fuck.”
Wanda was darting little looks up at him from underneath her eyelashes. Her face looked hard and edgy. Warren thought, if you hit her even with a pillow little chunks of her face would fall off. He thought about Annabelle. Oh please no, not now, he said to himself, and wrestled Annabelle out of his brain.
“So he calls me up,” said Bobby dully.
“I don’t know if we oughta hear this, Bob,” said Warren, standing up, but Bobby ignored him.
“Three times he calls me up. Twice I tell him, go fuck yourself. The third time, he—” Bobby looked at Warren, disgusted. “Shit, the guy was pissing himself. So I say yeah, okay, sure, what the hell.” He walked restlessly to the fireplace and picked up a framed photograph that stood on the mantelpiece. “You’re a good-looking woman, Wanda,” said Bobby, staring at the photo, which was of Wanda and Warren the day they got married. “No kids yet, though. How come you got no kids?” He turned to look at Warren. Warren thought he saw the shadow of a smile on Bobby’s face. He felt the sting of anger.
He didn’t answer Bobby. Neither did Wanda; she just drank some of her coffee. But Bobby hadn’t expected an answer anyway. He was putting the photo back on the mantel, making sure it was in exactly the same place, at exactly the same angle.
“I was in prison for eight years,” said Bobby, touching the photo with his fingertip. “Hell, you know what happened. After three years and eight months I blew the joint. And four days later they picked me up. So I got eighteen months added on.” He turned to Wanda. “That’s when I told you to get the divorce.”
Wanda nodded.
“And so you did.”
Wanda nodded again. She looked very small sitting there. Warren wanted to go over to her and sit next to her and put his arm around her but he couldn’t move. It was like they were the three points of a triangle, he and Bobby and Wanda, and if he moved the whole triangle would crumble into nothing, and so would they. So he stood still again, waiting again. And although he felt acutely attentive, unusually alert, his heart was beating at a normal pace, and he was not afraid. He was very grateful for that.
After a minute Bobby sighed, and moved, and then Warren could move, too.
“So I tell him where to meet me. And he meets me.” Bobby groaned, and slapped his temple, hard, with the heel of his hand.
“Bobby,” said Warren. “Don’t do this, man.”
Bobby whirled around and stared at him, then at Wanda, then back at Warren. “You owe me. Right? Nobody else in the world owes me nothin’. But you two, you fuckin’ owe me.”
“Yeah. Okay, Bob,” said Warren. “You’re right.”
Bobby nodded, satisfied. “So okay then. Listen.” He looked at Wanda. “Listen.”
“I’m listening,” said Wanda. Warren’s glance flickered over to her; she’d sounded cold, which he didn’t think was a good idea.
But Bobby didn’t seem to have noticed. He moved restlessly back and forth across the living room. “My mom phones me. She says my stepdad’s pretty sick. So I decide to come home, spend a couple weeks, if there’s decent work I might even stay. I’m fuckin’ fed up with the shiteating odds and ends I get in Vancouver. So I get over here and all of a sudden Grayson’s on my case. I can’t believe it. I put him off, put him off again.
“Then, I’m gonna borrow my stepdad’s boat, gonna go off to an island, camp out for a few days. And he calls again. And this is when I say sure. Okay. I’ll see you.”
He reached into the adjoining dining room and grabbed a chair. So swiftly and suddenly did this happen that it caused Warren’s heart to leap.
Bobby straddled the chair. “So I go over to Thormanby and I put up my tent next to a place my cousin’s got there. I don’t want the son of a bitch anywhere near my campsite, so I tell him to climb up the back of the cliff and meet me at the top.
“By now a little bit of me’s startin’ to look forward to this. I’m gonna make the sucker crawl. I’m gonna make him grovel. I’m imagining this and it’s fuckin’ near makin’ me happy. So I go up there, and I wait for him.”
He stood, shoving the chair away with his foot. “See, my life is pure shit. I got nothin’.”
Warren ducked his head in embarrassment. He put his hands behind his back and studied the big square rag rug that covered the middle of the living room floor.
“I’m tired,” Bobby went on, relentless. “I’m bitter. And I got nightmares I figure won’t ever go away.”
Outside, in the twilight, somebody turned off a lawn mower. Warren hadn’t even been aware of it until it was silenced. Now the stillness was profound.
“When I got up there,” said Bobby quietly, “the guy offered me money.”
Warren looked up.
Bobby was nodding. “Yeah. Twenty-three thousand dollars, he said. Said he’d been savin’ it up to give me.”
Warren glanced at Wanda, who was staring, fascinated, at her ex-husband. “So what’d you do?”
Bobby put his head back and laughed. “I said I’d take it. Sure. But then—” His face twisted, as if he’d felt a pain somewhere. He shook his head. “That stupid fucker. He’s got this belt thing, right? Stuffed with dough. And he’s got this fuckin’ camera, hangin’ around his neck. I say ‘Yeah, okay, I’ll take your money,’ and he grins all over his face and Jesus fuckin’ Christ the next thing I know he’s got this camera up to his eye and he’s snappin’ fuckin’ pictures of me—pictures of me, I cannot believe this stupid fucker, this asshole, and I just lost it, I lost it, I grabbed his fuckin’ camera and I grabbed him—” Bobby stopped. “I don’t know what happened.” He was staring out the window. “I guess I shoved him.” He turned slowly to Warren. “Anyway. He went over the edge.”
Warren was pretty sure he’d stopped breathing. He thought probably everything in his body had stopped working. He hoped it would all start up again, in a second or two.
“I musta lived it over a thousand times,” said Bobby tonelessly. “You know—if I’d done this, or if he’d done that.” He sat down on the sofa.
“What about the money?” said Wanda.
Bobby looked at her with reluctant admiration. “This is a woman with her eye on the main chance,” he said to Warren. “The money went over the cliff, sweethear
t,” he said to Wanda. “Which is where you guys come in.” He smiled at her. “My aunt finked out on me. And I gotta get outta here. So I need your car.”
“Van,” said Warren.
“What?”
“We haven’t got a car. We’ve got a van.”
And then Warren’s folks were at the door, back from the restaurant with Annabelle’s kids.
“You can have it,” Warren said hastily to Bobby. “Hey,” he said heartily, turning to his dad. “Guess who’s here?”
There was some chitchat, but all the time Warren was moving Bobby toward the door, trying to keep Bobby behind him; he didn’t want Rose-Iris getting curious about him. He got Bobby outside and walked him to the van.
Back in the house, Warren pulled Wanda into their bedroom and shut the door. “He said don’t call the cops.”
“Well of course he did. What would you expect, for heaven’s sake,” said Wanda, reaching for the phone.
“No,” said Warren, grabbing her hand. “Don’t. I—”
“Don’t be a jerk, Warren. What can he do?”
“I told him about Rose-Iris.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake, did you do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know. Don’t call them.”
“Warren. They’ll catch him, and he’ll go back to jail forever, and you’ll be done with him, he’ll never get out.”
“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.”
