Fall from Grace by L. R. Wright

watched the boys run up and down.
    Warren soon saw Horseshoe Bay in the distance, and he returned to the van.
    By noon Warren had done his Vancouver errands and was waiting for a table in the White Spot at Twelfth and Cambie. He had a burger, fries, and a chocolate milk shake and used the washroom, then climbed back in the van and headed east on Twelfth, which eventually led him onto the freeway. Half an hour later he turned off at the Fort Langley exit and made his way toward his parents’ house.
    They’d moved to the Valley ten years ago, to a house on two acres. Warren had always thought it was far too much property for them. But his folks—especially his mom—liked to garden. There were great huge pieces of lawn, and a whole bunch of rhododendrons, but there was also a place his mom called her cutting garden, where she planted flowers to bring inside. And there was a vegetable patch, too. Also raspberries, gooseberries, strawberries and rhubarb. Warren didn’t have the faintest idea what happened to all this produce.
    Warren was glad of his folks. It was one thing he had over Bobby Ransome, he thought. Bobby’s real dad was dead, now. And he’d died in a peculiar way, too.
    Warren turned off the country road onto a driveway bordered by ornamental plum trees that were covered in pink blossoms every spring. Now their leaves were a rich shade of maroon.
    It had happened more than ten years ago, just before Bobby got arrested. Mr. Ransome was looking for bottles and beer cans by the side of the road and up came this big buck. It charged, and Mr. Ransome got gored and trampled to death. Apparently it was mating season.
    Warren pulled into the parking area near the front door and tooted his horn. His mother came out onto the porch and shaded her eyes with one hand, waving at him with the other. She was kind of dumpy, his mom was, but she had a sweet face and her gray hair was thick and curly.
    The worst part of it all, to Warren’s mind, was the fact that the damn deer was still standing over Mr. Ransome’s body hours later, when a cop car stopped to see what was going on.
    The unnaturalness of it is what had troubled everybody. Deer didn’t go around killing people, for Pete’s sake. And if once in a blue moon something weird happened and they did, why they sure as hell wouldn’t stand around and gloat over it. You wouldn’t think.
    Warren’s dad appeared from around the house. He was wearing a pair of old jeans and an undershirt with no sleeves. He said it was the thing he enjoyed most about being retired; he didn’t have to get dressed up every day. But Warren thought there was a big difference between not getting dressed up and going around looking disreputable.
    He got out of the van and went up to his mom and gave her a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.
    â€œWanda’s not with you?” she said, peering back at the van, shading her eyes again.
    She knew Wanda wasn’t with him. When Warren was being brutally honest about his life he admitted to himself that his mother wasn’t all that fond of Wanda. And so she tended to forget important details like the fact that Wanda had a job.
    â€œNo, she’s not with me, Mom,” he said.
    â€œCome on around back,” said his dad, putting his arm around Warren’s shoulders. “I’ll take a break. We’ll have a beer.”
    â€œMaybe you want to go in the pool, Warren,” said his mom. “I’m sure I can find you a suit.”
    â€œNo thanks, Mom,” said Warren. “Not today.”
    He followed his dad around the house and they sat at a patio table in the shade of a big yellow umbrella. After a while his dad remembered the beer, and got up to get it. Warren noticed the big lawn mower parked under a tree beyond the pool. He frowned.
    â€œYou’re not mowing the lawn, are you? In the middle of the day? In this heat?” It was even hotter out here in the Fraser