Fall from Grace by L. R. Wright Page A

Valley than it was in town.
    â€œNah,” said his dad. “Just checking the carburetor.”
    Warren looked at him fondly. His dad had made his money selling real estate, but he was every bit as good with machinery as Warren was.
    His dad, knowing what Warren was thinking, winked at Warren and said, “It’s in the genes, boy.”
    After a while his mother came out with a plate of sandwiches. Warren gazed at them hungrily. “Why’d I have that burger?” he said, and reached for a sandwich anyway.
    They ate the sandwiches, and Warren and his dad had another beer, and then his dad got up and wandered back to the lawn mower. His mother watched him until he was far enough away to be out of earshot.
    â€œSo how is she?” she said quietly.
    Warren shook his head. “This is downright ridiculous,” he said. Then he sighed. “She’s okay.”
    â€œHow are the kids?”
    â€œThey’re okay, too.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, opened it, took out a photograph. “Here. This is for you.” His mother looked at it like it might bite her. He poked it at her, impatiently. “Here. Take it.”
    Slowly his mom reached for the photograph, turned it right side up, and looked at it. She looked at it very hard, so hard that her shoulders hunched over and her forehead creased. Then she put it down on the table and fumbled in the pocket of her slacks for a Kleenex. She dabbed at her eyes, blinked at Warren, and pushed the photograph at him.
    â€œReally, Mom. This is so stupid.”
    â€œIt isn’t my doing. Not anymore.”
    When Annabelle was fifteen she’d gotten pregnant. Warren did not like to think about this because it was Bobby Ransome that did it. (What the hell was it about Bobby Ransome, anyway?)
    â€œTalk to her again,” he said to his mom. “I wish you would.”
    His mom had made Annabelle get an abortion. Which seemed like the best thing at the time. But it ended up being a very bad thing. It ended up being something Annabelle never got over.
    â€œShe won’t listen to me. She’d hang up on me, if I tried.”
    And then later, Annabelle got married. And then she got divorced. Warren and Annabelle’s folks did not approve of people getting divorced.
    â€œWhen was the last time you tried?” he said to his mom. “Huh? When did you call her up last? Or write her a letter, to that post office box she’s got?”
    And then she got married again. To Herman. Which turned out to be the last straw for the folks, because they thought Herman was definitely not right for Annabelle. So they refused to speak to her anymore. They said they were disowning her.
    (Warren remembered telling Annabelle this. All she said was, “As if they’d ever owned me in the first place.”)
    His mom stood and picked up the sandwich plate. “I send her a card every Christmas.”
    And then, later, when they changed their minds, why it was too late, for Annabelle had turned against them.
    â€œWhen did you phone her last? Talk to her? Tell her you love her?”
    His mom gave him a look that made him hurt down to the bottoms of his feet. “What good would that do?” she said bitterly. “Annabelle doesn’t care if we love her or not.” She went into the house.
    Warren put the photograph back in his wallet.
    He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and stared at the pool. It was funny how the water was really colorless; it was the pool that was bright blue, not the water at all.
    Everybody figures that family problems get themselves sorted out, after a while, thought Warren. Everybody always thinks, this’ll pass, this’ll mend itself. But sometimes, Warren knew, things didn’t pass, they didn’t get mended. Sometimes they just got worse and worse, without anybody meaning for that to happen.
    His father returned to the table and sat down. He pulled out his handkerchief