My Sweet Annie

46

Ana breathed, "Oh, my God..."

"My God, Royal," Gran whispered.

Royal said, "I'm sorry. If you only knew how sorry—"

"I don't believe you. I can hardly believe a word you've said."

"I'm telling you the truth!"

"The hell you are. Drink the rest of that. I'll get you some more. Is that what it'll take for you to tell me the truth? Liquid courage?"

"Ruthie."

"No. Sit right there." There was shuffling, and I heard Gran's voice from a greater distance: "Here. I'll just bring the bottle." Seconds later, a sharp rap. "Come on, Royal. Drink it down. I'll finish mine, too."

There was another stretch of indistinguishable noises. I could picture Gran sitting back down at the table, grabbing her glass of lemonade, and swallowing it down. I could picture her glaring daggers at her brother. She had never been a foreboding woman, never aggressive or forceful, but underneath her kindness, her playful laughter, and her artistic spirit, she'd had an iron will. We seldom saw it, but every now and again—such as when she was offering my mother an unwanted opinion on the fitness of her newest love interest, or when she was holding forth on some point of politics—we would catch a glimpse of Ruth Margaret Carter, riled up.

"There! What are you waiting for, Royal? Drink!" Gran snapped.

"I don't need to drink. I've told you what I have to tell you."

"You damned well have not." Gran's voice was shaking. "She was being kept at home. You snuck her out, and you brought her home? Why, Royal? What purpose could you have for bringing her out into the country? If you'd intended to talk to her and give her some money, you could have done that in town. Instead, you brought her out to our place in the dead of the night. And you expect me to believe that Annie Elvers, as tall as you were and the eldest of nine children, fell over from one little smack?"

Royal was louder now. "What do you want me to say, Ruthie?"

"That you killed her!"

"Alright—then I'll say it! I did it. I did."

Gran sobbed. It was the only sound for a moment: her crying.

When Royal spoke again, it sounded like he was crying, too. "I don't know what came over me. She called me a liar, and she told me she'd tell Mary Ellen what we'd done. I did hit her, and she did fall. And I hit her again, and again, and again. With a rock. I hit her in the head with a rock until she wasn't fighting any more."

More sounds of quiet grief.

Royal's voice was nearly a whisper. "I did bury her in the woods. And I buried Francis, too. Because I was half-mad and I went into the house and you saw me, damn you."

"You killed him?"

"I had to, Ruthie. You saw me. You saw the blood and I needed an explanation."

"He bit you. You showed me the marks on your arm the next day."

"It happened when I put him down. It was crude. You'd have heard a gunshot."

"The blood on your shirt was hers."

Poor Gran.

I imagined it—felt it, the weight of her guilt, her horror. All this time, she had remembered that night and thought she'd seen her brother covered in their family dog's blood, which was horrible enough. To know now it had been her best friend's all along...

I could hear her crying, and I wanted to put my arms around her. I could picture her sitting at Royal's table, her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking, and him just staring at her. Just staring at the grief he had caused.