The Edge of Normal

by Carla Norton

  “The perv did it early this morning, before breakfast,” Montoya continues.

  Duke leans back, stretches out his legs. “Really. How?”

  “They’re saying he knotted the legs of his jumpsuit together.”

  Another colleague, a petite brunette named Kim Benioff, comes in the door, nudging Montoya aside. Having overheard, she joins the conversation, saying, “Yeah, too bad Vanderholt didn’t do a better job of it, eh?”

  Duke’s smile falters. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s not dead,” says Montoya.

  “Unfortunately,” confirms Benioff.

  “Close, but no cigar,” Montoya says, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “The guards found him just in time,” says Benioff.

  “Yeah, did their damn duty, brought him down,” Montoya says.

  “Got him breathing again,” she says.

  “Took him to the infirmary,” he says.

  “Now he’s on suicide watch,” she says, shaking her head.

  “They should have let him hang. Done us all a favor.”

  “Yeah.” Benioff grins. “Could have saved us the cost of a trial.”

  Montoya grins back. “Not to mention housing and feeding the asshole.”

  “The lousy, child-abusing asshole,” she echoes.

  With that, their banter loses steam. The two officers standing in the doorway stop smiling and remark that they need to get back to work. As quickly as they appeared, they head off in search of someone else who hasn’t yet heard the news, leaving Duke to fume in silence.

  Suicide watch will only make Vanderholt harder to reach.

  He grabs his jacket and stomps outside where he can smoke alone and calculate the damage.

  NINE

  San Francisco

  Reeve dips a polite bow at the sushi chef, who is intently sharpening one of his impressive knives. She pauses to study his technique, but moves on when Takami-san, the meticulous matriarch and owner, emerges from her office. Takami-san is a quiet, petite woman who somehow seems larger than anyone else in the restaurant.

  Reeve bows with appropriate formality as she heads down the hallway to stash her things in the break room, a claustrophobic, rectangular space barely larger than a closet. She ties her hair back with a bright, clean Japanese scarf and checks her reflection. Satisfied, she crams her oversized bag into a locker, clicks it shut, locks it, and exits the break room, nearly colliding with Takami-san’s teenage daughter. Reeve mumbles an apology and starts to ask about UCLA, but Keiko just blinks at her and hurries away.

  What’s this about? Takami-san told Reeve last week that she did not expect her daughter to be coming home for Thanksgiving. Reeve pauses, wondering about this, unconsciously massaging her left hand.

  But she needs to get busy, so she starts preparing tables, setting out napkins and chopsticks, and has only a brief moment to survey her work before Takami-san unlocks the front door. The lunchtime crowd begins pouring in, filling the seats at the sushi bar and at the tables. There’s a noisy, festive air, and the sushi chef’s hands are a blur of artful slicing.

  Out of habit, Reeve keeps watch on the three exits while she serves up steaming bowls of udon and beautifully prepared plates of sashimi. She can identify every regular customer, every new face. She remains alert for strange behavior, and keeps a sharp eye on any unkempt men, who are thankfully rare.

  Reeve calls out orders for unagi bento and toro maki in perfect Japanese, and customers talk and laugh and order more. Today’s crowds seem intent on satisfying their cravings for rare types of Japanese food, perhaps dreading the coming menus of turkey and more turkey.

  In the midst of the lunchtime rush, while taking orders and carrying trays and refilling cups of green tea, Reeve is pleased that Takami-san’s daughter is here with an extra set of hands. Still, she notices that Keiko does not look at her and does not smile.

  At last, the orders dwindle. The restaurant quiets and feels cooler. Takami-san and her daughter head toward the back office, talking. The sushi chef prepares for the evening shift, honing and replacing his sharp knives. And while the final two customers linger over their desserts, Reeve begins the routine of refilling bottles of soy sauce and freshening tables.

  She’s not really listening to the couple’s conversation, but overhears the word “kidnapping” and freezes. She tries not to eavesdrop, but their voices carry, loud as newscasters, and details start flooding through her. She shuts her eyes and sees the concrete walls. A siren wails in the distance and Daryl Wayne Flint’s whiskers brush the back of her neck. She shivers, the siren grows louder, closer, and as the ambulance screams past she’s back in the trunk of Flint’s car, dizzy and spinning, noise slamming into her like blasts of heat, like physical blows that knock the bottle of soy sauce from the slippery fingers of her weak hand.

  The glass bottle throws an arc of dark liquid as it drops, shattering on the floor.

  Reeve stares, rigid, then sees Takami-san and her daughter in the back, watching.

  TEN

  Jefferson County Jail

  Thanksgiving Day

  Other inmates say the stink of fresh paint in the infirmary is enough to make anybody sick, but Randy Vanderholt, a doughy man with a pretty mouth, doesn’t notice the smell. He’s groggy and his neck hurts.

  He blinks his swollen eyes, looks around, and sees that he’s in a plain room with no window and little more than a hospital bed. The sheets are clean. The walls are bright.

  He remembers being attacked from behind, knocked face-down on the concrete. Remembers rough hands lifting him off his feet, knotting something around his neck.

  He rolls his tongue around the inside of his mouth, finds his teeth all in place, and decides that he was lucky. He has been through fights before, some pretty bad, during his four years at Folsom. But this is the first time anyone has seriously tried to kill him.

  He struggles to sit up and realizes he can’t move. He thrashes against the restraints, and it takes him a long moment to figure out what this means. He must be under suicide watch, tied down so that he can’t try anything stupid with sheets or a stray pair of scissors.

  This is a first, but it’s fine with him. He raises his head and looks around at the narrow cabinets, the plastic dish of cotton balls, the roll of paper towels mounted to the wall. Everything is neat and clean and white.

  He’s glad to be safe and alone behind a locked door, but he wonders who attacked him. And it gradually dawns on him that maybe Duke was involved.… Because didn’t Duke always say he would be watching? Didn’t Duke always say he would come after him if he screwed up?

  Vanderholt chews his lip, feeling stung by the unfairness of it. When the cops showed up, he took all the blame. He led them inside, unlocked Tilly’s door, and said it was all his fault. And he kept his mouth shut about Duke, just like he promised.

  But someone tried to kill him.

  He settles down and tries to think about this.

  What if Duke has connections inside?

  What if everybody is calling him a perv and a kid-fucker?

  He’s got to think things through. This is a really bad situation. Child molesters are a target, he knows that for sure.

  He tries hard to concentrate, but pretty soon his stomach starts growling. His attention wavers, and he begins to worry that—goddamn!—maybe he slept so long that he missed Thanksgiving dinner.

  ELEVEN

  San Francisco

  If it hadn’t been Thanksgiving Day, Reeve would have stayed in bed, snug in her nest of pillows. She has always dreaded social gatherings. And bad news sits at the back of her throat.

  Still, the twin pulls of familial obligation and an outstanding meal are enough to get her dressed and out the door. She even manages to hit the street a bit early, which allows time for a detour to the park with the wild parrots.

  She scans the treetops, listening for their distinctive noise. A pair swoops overhead, a squawking flash of green wings. They ali
ght atop a streetlamp, and she cranes her neck to watch them preen. They seem enviably content.

  She spots another pair, then several of the birds with their distinctive cherry-red heads. Sharp chatter flies overhead as she strolls beneath the trees, marveling that these South American parrots have escaped their cages to form this unlikely urban flock. She dawdles as long as she dares, watching them flit and glide, before trudging off to face her family.

  Thanksgiving presents an unavoidable slog of emotions. She misses her mother. She loathes jolly questions about her nonexistent love life. And she is always treated like the damaged child, the weak link who is so in need of her family’s meddling.

  But by the time Reeve finishes a plate of turkey with cranberry sauce and hot biscuits, she forgets to be cranky. She licks her fingers, relieved that the newest family member is now the center of attention.

  The star guest, baby Tyler, sits in his high chair and shoves Cheerios into his mouth with chubby hands. Reeve’s new nephew is bracketed by her perfect older sister Rachel and her perfect brother-in-law Doug, who absently corrals stray Cheerios on Tyler’s tray.

  Henri LeClaire, Reeve’s father, sits at the head of the table, smiling at his new girlfriend, Amanda, who has proven to be an excellent cook. All through the meal, the host and hostess have expertly shepherded the conversation toward football, films, fog, and similarly ordinary topics. Reeve has managed to navigate through Amanda’s friendly queries, and now lazily watches the shared intimacies between the couples, the pats and murmurs. The baby laughs at her, his face crinkling with glee, and her family seems blissfully normal.

  Her father pushes his plate away and leans back in his chair, declaring, “Amanda, this was very possibly the best meal I’ve eaten in my entire life.”

  Amanda grins at him while Reeve and Rachel exchange a look. This is Classic Dad. He has said exactly this at every shared holiday meal they can remember.

  “And that pumpkin soup!” Rachel exclaims. “You have got to give me the recipe.”

  “I’ll e-mail it to you,” says Amanda.

  “And that stuffing!” Rachel rises out of her chair and begins clearing the table. “Wild rice and almonds and what else?”

  “Butter, butter, and more butter,” Amanda says, rising to help.

  Reeve stands. “No, no, Amanda, you sit,” she insists, gathering plates.

  “The cook does not do dishes,” Rachel agrees. “That’s the rule.”

  “No, Rach, you sit, too. You’ve done way too much already,” Reeve says, waving her sister off.

  “Really, let us take care of this,” Reeve’s father adds, putting a hand on Amanda’s shoulder. He carries the platter of turkey toward the kitchen, saying, “We’ll start the coffee. Who’s ready for dessert?”

  Everyone groans, laughing, while Reeve and her father disappear into the kitchen. They work together quietly, stacking dishes in the sink, wrapping leftovers, and wiping off countertops. It’s a small kitchen, but they each know it well and work in efficient harmony.

  Reeve wants to say something nice about her father’s new live-in girlfriend, a smart, stylish woman who—to Reeve’s amazement—her father met online. “Um, Amanda’s great for you, Dad. You’ve been dating for quite awhile now, right?”

  “Just about nine months.”

  The conversation stalls, and Reeve cringes at her inability to make small talk. She busies herself with filling Tupperware containers and stacking them in the refrigerator while her father loads the dishwasher. When it is nearly full, he asks softly, “How are you doing, kiddo?”

  She freezes. “I’m fine.”

  He does not embarrass her by stopping or even looking at her. “I was hoping you would call me back last night so we could talk.”

  The subject they’ve been avoiding falls like a shadow. “Yesterday wasn’t a good day,” she says curtly.

  “Well, I’m sure all this business about Tilly Cav—”

  “It’s not just that,” Reeve interrupts. “I got fired from my job.”

  “What?”

  She feels her face flush.

  “They let you go?”

  She hadn’t meant to spill this particular bit of bad news—it’s Thanksgiving after all, so she’s supposed to be happy and thankful—but now it seems a convenient way to steer the conversation away from darker issues. “They tried to be nice about it,” she says. “But still.”

  “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “Takami-san, the owner, has a daughter who has apparently been kicked out of UCLA,” she turns quickly to the sink and begins scrubbing a pot. “Or maybe she dropped out, because I don’t think she ever wanted to study business. Anyway, she’s home again, so she’s back working at the restaurant, and I’m out.” Her voice starts to crack and she covers it with a cough.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “You really liked that job, didn’t you?”

  “Well, yeah. But I was really just replacing Keiko, I guess.”

  Her father puts an arm around her shoulders and gives her a hug, just briefly, because it’s understood that Reeve doesn’t like being touched.

  * * *

  After dessert, while the family sprawls around the television, Reeve slips away for a nap in the guest room. But when she sees the crib in the den, she stops and goes in for a peek at the baby. He’s sleeping. She watches him, studies his soft, sweet features, trying to fathom the boundless peace of this exceptionally flawless being.

  Something colorful on her father’s desk draws her deeper into the room. A birthday card from Amanda. She checks the inscription and guiltily puts it back, then turns to browse the bookshelves, curious as always about her father’s breadth of interests. Archeology, politics, art, literature, medicine, and a long shelf of computer texts, some with Henri LeClaire’s name on the spine. Framed diplomas and photographs are neatly clustered on one wall. Reeve studies one of her father standing next to Bill Gates. Some people say they look alike, but she never could see it.

  She yawns. The couch that faces the window looks comfortable. She has never slept here before, but the pale blue throw draped over the arm seems an invitation. She strokes it—soft—and pulls it over her as she reclines and stretches out.

  She has just dozed off when she becomes aware of her sister’s voice behind her. “He sleeps like a log during the day,” Rachel whispers, “but he’s a real party animal at three in the morning.”

  “You and Reeve were the same way,” her father answers.

  Their voices are soft. Reeve is unseen on the sofa. She closes her eyes, hoping they’ll go away, and tries to go back to sleep.

  “I wonder how Reeve is sleeping these days,” he says.

  Reeve smiles.

  “Me, too. The news about this latest case has got to be awfully upsetting.”

  The smile disappears.

  “She had such terrible nightmares, remember?”

  “I’ll bet this new girl is having nightmares, too.” A beat. “Do you think they’ll ask Beth Goodwin for help, like with Reeve?”

  “No, I think they’ll ask Reeve.”

  “What?”

  Reeve is wide awake, partly fascinated, partly appalled by what she’s hearing.

  “She’s closer, both geographically and in time,” he says.

  “Oh, right.”

  He sighs. “Anyway, I just hope they don’t ask.”

  “Why not?”

  “It would be too hard on her.”

  “Dad, she’s an adult now, she can handle it.”

  “No, she was so traumatized.”

  Reeve considers sitting up and confronting them, but curiosity pins her to the sofa.

  Her father continues, “You know she’s still seeing Dr. Lerner.”

  “Still?”

  “Once a week. She’s pretty fragile, I think, beneath that aloof exterior.”

  “Dad, she’s not made of china. She’s got grit. She has her own apartment. I mean,
I know you’re paying some of her bills, but she’s more independent now, isn’t she?”

  “She’s just so isolated, Rach. She has no social life, as far as I can tell, and I worry about her. It’s like she’s locked up in a protective shell.”

  “But she seems to have adjusted pretty well. She’s working and—”

  “Not any more.”

  “What?”

  “She lost her job.”

  “Oh, crap, another one? I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I am, and I’m not. I still wish she’d go back to college.”

  Rachel scoffs. “I don’t understand why she won’t give Berkeley another try. She’s the one with the fat IQ.”

  No one speaks for a moment and Reeve lies quiet, wishing they would go away.

  “Besides, college would be good for her,” Rachel adds.

  “I know. But I guess she couldn’t adapt.”

  “She didn’t really try, did she? But it’s what Mom wanted. Anyway, that was the whole point of the trust fund, right?”

  “I know, but…” Her father’s voice sounds far away.

  “Of course she’s socially awkward. But still.”

  “Well anyway, look at you, kiddo,” her father says, changing the subject, his tone a notch brighter. “You’re doing great.”

  Reeve hears what she imagines to be a hug, waits until they’ve gone, then goes to the window, thinking about her mother, about her life, about Tilly Cavanaugh. The fog blows over rooftops, gray and dismal, curling like wet smoke, and she stands there for a long time, watching the chilly scene and weighing things, before going to ask her father if she can borrow his old Jeep.

  TWELVE

  Jefferson County Jail

  Friday

  Randy Vanderholt hears the lock snick open and hopes that someone is bringing him an early lunch. Instead, a guard who looks like Mike Tyson looms in the doorway. He grumbles, “Your lawyer’s here,” then steps aside and lets in a tall, thin guy with a stoop.

  “Clyde Pierson,” the lawyer says, extending a hand.

  Vanderholt waves his fingers at the man, and Pierson calls the guard back to have the restraints removed.