Edge
Page 15
Why hadn’t Mom planted some shrub that flowered this time of year? The begonias along the stepping-stones to the house looked pathetic, drunk with winter weather.
I washed my hands. It wasn’t a simple matter, getting the dirt out of my nails, soaping and rinsing, and then thinking: maybe I should have showered. But by then there wasn’t enough time. I put on navy blue pants and a blue chambray shirt. Then I took it off and put on a cream white shirt with blue checks, something Dad hadn’t seen before. I kept glancing at the digital clock in the bathroom, the travel clock on the dresser, the heirloom pendulum timepiece tick-tocking on the bookshelf in the living room.
Five more minutes.
Sofia promised they would be on time, but how could they keep their word with traffic on the bridge the way it usually was?
“I think I should wear that Peruvian hand-crocheted Pima cotton thing,” I could hear Mom saying. “And those sterling and tagua nut drop earrings.”
“No, you look great already,” I said.
“Or pearls,” she was saying.
Of course they would be a little late. And Dad might want Sofia to take a detour so they could take a look at where he used to buy milk and beer when he lived on this side of the Bay. He might take her by the playground where I had thrown up from playing on the swings too long, five years old and no concept of motion sickness.
Mom had met with her lawyer, Billy Brookhurst, considering a civil suit against McNorr. The lawyer took her out to dinner, took her to the opera, but in the end he said the case wasn’t strong enough. At first I drove by the McNorr residence once or twice a week, slowing down. The last time I passed the place there were red and yellow tricycles on the front lawn, and a plastic baseball bat.
“Make sure the coffee table is all the way at the end of the room,” Mom was saying. “Are you sure the kitchen door is wide enough?”
“I measured it,” I said. A week ago, and this morning, using both a ruler and a steel power tape. The doorways were all wide enough for his chair.
My mother has a talent for anxiety, the way some people have beautiful voices, or a sense of humor. She even gets me worrying, her nerves contagious, like yawns.
I put all my weight on the plywood ramp, balancing. The ramp was steady. I rehearsed it in my mind, how I would push him up the ramp into the house, talking all the while, so neither of us would be self-conscious. I would mention the bonsai tree I was thinking of buying, how the dwarf maple had lost its leaves, just like the full-sized trees all around.
He would ask for the scientific name of the maple, speaking in that practiced whisper, and I wouldn’t know. He would ask, What kind of a botanist are you going to be if you can’t master a few Latin names, sounding upbeat, but making his argument felt. He would tell me the garden looked good, even if it didn’t, keeping a hold on my feelings.
They were late.
It wasn’t sunny, it wasn’t cloudy. A neighbor kid was yelling, not in pain, not in anger, just making noise. I walked out to the curb like a person going somewhere far away, just as soon as his ride came around the corner.
About the Author
Michael Cadnum is the author of 35 books for adults and young adults. His work—which includes thrillers, suspense novels, historical fiction, and books about myths and legends—has been nominated for the National Book Award (The Book of the Lion), the Edgar Award (Calling Home and Breaking the Fall), and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize (In a Dark Wood). A former National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellow, he is also the author of award-winning poetry. Seize the Storm (2012) is his most recent novel.
Michael Cadnum lives in Albany, California, with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1997 by Michael Cadnum
Cover design by Drew Padrutt
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1975-0
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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