Edge by Michael Cadnum Page B

could call AC Transit and ask. “I’m not sure I have enough cash on me,” I said.
    â€œSpoken like a gentleman,” she said, painting the dark grid with a white brush she dipped into the mug. It was the kind of brush Mom used to baste turkeys, and the bristles made a soft padding whisper as the iron began to sizzle.
    The corn husks were tied together at one end, a great yellow claw protecting the telephone. Rhonda Newport’s tamales were admired even by my mom. They were stuffed with ground chuck and homemade tomato sauce and other ingredients you don’t think of as tamale filling, white hominy and raisins.
    â€œGet me that orange juice container out of the fridge.”
    â€œMy dad is going to be okay,” I said.
    She gave me a look, tentative, hopeful. A little frill of nightie had wafted out of the bathrobe collar. “This is such a relief, Zachary.” She had avoided asking, I realized. She was being sincere, but she was being something else, too. “I kept waking in the night tossing and turning.” For some, tossing and turning is just a phrase. But I could picture Rhonda Newport punching her pillow, kicking her blankets to free them from the foot of the bed.
    The container was designed for citrus, oranges and lemons. The spout and the handle of the pitcher were fuzzy, the way old plastic gets, wearing away into fine cilia. In ten thousand years it would wear out.
    â€œGet me that ladle off the hook,” she said.
    She stirred the thick stuff for a moment. She scooped a glop of batter out of the pitcher and let a few coins of it dribble onto the iron. They bubbled and firmed, instantly brown. She flicked them free with a spatula and poured a small flood of batter over the griddle. It was almost like someone making a mistake on purpose, spilling a lake of plaster over a black, pristine surface.
    She swung the lid shut, and the waffle iron gave off a whisper.
    â€œYou aren’t having any?” I asked.
    â€œNot me,” she said, one hand around her coffee cup. The turquoise ring she wore tinkled against the handle of the cup.
    The syrup had a cabin on the label. People used to eat this in earlier times, the label instructed us. The syrup was cold, so it flowed instead of splashing. It ran out through the streets and avenues of the waffle city, and I took some pleasure in watching it fill up all the even spaces.
    â€œHis spine wasn’t injured,” said Rhonda Newport.
    â€œNo, it was,” I said. “There was some smashed bone—” I couldn’t remember Dr. Monrovia’s exact terminology.
    Rhonda put her hand to the back of her head and parted her lips. Then she shook her head and smiled apologetically, like someone who has forgotten her question.

S IXTEEN
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” asked Chief.
    He was folding up his road map of California. The map was so old it was separating at the folds, and he pinched it together with a red plastic paper clip. Matt Espinosa, one of the assistant shipping clerks from inside the plant, was strapping on a back brace over by the loading dock, having trouble getting the worn Velcro to grip. It was a hazy morning, sky the color of milk.
    I made a show of testing knots, the yellow nylon rope making a satisfying squeak with each tug.
    â€œYou don’t have to work today,” said Chief, refusing to look at me, like I wouldn’t be officially there unless he acknowledged my presence.
    It was Tuesday, after one day off from work, a day spent reading magazines and eating jello salads in the hospital cafeteria.
    I opened the passenger door to the cab and climbed in. I was instantly surrounded by the smell of the old truck and the protective quiet. Matt hesitated and made a shrug: what am I supposed to do?
    â€œA delivery schedule doesn’t mean very much. At a time like this.” This was not like Chief at all, grim-faced, terse little sentences. “Espinosa said he’d help me