Entering Normal by Anne Leclaire

freedom—for chocolate— against the risk of leaving him. The trip out to the store and back won’t take more than fifteen minutes. Total. Round trip. What could go wrong?
    She picks her way through the webbing of twine woven across the floor to his bed.
    â€œZack?” she whispers, then, a shade louder, “Zack?” He does not move. She recalculates the time it will take. Twenty minutes tops. What could happen to him asleep in a locked house?
    She searches for a sign and finally decides she will say his name five times—one for each year of his life—and if he doesn’t wake, that is the sign he’ll be all right alone while she runs to the store.
    â€œZack?” she whispers. “Sugah? Zack?”
    He doesn’t even twitch.
    â€œZack.” Louder this time. Then two more times before she picks her way back across the room.
    Simple choices. A hunger for chocolate. Such an
ordinary
thing. How could she have foreseen that it is the beginning of all the hurt and sorrow that is to come?
    AS SHE DRIVES ALONG MAIN STREET SHE CAN—EVEN IN THE shadows beyond the streetlights—pick out the library, the town hall, the bank. The realtor told her they are constructed of granite cut from quarries on the outskirts of the village, adding that early in the century the quarries had been a major industry in Normal. Opal thinks it gives a real solid touch to the town. This is a place that could give a person
roots
. She passes by the Catholic church, also forged of stone, and then the Methodist and Baptist churches, these of clapboard, with soaring steeples that pierce the sky. The Halloween decorations haven’t been removed yet, and there are cornstalks at the base of every lamppost along the main street. A farmer’s wagon with a scarecrow in the driver’s seat sits in the center of the square adjacent to a statue of a uniformed man on horseback. The bed is heaped with pumpkins.
    The single traffic light is set on blinking yellow, and she slows even though there isn’t another car in sight. There is something she likes about being the only one on the street. It reminds her of being a child and the nights she would wake and creep downstairs, going from room to room in the dark, listening, as if the secrets of their house would be revealed at night.
    She continues past a small row of shops that occupy two entire blocks of the village center, by large clapboard houses with brick walks that lead through boxwood hedges up to narrow porches. Several of these buildings have been converted to businesses. One is a funeral parlor, another an insurance firm, a third the day care where she has enrolled Zack.
    She passes the police and fire stations—lights on inside—the Creamery, which is open, and a diner, which is not. There are a dozen cars in the parking lot of the ice cream shop—couples, she imagines, who have stopped after catching a movie. She is swept by the sudden yearning for the simple pleasure of a Friday night date, for the carefree feeling of being
young
. She drives on past the corner occupied by Ned Nelson’s service station and swings into the supermarket parking lot.
    At this time of night there is a small crew on, sweeping floors and stocking shelves. Dorothy Barnes is the only cashier.
    Opal heads directly for the bakery aisle and is debating between the brownies and eclairs when a voice breaks into her deliberation.
    â€œGot a sweet tooth?”
    The first thing she notices is the scar on his cheek, so raised and wide it looks like no one bothered to stitch it up. The second thing is that—scar or not—he’s about the best looking guy she’s ever seen. She feels a little jolt and for a moment is alive to
possibilities
.
    â€œMe,” he says, “I’d go for the brownies. I bet you’re Opal.”
    She manages a nod. Merciful God, he
is
good looking.
    â€œTy Miller,” he says, holding out a hand. “I work