Entering Normal by Anne Leclaire Page A

for Ned over at the station.”
    The moment their hands touch, just like that, Opal can feel her heart swell in its cage of bone, can feel her pulse race. No mistaking the spiking of chemistry. She sees trouble coming, stretching ahead like ten miles of bad road.
    â€œI’ve seen you when you’ve come by the garage,” he says in a deep voice, a voice with the hint of song to it, the kind of voice that can thrill you later just by recalling it. She knows for sure she hasn’t seen him before. Like she could forget.
    She wants the brownies but because he has suggested them, she grabs the box of eclairs. “Gotta go,” she says. “Nice to meet ya.”
    â€œYou’re out late,” Dorothy says. “Where’s that boy of yours?”
    â€œSleeping,” Opal says. “With the sitter.” Her hand still feels tingly from Ty Miller’s touch.
    â€œCount your blessings.” Dorothy nods toward the rack of tabloids at the end of the counter. “I’ll tell you, my heart goes out to her.”
    â€œWho?” Opal says. Her heart has still not returned to its regular beat. He must think she’s an idiot, racing off like that.
Gotta go.
Jesus.
    â€œHer. You haven’t heard about it? It’s been on the news for the last day and a half.”
    â€œOur television isn’t hooked up yet.” Opal looks back over her shoulder, but Ty is nowhere in sight.
    â€œIt’s tragic. Makes you wonder what the world is coming to.” Dorothy points to the headline above the photo of a young woman:
Distraught mother begs: Please return my sons.
“It’s a crazy world. Something like this happening.” She reaches over and grabs the paper off the rack, folds it open to the centerfold. “Those are her boys.”
    Opal wants to look away. The older of the two children is a sweet-faced boy with huge brown eyes. He looks the same age as Zack. There are other pictures: a child’s birthday party, a full-color photo taken in front of a Christmas tree. Opal searches the four smiling faces—mother, father, boys—but can not detect the slightest omen in that photo of any trouble to come.
    â€œKidnapped,” Dorothy announces, dragging the box of eclairs over the scanner. “In Texas. By a Mexican. He jumped right into her car when she was stopped at a red light.”
    â€œGod.”
Zack.
Had she locked the door when she left? She tries to visualize herself turning the key.
    â€œHe forced her out of the car at gunpoint,” Dorothy continues. “Then he took off with those two poor children still sleeping in the backseat. The mother was on the news this morning, crying. Pleading with the man to bring back her boys.” She holds up the paper. “You want this?”
    â€œNo.” The last thing in the world Opal wants is anything to do with the paper or the tragedy it holds, as if the disaster could leak out, taint her.
    Dorothy takes a ten from Opal, hands her change. “That’s Texas for you. Course I’m not saying the same thing couldn’t happen here. You just never know. The world’s turned crazy. I blame it on drugs.”
    Would Zack even wake if someone broke in?
    â€œWe’ve started a collection.” Dorothy indicates a coffee can by the register. Someone has cut a slot in the plastic lid.
    â€œCollection?”
    â€œFor a reward. There’s a fund. We’re sending a check at the end of next week.”
    Opal stuffs her change through the slot.
    FOR SURE SHE LOCKED THE DOOR. SHE SEES HERSELF DOING it. The light at the intersection of Main and Maple blinks yellow, and as she slows, she imagines Zack in the backseat, imagines a man approaching the car, wrenching open the door, pointing a pistol at her, sliding into the seat beside her, ordering her to drive. Could she stay calm? Would she panic? Would she dare try anything heroic? That sort of thing works in the movies, but in real