Zero at the Bone by Michael Cadnum Page A

toast. The bread from the machine toasted well, but in odd shapes, not like the loaves from the store. The edges burned, and sometimes a corner that stuck out of the toaster stayed pale, not browning.
    â€œIt’ll take half a minute to staple each poster,” I said. “Not counting time spent finding a telephone pole to fasten each one onto—”
    â€œAnd bulletin boards at libraries. And Safeways. We’re going to plaster the Bay Area.” He didn’t like the way I had said telephone pole , making the words sound absurd.
    I thought that hunting all over the East Bay for wooden poles would do very little to help Anita. Some neighborhoods didn’t have telephone poles at all, only streetlights. Streetlight poles were made out of shiny metal or cast concrete. To affix posters to those we would need masking tape. “You put up posters like that for missing pets,” I said. “If Bronto gets lost, we put up a blue poster.”
    â€œBronto isn’t the issue,” said Mom.
    â€œReward.” I didn’t like that, either. It made her look like a fugitive.
    Anita would have sprinkled some Kraft Parmesan cheese over each serving, and so I did, too. I could see why chefs at Denny’s always add a sprig of parsley. The food looked bare and not very appetizing. It was dark out, early evening. I deliberately didn’t look at the clock.
    â€œThe poster is great,” I said. “That blue will get attention.” Anyone could tell I was trying to be diplomatic, and having trouble.
    Dad shifted the poster onto the floor with quick, sharp movements. His feelings were hurt.
    â€œWe can pass them out at BART stations,” I said. “Put one up at every school in the Bay Area. And clinics.”
    â€œSure,” Dad said, very quietly.
    I put out a fork and spoon for each of us, and a folded paper napkin. Dad heard out my report on the fire inspector without comment. I asked if I should go up on the roof the next morning to double-check the hopper and make sure it was empty of sawdust. He just stared down at his plate as though he did not recognize food.
    Mother looked sideways at what I put before her. Her lab coat pockets were bulging with candy wrappers, and a brown and green Milky Way wrapper lay at her feet, crumpled. She was probably not hungry, but she found the spoon without looking at, and ate holding the bowl under her chin, sitting sideways like someone not completely committed to sitting where she was.
    â€œWe’re not behind yet,” Dad said. “We shipped out thirty-five today. We keep shipping, we’ll be okay.” Nightstands. He could still think about nightstands.
    He got up slowly, and took his time getting over to the sink. He was wearing a V-neck undershirt and dress slacks with a nice crease. The shirt and pants did not look good together, the pants expensive and new, the shirt the sort of thing he wears around the house, torn under one armpit.
    â€œI’m not really worried about another fire,” I said. I felt a little guilty for even raising the possibility of a further anxiety in his life. “I’m just thinking.”
    â€œThat’s good,” said my father. His glasses were off and his eyes blinked at me, not seeing me very well. There were permanent little indentations on the bridge of his nose where his glasses rested, twin little footprints, one on each side of his nose. He did something I rarely saw him do: He washed his glasses off at the sink, using soap and Palmolive dish soap and a big soft linen dish towel, a map of the Counties of Ireland.
    â€œThat’s smart, Cray,” my dad said, not really noticing what he was saying. “You keep thinking.”
    The phone rang again. It never stopped for more than five or ten minutes. My mother’s parents had already called twice from Iowa; my dad’s parents had both died when I was too little to remember. Each time the phone rang there was a