Topping From Below
Table of Contents
Title Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Epigraph
PART ONE
-
FRANNY
CHAPTER
ONE
CHAPTER
TWO
CHAPTER
THREE
CHAPTER
FOUR
CHAPTER
FIVE
PART TWO
-
NORA
CHAPTER
SIX
CHAPTER
SEVEN
CHAPTER
EIGHT
CHAPTER
NINE
CHAPTER
TEN
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
CHAPTER
TWELVE
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
CHAPTER
TWENTY
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
PART THREE
-
FRANNY
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
PART FOUR
-
NORA
CHAPTER
THIRTY
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER
FORTY
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO
BEFORE I END .
..
Copyright Page
Because nurture makes a difference, this is for my parents, Howard and Jane; and all my brothers and sisters, Howie, Ben, Mary, and Janet.
My thanks to the following people for their help, encouragement, and frequent forbearance: my editor, Charles Spicer, who worked closely with me on the final manuscript, turning my best efforts into something even better; my agent, Barbara Lowenstein, who accepted my work, flaws and all, then forced me to walk through heuristic doors, making wonderful things happen; her assistant, Nancy Yost, who gave me advice and suggestions on the original manuscript, steering me in the right direction; Mary Mackey, who believed in my writing and influenced me in ways she is unaware; Mary Koompin-Williams, the Yolo County Coroner, and J.L., who both tirelessly answered my many questions; C. Michael Curtis, who gave me hope and advice when I needed them the most; and my very special friends Gail McGovern, Charles Smith, and, in memoriam, Bob Stovall—catalysts each, in their own unique way, whose unstinting support conferred faith in times of doubt.
It is his extremity that I seem to have lived through. True, he had made that last stride, he had stepped over the edge, while I had been permitted to draw back my hesitating foot. And perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of the invisible.
—Joseph Conrad,
Heart of Darkness
And this also … has been one of the dark places of the earth.
—Joseph Conrad,
Heart of Darkness
FRANNY
On the last day of October, while riding her bicycle across the UCD campus, Frances Tibbs realized that she, for the very first time, was in love.
Or rather, she thought she was in love. She hadn’t said it out loud yet, hadn’t tested the words on her tongue, but it felt like love: everything seemed fresh and new and exciting.
Then a man stepped in front of Franny and scared the living daylights out of her. She slammed on the brakes of her bicycle and swerved, barely missing him. He was wearing a nylon stocking, one half of a panty hose, over his head. In his right hand he carried a huge gun, or perhaps it was a rifle or a shotgun. Franny did not know the difference, but, staring at it, she could see that it didn’t look quite real. It was smaller than she imagined a rifle would be, and it seemed to be made of plastic.
Plastic.
A toy gun. It was Halloween, she remembered. The man—she could now see he was only a college student—leered, pleased with the effect he had scared out of her, and plodded on by, toting his rifle.
Feeling foolish, she got back on her bicycle and pedaled down the path along the north fork of Putah Creek. The water here, in the dammed-up northern end of the creek, was low and stagnant and a sickly green, giving off a stale, rotten smell that she was glad to leave behind. Once she got past the uppermost end of the creek, the path was pleasant, lined with trees and dense dark green vegetation, the air scented with the earthy, woody smells of a forest. She was riding out here in the hopes of running into her new friend, Michael. She couldn’t explain, exactly, why she was drawn to him. She only knew that she thought of him constantly, and that her life, somehow, seemed a little brighter, more full of possibilities, since she’d met him. In a way, he reminded her of her father, a patient man whom she had known would protect her. It had been such a long time since her mother and father died and, even though she had a sister, she felt alone in the world. But Michael had an empathic way of looking at her, as if he could take in her whole history in a glance. It was a nice feeling.
She hit a downward slope and picked up speed. Bicycling was part of her new regimen to lose weight. She had several favorite routes: through the solar homes in west Davis; the Howard Reese bike path along Russell Boulevard out to Cactus Corners; and the route she was on today, the one she took most frequently, the path following Putah Creek on the southern edge of the university campus. The path was narrow and wound through the campus’s Arboretum, a woodsy enclave of shrubs and trees, redwoods and conifers and eucalyptus. Franny loved it here; there were picnic tables hidden beneath the trees, wood chips on the ground, fallen leaves decomposing in the dirt, and the smell in the air was an ancient one, reminding her of earlier times. It was the dank, humus-heavy smell of places long forgotten, of ancient civilizations buried beneath layers of detritus and decay.
She rode across an arched wooden bridge to get to an open, grassy mound on the other side of the creek. Here, the water expanded into a wide, murky pool, a good spot for duck watching. At this time of day, late afternoon, the campus was quiet, and she had the area much to herself. She got off her bike and sat on the grass and daydreamed, hoping Michael would pass by. The air was cool—not as cold as it would be in several weeks, when the tule fog settled and crept into your bones—and the sky a sort of dingy dishwater color, flat and gray. Lightly, the breeze rippled the surface of the water and rustled through the treetops. Reddish-brown leaves flitted about, carried by the sudden gusts of wind.
Franny wrapped her arms around her knees to keep warm. The lawn had been mown recently, and it had that fresh, moist green smell of newly cut grass. Years before, her father had brought her and Billy, her brother, here when they were children. Nora, her older sister, had been a teenager then, and couldn’t be persuaded to accompany them. But Franny and Billy loved the Arboretum, and sometimes they’d just sit, trancelike, eyes closed, and absorb the sounds around them. They would listen as their father, an environmental scientist, told them of man’s connection with nature. There’s an evolutionary bond, he’d explained to them more than once, developed over millions of years that tie people, inextricably, to their surroundings, the earth, the sun, the sky. And here, outside, with little noise but the wind breezing through the trees, the sporadic squawks of the ducks, the squishy sound of rubber every now and then as a bicyclist rode by—here she felt somehow calm, rooted. Whether it was the pull of nature that calmed her, or the protective pull of her father’s sweet memory, she did not know. By now, the two had become inseparable.
Two college students, a boy and girl, arms linked, walked across the bridge and stopped halfway, looking at the water beneath them. Wistfully, Franny watched them, their dreamy smiles and untroubled faces. They were obviously in love, and this made her smile. She could hear them talking, but couldn’t make out the words; sounds of their laughter lifted up into the treetops.
Farther on, toward the campus, she looked for Michael. She’d met him here three weeks ago. She had brought a bag of stale bread and was feeding it to the ducks when someone behind her had said, “You’re not a student.”
Startled, she’d turned around. It was the first time she’d seen Michael. He was tall and olive-skinned, with dark hair graying at the temples. She’d guessed, by the lines in his face, that he was in his late forties. There was a knowing look about him, almost cynical, as if he’d seen and done it all. Both his hands were in his pants pockets, and he stared at her without blinking, his face inscrutable. Franny lowered her head. When she looked up again he was still watching her, his eyes cold and unfeeling, she’d thought, but then a slow smile emerged from his lips. She was uncomfortable being the cynosure of all his attention, and felt as though he was sizing her up for something, coming to some sort of decision about her.
