Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (spicy books to read .txt) 📕

shock of bright orange hair and piercing green eyes, and when he wore his police uniform as he did now, he could be pretty imposing. But around Mum, Dad was a pussycat.

He leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek. “Hello, love,” he said, then, more gruffly, “Sounds like a herd of elephants in here.”

“Quiet, everyone,” Mum said, taking his coat and hat. “Your father’s had a long day.”

I bit my tongue. Hadn’t we all? For the past four years I’d worked ten-hour days, six days a week in the back room of Palermo’s greengrocer. There, I sorted through crates, picking out the rotten food before stocking the front of the store with the good stuff. Little jobs like that. Most of the time it was quiet around the store. Delivery days like today were hectic, but I liked the busyness. It was rare these days.

The stock market had crashed when I was fourteen. I still remember that day. It was October—a Thursday, I thought. I had been excited, walking home from school, eager to start reading The Great Gatsby for a book report, but the streets felt tense, with everyone avoiding each other’s eyes. Puzzled, I studied the men standing around the sidewalks, wondering why they weren’t working inside. Most of their faces were buried in newspapers. Some turned away when I looked, but not quickly enough for me to miss the fact that they were crying. I’d never seen a man cry before. When Dad got home, he sat us all down at the kitchen table and explained that the whole world had changed, not just our city. His gaze clouded with regret as he told me I would have to drop out of school, and he was going to speak with Mr. Palermo about hiring me. I hadn’t understood at first. In that moment, all I could think about was my book report.

I knew the crash was serious, but the reality didn’t sink in until the next night. Every Friday, Dad brought Mum a bouquet of flowers. That Friday was the first time I ever remembered him coming home empty-handed. To me, the flowers were before. The empty vase was now.

I wasn’t the only girl who had to drop out of school, but my friend Hannah never did. Her father owned a factory in the fashion district on Spadina, so he would manage, she told me. Richie had already graduated. My second oldest brother, Jimmy, didn’t go back to school. Only Mark and Liam were young enough that they got to stay. I was ashamed of the envy I felt, watching my best friend and my younger brothers leave for school every morning. Then one day after work, Dad found me out on the front porch and handed me a package.

“Open it,” he said.

I carefully removed the brown paper wrapping. “Oh, Dad,” I whispered. I skimmed my fingertips over the cover of my very own copy of The Great Gatsby. “But we can’t afford this.”

He reached his arm around me. “I set a little money aside. I want you to know that I’m sorry about the way things have turned out. I know you love school, and as soon as things get better, you’ll go back. In the meantime, this is just a little something from me to you.”

But I didn’t go back to school. And two years later, when Mark turned fourteen, he dropped out too. Now, all of us did our part to contribute to the pot. Richie worked at the hardware store, and Mark incinerated garbage at the Wellington Street Destructor. Liam had a paper route he did before school. Mum had her sewing, and of course, Dad had his job with the police. Only Jimmy was unemployed these days. He’d been working at the Don Valley Brick Works until three months ago, when they’d had to let him go. He’d been looking for work ever since. Still, we were getting by, and we clearly weren’t the worst off. Down the street from us, the Melniks had all their furniture taken away.

“Sit down before dinner gets cold,” Mum said, carrying the pot over.

Dad took his place at the head of the table, and Mum sat opposite him. Once the rest of us had squeezed in—Mark and Liam at one side and Richie, Jimmy, and me on the other—Dad said grace. My stomach growled as we passed the meat and cabbage around, helping ourselves to the meagre offerings while leaving enough for each other. When we handed the dishes back to Mum, she placed the last two slices of corned beef on Dad’s and Richie’s plates.

“Thanks, Mum,” Richie said.

“Smells good,” Dad said kindly.

I looked at my own small plate with its lump of sickly green leaves and a single slice of meat and wished I wasn’t so hungry. I slid my fork around the edges, trying to push the food together to make it seem fuller. Then I took a bite of the corned beef and was grateful that I only had one piece. It had the same feel and taste as what I imagined shoe leather would be like.

“How was your day, dear?” Mum asked, her full attention on my father.

“Busy. There was another protest down by City Hall. Dressmakers Union this time. It’s always something.”

“They’re lucky to have jobs,” Richie said. “Maybe they should have been working instead of marching around with signs. They’d make more money that way.”

Dad nodded as he chewed. “We’d be a lot less busy, that’s for sure. Chief Draper is all about keeping ‘Toronto the Good’ in line.”

As I reluctantly took a bite of the overcooked cabbage, I pondered what was actually good about Toronto. All I’d seen lately were hundreds of homeless people lining the streets, endless demonstrations about jobs, homes, rights, and everything else under the sun, and a lot of young, unemployed men joining gangs and starting fights.

My father perked up. “Draper’s talking about plans for the Orange Day parade.”

Dad was called an