Cures for Hunger by Deni Béchard (story books for 5 year olds txt) 📕

I tore the paper into strips and shoved them in the pocket of the seat in front of me, and then stood to get my backpack.

I had on torn jeans and a black T-shirt, and in the forward shuffle of the airport line, I considered my posture, my stride, the way I held my head, whether I should gesticulate when I spoke or hook my thumbs in my belt loops.

The crowded customs hall opened on a lobby, cavernous and silent but for echoing footsteps.

It took me a while to notice the man at the window, staring out as a plane touched down on the distant runway with a semblance of gentleness. He turned, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He had on white running shoes and crisp jeans, the denim creased from the shelves. It was the first time I’d seen him without a beard.

“Hey,” he said and came forward. Awkwardly, he shook my hand and gave me a sort of half hug.

I was a good bit taller than him, and he looked me over and then glanced around the room and back. I’d recalled a towering man, eyes that seemed angry even when he smiled. He was darker than I remembered, his features chiseled and, when he spoke, his accent thicker than over the phone.

As he reached out to pat my arm, the cuff of his blue shirt showed an inch past that of his jacket.

“I’m happy you’re here,” he told me. “Are you hungry?”

“Sure,” I said and had to cough to bring moisture to my throat.

He became impassive, his eyes collecting information in their steady, nondisclosing fashion. It was a look of strength that I knew I could master.

Outside, a misting rain was falling.

“That’s my truck,” he told me. He motioned with his jaw to a red and gray GMC.

“I like having a new one.” His lips hinted at a smile. “Having a nice car is like wearing a good suit. If you want a loan or you want to be trusted in a deal, people see your car and they know you’re making money.”

The inside smelled of cologne and vaguely of fish. As he drove, he talked about music. He said he liked what was new, what was popular, and had the same tastes as young people.

Going a little too fast, he steered the truck through scattered traffic and then jerked the wheel and took us into a sluggish procession of wet cars.

“I need to check on the market,” he said. “Then we can go eat.”

The market’s parking lot was mostly empty, and as we walked through the doors into the airy space of glass displays and food stalls, I thought to mention Granville Island, where he’d once had a shop. The babble of scents—bagels and flowers, seafood and hot dogs and bread—brought back memories of my brother, my sister, and me running between booths.

“Deni,” he said, “meet Sara.”

A young woman stepped away from the stainless-steel counter—blond, petite, with round sapphire earrings almost the shade of her eyes—and he put his hand on the small of her back.

With a snap, she pulled off a yellow glove and shook my hand, her fingers clammy.

“How was your trip?” she asked.

“We’ll need to get Deni settled,” he interrupted, and she smiled thinly, humoring him.

“Bill is at the delivery door,” she said, and he hurried to the back of the shop and went just outside. She and I stood awkwardly, listening.

“Where do you want this?” a man asked, his voice unfriendly.

“Leave it here. I’ll get my son to help me bring it in.”

“Huh?” A pause. “This on credit again?”

“I’ll have money for you at the end of the month.”

“Fine, fine … How’s the shop?”

“Business picks up closer to Christmas.”

“Always does.”

A woman with a purple head scarf scrutinized a tray of raw squid, squinting as if reading fine print in the mess of tentacles. The display coolers seemed no different than in the stores he’d had before: white ice with salmon, green crabs, orange-mesh bags of mussels. Sara looked from the woman to me and held my gaze a little too long.

“We’ll get you settled,” she said and winked, and then turned her slight hips to the counter.

I wasn’t used to being flirted with so openly. Her smile had told me that with her everything would be easy.

“What’s funny?” my father asked, walking back from the door. He was staring at my face. “This shop took a long time to put together.”

A few salespeople at nearby stalls were watching. Suddenly, there was that pent-up energy I remembered from childhood. He approached and in a quiet, tense voice explained how long it took to get a business going again, after the separation, the bankruptcy.

“Your mother left me with nothing,” he said. I considered telling him that she’d left with nothing too, but my head hurt, a buzz in my ears like the static of a rapidly turned radio knob.

As he studied me, I commanded my face to show nothing. He dropped his gaze. He stood like that, lips pursed, eyes on the floor. He picked up a quarter.

“Anyway,” he said. “Come on. Help me bring in the delivery.”

The rain had churned into fog, inseparable from the sky. The light was fading, and the damp chilled my lungs. Beneath the ice in the crate shone the black eyes of small metallic fish.

✴

THE RESTAURANT HAD a neon sign—Knight and Day. A mermaid coughed irregular spouts into a fountain, her breasts mossy, the water brown. Drizzle gusted. The mist had disappeared into night.

We sat at a window facing the street. The emptiness of the dining room gave it a tawdry look, a few hunched men eating late dinners alone. The air of tension around my father returned, vanished, and returned again, his face like a TV screen caught between channels.

Despite my age, he ordered me a beer. This was where he went after work, he told me. He knew the waitress by name and commented on her legs. She had bleached hair and