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

nightgown. It had flimsy straps, and as she got a glass of water, the spreading lines of her collarbone shone beneath the kitchen’s naked bulb. The olive skin of her legs moved against the pale, ruffled fringe.

She came over and stood next to me, trying to read my cramped scrawl. Her hip touched my shoulder as she leaned forward, her nightgown loose at the front. My eyeballs twisted painfully in their sockets, trying for a glimpse even as I held my face to the page.

“Why do you write this stupid stuff?” she asked. With the glass of water in her fingers, she went upstairs, bent forward to avoid the low ceiling, the curve of her ass lifted.

✴

THE RAIN SLACKENED to a drizzle, and I left the house, fumbling with my jacket, hurrying past the snack bar, panting. The feeling of being trapped had come quickly. The water on the ground had frozen, and I almost slipped. I stopped near the landing. The ferry’s horn called from over the river. Its red and yellow lights moved in the mist. A pickup slowed to enter the docks.

A week had gone by. My father had called a few times to ask how we were doing, but he was too busy to visit. I slept or read or hung out in the snack bar. Jasmine kept her distance, her arms crossed and her shoulders drawn in. Nights, I sat at the table, creating a world, drawing maps, while upstairs she lay in her attic bedroom, reading a romance novel.

Now would be the time to hitchhike, but the problem was the same as in the realistic stories I’d tried to write, the ones in which I escaped but only got so far before the options ran out. If I went back to my mother, she and Dickie would win. My father was a liar. He had nothing but stories.

The string of red and green bulbs swayed in the wind. I went inside and took the phone.

Under the sink, a mildewed, six-year-old phone book left its cover glued to the bottom of the cabinet when I lifted it. It had been there since before my mother fled. I found the last name of a classmate from elementary school, a girl I’d liked named Deborah. The address seemed right, and I tore out the page and threw the book back on its cover. It left sooty streaks on my hands, and I wiped them on my jeans. The ferry horn sounded, and a car door closed in the line.

I went to the couch and sat. Then I picked up the receiver and dialed.

After four or five rings, a groggy adult answered, and I asked for Deborah. The voice that finally said hello sounded awake, my age but not familiar.

“Hey,” I said. “This is Deni. Do you remember me?”

“Of course I remember you. How are you?” She sounded somewhat pleased.

“I’m good.”

There was a moment of silence as I thought of what to say.

“Where are you?” she asked. “You disappeared. Nobody knew what happened.”

“I’m back.”

“Nearby?”

“No. But maybe soon. I moved to the States. My parents separated, and we went to live there. How about you?”

“What?”

“I don’t know. What school do you go to?”

She named one I’d never heard of and then said it was private and asked about mine.

“I’m taking a month off. I’ll probably start again soon.”

The silence held a little longer. Outside, beyond the window, the line had built up. A few passengers got out for air, their pant legs flashing through headlights. I asked about other friends. Several had moved away, and two attended her school. She asked what I was doing, and I told her, “I work for my father. I hate his fucking fish business.”

“Things were hard for you, weren’t they?” she asked.

Her question shocked me, its innocent honesty.

“Actually, I’m going to be a writer. I’m working on a novel right now. Every night. I pretty much don’t even sleep.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s interesting.”

I told her about the book, the hero fleeing through an imaginary land. It sounded impossibly stupid.

“Well,” she said, “if you’re ever around, you should call again.”

I put down the phone, the muscles of my jaw trembling. I pressed my palms to my eyes and promised myself I’d never cry over something so stupid. Fear and sadness seemed childlike. I could escape. I just had to be patient.

For the rest of the night, I filled my notebook.

When I turned off the light, the clock’s bony red numbers read 4:50. The moon had set, and there was a deep predawn darkness over the river. I rubbed my eyes, not wanting to sleep and wake to the misted lineup before the docks.

✴

HE ARRIVED SHORTLY before noon. Freezing rain was falling, and we drove to a diner, where we sat in a booth and ordered coffee, fries, bacon, and eggs. Outside, a few semis had been left running, faint vibrations rattling the windows.

“I want to go back to school,” I said.

“Come on. You were never good at school. A year off won’t hurt.”

“I want to go back in January.”

He looked me in the eye. “Listen, you can’t just come into my life and expect me to do what you want. I’m too busy to support you through school. Besides, it isn’t for you. That’s clear to me. You and me, we’re the same that way. You just have to grow up and see what the world’s really like. You have no idea.”

I was twisting my napkin. I forced myself to stop, to sit up straight. I tried to move through my rage, toward a solution. When I’d left Virginia, I was a decent if indifferent student. Now school seemed the only freedom possible.

“You know,” he went on, “I didn’t pay for you to come out here so you could live like a king. I can’t let you turn my life upside down.”

“What? What am I doing wrong?”

He waved his hand. “You almost never called. Five years is a long time. You didn’t