Cures for Hunger by Deni Béchard

Author:Deni Béchard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Milkweed Editions
Published: 2012-03-22T04:00:00+00:00

Outside the snack bar window, the fog broke beneath occasional rain, but the sun remained caught in mist, like a dull, fat fly in a web.

“How long will you be staying?” Jasmine asked.

“I don’t know,” I said and sank deeper into my jacket, breathing against its collar to warm my throat. I closed my dog-eared novel. “How long have you been living here?”

“A few months, I guess.”

“Where do you know André from?”

“He was friends with my parents. He offered me a job.” She explained that her stepfather was a drunk and my father had helped her leave home. I couldn’t see the appeal in living at a ferry landing on a lonely stretch of river. She didn’t even have a car.

I told her my own stories, about life in Virginia, stealing the motorcycle, but she didn’t smile. She squinched up her face. “That’s stupid.”

Drivers had shut off their engines, customers braving the rain, hurrying toward us.

“What? I—”

“It’s dumb. Does your father know?”

She got up, went to the orange counter, and took an order for coffee.

I stared off along the line. The rain fell harder, rushing from the overhang onto the shoulders of the man reaching for the sugar. An old couple turned back to their camper.

I couldn’t imagine my life after Christmas. Was this being a man? He was using me, but I didn’t know what for. If I didn’t return to school, I’d have to repeat the year. With a rage that surprised me, I hated him.

“I’m going inside,” I told Jasmine and ran through the rain and sat on the couch.

From the window, I could see the orange counter and, just inside, in the angle of unmoving light, the curve of her breasts beneath her sweater. Shadows hid her face. She appeared too still. At the docks, the green light lit up, and the traffic crept forward.

After dark, as rain fell past the strand of colored bulbs, the red and gray GMC pulled into the driveway. I hid my book. Jasmine had just closed the snack bar, and my father came inside with a grease-stained bag of Chinese food. But once we were at the table together, we hardly spoke. He asked a few questions about sales, then looked at the cassettes next to the radio.

“One time,” he said, “when I was traveling in the States, I pulled into a gas station right after Elvis had been there. I even saw his Cadillac leaving, and the attendant told me it was Elvis. It’s too bad I didn’t get there earlier. I’d have liked to see the King.”

I considered this other brand of story, innocuous, innocent, a groupie’s celebrity sighting. He couldn’t tell his real stories with Jasmine there. Who had he been before I’d come back? How much had he changed for me? She glanced between us, and not wanting to seem like a boy, I gazed at him evenly, without interest or emotion.

His hand rested on the table, half curled into a fist, and he rubbed the muscle on the back of his forearm absently.

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