Cures for Hunger. Deni Ellis Bechard
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before the trailer, with the colored lights and chrome coffeemaker, the music and the blue tarpaulin tied up above the door, he shouted, “Helen, order Deni a pizza.”
“What kind does he want?” she called through the slit in the sliding window.
“Whatever. He’ll eat anything.”
He tried to smile and said, “Why don’t we get your room set up?”
We went inside, down the narrow hall of fake-wood paneling, to a flimsy door. A mattress lay on the floor, an upside-down plastic milk crate next to it, a lamp on top. He flicked the space heater on, and its front began to glow red. The air smelled of burned dust.
“Is this okay?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You can read in here. Helen will bring your pizza. Then you can sleep.”
“Okay,” I told him, concentrating on keeping my voice steady.
He stared down, not into my eyes, but just seeing, as if I were something he’d found on the roadside. Then he forced a big smile.
“Goddamn it!” he said with the exaggerated enthusiasm he used when he flashed money or bought employees beer. “We should decorate your room, shouldn’t we?”
In the closet, on a shelf, he found a battered magazine. He opened it, and a long piece of paper, with the picture of a woman, folded out from the middle.
“Why is that page so long?” I asked, and took an easy breath, feeling that he might be normal again, that we were about to do something fun, and that if I were patient, there’d be another chance to ask about going salmon fishing.
“It’s called the centerfold,” he said and pulled the page free, the paper popping off the staples. There was a nail in the wall, and he pressed it through the top of the centerfold and stepped back.
A dark-haired woman wore only a long blue shirt. It was open in the front, and her nipples stared out from the white skin of her breasts. There were shelves behind her with old, serious-looking books.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Is she in a library?”
He leaned close, furrowing his brow. “I guess so.”
“It’s strange that she’s in a library, isn’t it?”
“Well, I never thought about it …”
“What books do you think she’s reading?”
One lay on the floor, next to a blue sandal that had fallen off her foot.
“I don’t know. Anyway, she can keep you company tonight.”
“Can I take her home and put her up in my room?”
“Ah …” He lifted a hand and scratched his beard. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
I understood. My mother wouldn’t like it. This would definitely have to be a secret too. So I hesitated and then asked, “Do you think we can go salmon fishing for my birthday?”
He stared down. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“It’s because I really wanna go. It’s important.”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. We’ll go salmon fishing.”
“You promise?”
“Yeah, I promise. Look, I have to get back to work. Helen will bring your pizza.”
After he’d left, I stared at the centerfold, wishing I had a library like the naked woman’s. The books appeared expensive, with covers as thick as those on encyclopedias, but when I tried to make out the names on the spines, I couldn’t read a single one.
✴
THE NIGHT BEFORE our fishing trip, I could hardly fall asleep. Then, as soon as I did, my father was waking me. My brother and I huddled into our clothes in the cold room, and we followed him to the truck.
Though he normally drove like a maniac, yelling at slow drivers and telling us to keep an eye out for lazy pigs who sat in patrol cars doing nothing, he now drove slowly, yawning and drinking from a thermos. Hushed music was on the radio, and I liked the dim glow of its dial, the yellow headlights tunneling through the valley, the way steam washed through his beard as he drank, and the smell of coffee.
My brother was asleep, and I turned in my seat.
Behind us, in the center of the lane, rode Ten Speed, her hair hidden beneath a hood and her face lit red from our taillights. She took the mountain turns faster than we did, her legs pumping like the bars on my mother’s sewing machine. She neared and lagged and neared again. I thought to tell my father, but it was fun to watch her. I figured we’d lose her on the highway, and we did, though she kept up longer than I expected.
After two hours, we followed a narrow asphalt road into the mountains, which led us to a gravel trail. Finally we parked. As soon as we opened the door, the stench was unbearable.
“Goddamn it,” he said. Dawn lit the treetops as we followed him through the forest to the river. Water rushed past boulders and gravel bars. Everywhere, all around us, large, brilliantly colored salmon with hooked jaws rotted. I’d studied them—had in fact stolen the best book on them, scissoring out the pages that showed it belonged to the school library—and I knew that as they spawned, their jaws became curved, their teeth canine, their backs humped, and their coloring no longer silvery blue but a bruised red.
A few bloated salmon struggled upstream, moving through the current with the laborious motion of an old dog wagging its tail.
We’d waited too long. The season was over. Still, we pretended to fish, testing our waders against slippery rocks and rushing water. I didn’t let myself show disappointment, and he didn’t either. He stood, a little haggard, lines beneath his eyes as he stared at the swirling current. He breathed through his parted lips, his jaw slightly pushed forward, and I imitated him, inhaling the cold air blowing down over the river, feeling instantly tough.
We caught nothing and left early, stumbling back to the truck in rubber waders. As he drove, I talked.
“I still like fishing,” I told him, “but mental powers are more interesting. When I meditated, I saw my soul, and when I’m really quiet, I can hear the advice of my invisible friends. Now I’m trying to learn how to do telekinesis.”
He was silent, the day ending, the sky gently streaked like one of his old faded shirts.
“Your mother told you all this stuff?” he asked.
“Yeah. I can even read people’s minds if I want. Did you know that’s possible?”
He didn’t answer, just clutched the steering wheel. My brother looked out the side window. The truck gained speed, swerving along the narrow road until we came to the highway. It raced into the turn, wobbling. The tires screeched and then caught, and we surged forward.
“Goddamn it anyhow!” he shouted.
I watched the stark motions of his hands, the way he hunched, narrowing his eyes—aiming us at something far away.
Beyond the windshield were the last smoky colors of sunset, the sky ragged above the trees as if torn from a picture book. I gazed at it, not thinking, not wanting to, and after a while pushing against the density of night, the truck slowed and I fell asleep.
LEVITATION CLUB AND THE END OF THE WORLD
The way my mother described the end, it didn’t sound bad. Nature would prevail, and those who’d chosen to return to it would survive. Speaking of chemicals and machines and our denatured lives, she seemed at odds with a force I couldn’t identify. But the two things she most hated were Christians and processed foods.
“See that?” she said in the