Cures for Hunger by Deni Béchard (fun books to read for adults .txt) 📗

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 supermarket. A fat man trundled down the aisle. “He eats foods made of chemicals.” She pointed at bloated bags of chips, leering cartoon faces on boxed cereal, or candy bars like turds in wrappers.

“Sugar corrodes your bones. Your teeth turn brown and fall out. Your muscles get weak, your brain stops working, and your skin begins to sag. The human race is becoming stupid because of all that unnatural junk.”

I considered an ancient man with a walker, his bald head speckled and seamed like a nut, and then another guy whose hands were crabbed up beneath his chin as he stepped awkwardly, with the plodding motion of an injured insect.

Back at home she made us drink the beery milk from her goats. My brother and I cramped our fingers around the glasses and chugged the frothy white sauce. We spoke of the end of goat milk season the way we did about the beginning of summer vacation.

“I can’t wait for cow milk,” he said.

“Me too,” I agreed, though I knew that goat milk might be my salvation.

✴

EVEN IF I missed holes when I buttoned my shirt and didn’t notice if my shoelaces came untied, I managed to draw a small following at school. We met beyond the playground, on the blustery slope where our teachers weren’t likely to catch us speaking English, and I told them about the powers of the mind, telepathy, and telekinesis.

On TV, I’d seen Marco Polo spy on a Buddhist monk who was levitating, and my mother had confirmed that peaceful men in faraway places could float and even speak with their minds. So I began practicing. Lying in bed, I let myself become as light as air, attempting to rise from the thin foam mattress. When this didn’t work, I tried with something small. I lay a sheet of paper on my dresser and stared at it. I put it on the floor and squinted over it with rage. I propped it against the wall and tried to help it slide