Mud Girl by Alison Acheson Page B

find a chess set and teach me how to play something new.”
    â€œDo you always play a game when he comes?”
    â€œMost of the time.” Dad lines up a few cans of soup, a can of stew, a couple of beans.
    Abi’s mouth waters. She can’t remember the last time she had brown beans. “Can I have those?”
    Dad hands them to her.
    â€œIt doesn’t bother you?” she asks, as she opens the can.
    Dad looks at her. This also bothers her: how he has to concentrate on her question. She can see his eyes narrow to focus. She can hear his thoughts, like the water passing under the house, nearing, circling the words he wants to trap.
    She asks again. “It doesn’t bother you that we need the food bank?”
    â€œIt can’t,” he says then, simply. “The EI ran out, and welfare isn’t enough.”
    She nods, trying to absorb that.
    He reaches far into another cupboard. “I wondered when we’d use this.” He hands her another tin, this one of pineapple pieces.
    This used to be a favourite. Mum would make it for quick suppers on cold evenings, with pieces of sausage, and brown bread toasted on the side. She finds the can opener and splits open the edge of the tin, and the familiar smell fills her with a sadness and reminds her how hungry she is. She heats the beans and pineapple until they bubble and pop, and sets down two bowls. It isn’t until she’s filled the second, and puts it in front of Dad that he looks directly at her, surprised. “No,” he says. “I don’t want any. Thank you,” he adds, looking down. She feels again the sense of him retreating into that place inside himself.
    By herself, she sits at the table and empties her plate, then his. She wonders about what else she’s missed, being at school all these months…and what’s he going to do when she leaves.

Paper Boats
    A bi’s laid out her best. Well, not hers. Mum’s. A long, narrow black skirt and white shirt. They don’t have an iron, but she remembers how Mum used to steam clothes in the bathroom and after a night of hanging, it looks not bad. There are black shoes at the back of Mum’s closet, and a belt hooked over a nail in the wall. The shoes fit perfectly, and the belt fits her waist three holes away from the one that Mum used. A bit of mascara, Cinnamon lipstick, hair in a perfectly smooth pony, and she’s done.
    I’d hire me!
    Okay. She has her list of places to go, beginning with the one interview she managed to set up over the phone.
Mack’s Coffee
. “Make sure you’re here before eleven when we getbusy,” the manager had said. Abi hopes he doesn’t always sound that grumpy. The only watch she has is an old one of Mum’s. It reads twenty minutes after nine, and even though it’s old, Abi knows it keeps perfect time. She slips it into the purse that was also Mum’s, along with some bus fare from the jar on the counter, and gathers together the jobless résumés she made up the last week of school. One more trip to the toilet. She always has to pee when she’s nervous.
    She hears a cry. “No! No!” whimpers a voice. The screen door slams into place. There’s a lower voice, murmuring, then the little voice again, crying. “No.”
    The murmuring voice rises. “Dyl. I have to. You have to.”
    Abi’s out of the bathroom. “What is it?”
    Jude is standing in the kitchen, and his son is wrapped around his legs. That must be the Velcro action Jude told her about. The boy’s eyes are round and his mouth is in a matching “O.” “Please,” says Jude, “can I leave him with you? Mum’s sick and I’ve got to work. There’s nowhere else I can take him.” As he speaks, his son’s whimpering grows louder. Abi almost misses Jude’s last words.
    She starts to say something about Mack’s Coffee, but Jude is bent over