Read Online Either the Beginning or the End of the World by Terry Farish - Free Book Online Page A

serious young woman asks.
    â€œSix dollars a pound,” I say, believing a person would never pay six dollars for a pound of shrimp.
    â€œAtlantic asks seven,” she says. “And I know your father. I’d rather have the Karma ’s shrimp.”
    â€œTake these, and the next time you come, we’ll have processed shrimp.”
    The woman finally does take the whole shrimp and pays three dollars for two pounds. We sell all the shrimp we have.

BREATHING IN THE BUDDHA
    It’s Sunday. My father’s out fishing. It’s today or maybe never. Could be only a few more landings till the government closes shrimp season. That’s the rumor.
    I lift a tote of shrimp I could have taken to Atlantic Co. I lift it up the porch steps, over the door sill, then slide it across the floor and into the kitchen. One batch at a time, I drop the shrimp in my pot of boiling water. One minute.
    A car pulls up in the street. In the full light of day I see a maroon car, Luke’s car, with the rust of New Hampshire winters eating into the fenders. He’s not in camouflage; he’s in jeans and a navy fisherman’s sweater. He is coming toward my door. I rub my hands dry and watch him. His walk is deliberate. He turns to glance at a kid up the street, the neighbor’s cat that streaks by.
    He knocks. My hands are red and wet. Pilot is barking. I am wearing leggings and a ribbed shirt. My hair is up in a clip. My body’s tender on the first day of my period.
    I open the door.
    Pilot leaps into his arms. She never forgets someone who has given her food. Luke comes down to his knees for her. I see Luke’s bowed head of dark hair.
    â€œMy father’s not here.” I back up to keep from touching his hair.
    â€œI need to talk to him,” he says. “Find out when he’s planning to fish.”
    â€œHe is fishing.”
    â€œDid he say how long?” He looks up.
    â€œTill supper. Maybe.”
    He lifts his hands from my dog’s ears, slowly stands.
    â€œAre you good at processing shrimp?” I say.
    â€œTeach me.”
    Lines from Rosa’s love song almost spill out of me. I cover my mouth to keep me from laughing and manage to open the door all the way without tripping on Pilot.
    He comes in.
    Has he ever seen a kitchen as small as this one? We work over the mound of shrimp in the kitchen sink, ready.
    â€œFlip it over,” I say. “Open the shell. Pull out the meat. It’s a three-step process.”
    I glance at his face. The past is in his face. I see that he hasn’t slept. He turns his exhausted eyes to me.
    â€œJust be careful of these.” I touch the long needle tail of the shrimp he is holding.
    â€œYou got to pop the head,” I say. “Like this.”
    I hold a shrimp so he can see my finger slide down the line from the shrimp’s head to the tip of the sharp tail. I twist the tail to expose the eatable flesh. Then pull the flesh out of the head and shell that encases it. I drop the curve of meat into the basin. I drop the crusty outside—eyes and all—into the trash bin.
    Luke gets it in a heartbeat.
    Open, twist, pull. We work.
    I am aware of his hands. They are large and careful, manipulating something so small. There is something about what we are doing that feels sacred. An image of my grandmother comes into my brain. When I was little, I remember seeing her lift her hands, palms touching, and bowing to a fish. She said something in her strange, bad English. Something about giving respect.
    The work with our hands—Luke’s and mine—is as regular as breathing. I turn a shrimp in my hand. I begin to pull open the peel and a stream of water spews into my face and Luke’s face.
    â€œAhh, it peed,” I burst out laughing. “Ahhhhh.” Luke wipes the wet from my face with the heel of his hand, holding the carapace in the other. I am laughing. Pilot yelps, waiting for a shrimp to drop.
    â€œYou