Chapter Four

by Lala Corriere

I’ve travelled the world and I’ve seen some weird dining customs. I know you never eat with your left hand in the Middle East, and you use only your fingers, sans utensils, in many African villages. I know to sit on pillows in Morocco and to expect a salad after the main course throughout much of Europe.

This does not excuse how my eyes must have protruded from their sockets after our minestrone arrived and I observed Mrs. Li’s bizarre behavior.

She removed her bowl from the serving plate and began lifting out the various chunks of ingredients. She then spooned them onto the plate, leaving only a weak broth in the bowl. She then hovered her fingers above the basket of bread, selected one slice, tore it into pieces, and stuffed those pieces into the bowl.

Putting the now swelling mixture of bread and minestrone broth aside, Mrs. Li then picked at a few of the items on her plate. She ate one chickpea at a time. One carrot piece at a time. One shred of spinach at a time.

I tried to dismiss the image. “Mrs. Li, my father seems to have disappeared. No one knows where he is. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“No. Your father is a private man. I respect that.”

“You’ve been with Daddy for a long time. Why did you quit?”

“Some say I’m a stubborn woman. I prefer to think that I am stoic. With scruples. I will not work in an evil environment.”

Evil? The cabin was filthy, but that must have occurred only in Mrs. Li’s absence. What about Clueless Caroline? What had she said to me?

“Mrs. Li, did my father and Caroline quarrel?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders in confusion. Mrs. Li spoke excellent English. After all, she had just used the words stoic and scruples. I decided to rephrase my question.

“Did they argue? Did they fight?” I asked.

While Mrs. Li responded, she kept an even eye on the bowl of soaked bread. “No. They rarely spoke to one another. No words.”

We sat together in an awkward silence. I finally told her that I had had enough. I needed to go to the local authorities and report my father as missing. Mrs. Li put her plate aside and brought the bowl in front of her, near the edge of the table. A frown seized her face. Her eyebrows knitted above the frames of old horn-rimmed glasses.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I read tea leaves, you know.”

“Yes.”

“Diner too cheap. Tea bags. Disgraceful.”

I smiled. Mrs. Li owned a piece of my heart. Irascible, yes. But pure.

Mrs. Li glanced up at me, then focused her stare back to her bowl.

I grew impatient, signaling for the check from the waitress.

“Thank you for meeting me, Mrs. Li. I must leave. I need to go to the sheriff’s office and report my dad as missing.”

“It’s too late,” Mrs. Li sighed. As harsh as her words resounded, her resignation is what surprised me.

“Why would you say that?”

“No tea leaves. But it’s in the bread. It is written.”

Now I’d heard everything. The woman was reading swollen pieces of sourdough bread?

She continued. “I am able to see it through how long it takes each morsel of bread to absorb the nutrients of the broth. Which pieces sink to the bottom. Which pieces rise to the top. And where.”

“Forgive me, but...”

“...forgive me, Zeldana” Mrs. Li interrupted. “Sheriff Harvey will now tell you that your father is off fishing. The sheriff will say that your father told him so. A long trip. Sheriff Harvey will tell you there is nothing wrong. He will tell you to go back home and not worry.”