The Shipping News (52 page)

Dennis in a fan of raw stumps and Quoyle had to shout above the chain saw's racketing idle. He said his house was missing. And they were up the road for the track through slumping drifts, past
the Capsize Cove turnoff. Gravel showing through. Past the glove factory. Whiskey jacks there, anyway. The smell of resin and exhaust. Trickle of melt water.

The great rock stood naked. Bolts fast in the stone, a loop of cable curled like a hawser. And nothing else. For the house of the Quoyles was gone, lifted by the wind, tumbled down the rock and into the sea in a wake of glass and snow crystals.

“All our work and money and it's just away like that? To stand forty years empty, and then go in the flicker of an eyelid! Just when we had it fixed up.” The aunt in her shop, sniveling into a tissue. A silence. “What about the outhouse?”

He could hardly believe what he heard. The house gone and she asked about the crapper.

“I didn't notice it, Aunt. But I didn't make a special effort to look, either. The dock is still there. We could build a little camp out there, use it on fine weekends and in the summer, you know. I've been thinking we could buy the Burkes' house. It's a nice house and it's convenient. It's big enough. Nine rooms, Aunt.”

“I'll get over this,” she said. “I've always been good at it. Getting over things.”

“I know,” he said. “I know some of the things you've managed to get over.”

“Oh, my boy, you couldn't even guess.” Shaking her head, the stiff smile.

That sometimes irked. Quoyle blurted, “I know about what my father did. To you. When you were kids. The old cousin told me, old Nolan Quoyle.”

He did know. The aunt hauled in her breath. The secret of her whole life.

Didn't know what to say, so she laughed. Or something like it. Then sobbed into her palms while the nephew said there, there, patting her shoulder as if she were Bunny or Sunshine. And it was Quoyle who thought of a cup of tea. Should have kept his mouth shut.

She straightened up, the busy hands revived. Pretending he'd
never said a thing. Was already throwing out ideas like Jack pitched fish.

“We'll build a new place. Like you say, a summer place. I'd as soon live in town the rest of the year. Fact, I was thinking of it.”

“We'll have to make some money first. Before we can build anything out on the point. And I don't know how much I can put into it. I'm thinking I'd like to buy the Burke house.”

“Well,” said the aunt, “money to rebuild out on the point isn't a problem. There's the insurance, you know.”

“You had insurance on the green house?” Quoyle incredulous. He was not insurance-minded.

“Of course. First thing I did when we moved up last year. Fire, flood, ice, act of God. This was an act of God if I ever saw one. If I was you I'd ask the Burkes about that house. It'll be a good roomy house for you. For children and all. For I suppose that you and Wavey have about come to that point. Though you haven't said.”

Quoyle almost nodded. Dipped his chin. Thought while the aunt talked.

“But I've got other plans.” Making some of it up as she went along. Couldn't live with the nephew now. Who knew what he knew.

“I've been thinking about that building where my shop is. I've looked into buying it. Get it for a song. I've got to expand the work space. And upstairs is nice and snug with a view of the harbor. It could make a handsome apartment. And I wouldn't be going into it alone. Mavis—Mavis Bangs, you know Mavis—wants to go partners in the business. She's got a little money set aside. Oh, this's all we talked about all winter. And it makes sense if we both live upstairs over the shop. So that's what I'm thinking we'll do. In a way it's a blessing the old place is gone.”

As usual, the aunt was way out front and running.

39

Shining Hubcaps

“There are still old knots that are unrecorded, and so long as there are new purposes for rope, there will always be new knots to discover.”

THE ASHLEY BOOK OF KNOTS

PACK ice like broken restaurant dishes still in the bay but the boat was finished. The last curl looped out of Yark's plane. He stood away, slapped the graceful wood, made a palm-sized cloud of dust. Seemed made of saw scraps himself. Humming.

“Well, that's she,” he said. “Get some paint on ‘er and there you go.” And while Quoyle and Dennis wrestled the boat onto the trailer, the old man watched but took his ease. His part was finished. His mouth cracked open. Quoyle, guessing what was coming, got there first, roared “Oh the Gandy
Goose,
it ain't no use,” sang it to the end, swelling the volume until the lugubrious tune took warmth from his hot throat. Old Yark believed it was a salute, embroidered stories for half an hour before he went up to his tea, the tune still warm in his ears as a hat from behind the stove.

A platter of fried herrings with bacon rashers and hashed potatoes. A quart jar of mustard. Beety back and forth, stepping over Warren the Second who wished to live forever beneath the tablecloth or with the boots but could not decide. Quoyle and Wavey were supper guests, full of kind laughter and praise for what they ate. Boiled cabbage. And blueberry tarts to finish, with cream. Double helpings from every dish for Quoyle. Although the cabbage would produce gas.

Sunshine flexed a herring backbone and sang “birch rine, tar twine, cherry wine and turbletine.” Bunny and Marty sharing a chair, arms entwined, each with a bag of candy hearts saved from Valentine's Day, allowed themselves one each,
LUCKY IN LOVE, OH YOU KID.

At the table, Dennis fidgeted, up and down. Opened a drawer, closed it.

“What's the matter with you?” asked Beety. “You're like a cat with his bum on fire tonight.”

An offended look from Dennis while Quoyle bit his lip.

“Don't know, woman! Seems like I'm looking for something. Don't know what. That's one thing.”

“You want more tea?”

“No, no, I's full up.”

But there were things. No work for weeks, none in sight, he said to Quoyle. Not a good way to live, always anxious about income. Sick of it. Be different if he could do a little fishing. Up again, to pick up the teapot, look in it. Quoyle was lucky to have a job. Wasn't there more tea to be had?

“It's your father's paper,” said Quoyle. “Can't you work on the paper? God knows we could use you. Ah, we're shorthanded every way.” Bungled his spoonful of sugar, spilling half on the good tablecloth.

“Christ, no! Rather have me arms cut off at the shoulder. I hates messing with little squiddy words, reading and writing and that. Like scuffing through dead flies.” He showed his blunt hands. “We're talking”—nodded at Beety, whose eyes were cast down at
the moment—“about going to Toronto for a year or two. Don't want to, but we could save up and then come back. There's good work there for carpenters. There's nothing here.” Drummed on the table, which set all the children off, small fingers trying to produce the hollow galloping. Dennis glared. Unconvincingly.

Beety and Wavey scraped the dishes, talked of Toronto. Beety's voice as limp as a hot rag. How it might be. Would the kids like it. Maybe better if they didn't. Maybe. Maybe.

Quoyle could hardly say, don't go. Knew they would be lost forever if they went, for even the few who came back were altered in temper as a knife reclaimed from the ashes of a house fire. Poor Bunny, if she had to lose Marty. Poor Quoyle, if he had to lose Dennis and Beety.

When all were yawning, Quoyle carried Herry, more or less asleep on the living room carpet. Sunshine gripped Wavey's hand because there was ice. The dog was first in the car and tried every seat.

“Wavey,” said Sunshine, “if you ironed a fish would it be as big as a rug?”

“I think, bigger,” said Wavey. “If unfolded.”

Dennis walked out with them. Rust pattered on the ground when Quoyle slammed Wavey's door.

“When are you going to get rid of this old clunker?” Morose. Braced his hand against the station wagon until it started to move away. Watched their taillights dwindle, then walked across the road and looked. Nothing to be seen but the lighthouse's electronic stutter. The sea flat as boards.

In the sleeping house Quoyle ran a hot bath. He soaked in the water, pinched his nose and slid down into the heat. With gratitude. Fate could have given him Nutbeem's molasses barrel.

Out of the tub he rubbed with a towel, wiped off the fulllength mirror on the back of the bathroom door. He looked at his naked self, steam rising from his flesh in the cool air. Saw he was immense. The bull neck, the great jaw and heavy cheek slabs stubbled with coppery bristles. The yellowish freckles. Full shoulders
and powerful arms, the hands as hairy as a werewolf's. Damp fur on the chest, down to the swelling belly. Bulky genitals bright red from the hot bathwater in a nest of reddish hair. Thighs, legs like tree stumps. Yet the effect was more of strength than obesity. He guessed he was at some prime physical point. Middle age not too far ahead, but it didn't frighten him. It was harder to count his errors now, perhaps because they had compounded beyond counting, or had blurred into his general condition.

He pulled on the grey nightshirt which was torn under the arms and clung to his wet back. Again, a bolt of joy passed through him. For no reason.