The Shipping News (24 page)

“You are thinking to yourself ‘what is that thing?' Well, ‘tis a simple matter. Help you make straight lines and straight cuts. With this and a saw and a hammer and some nails and a bit of timber you can make a hundred little things. I had it when I was your age and I made a box with a lid first thing, six pieces and two bits of leather for the hinges. Wasn't I a proud thing?”

“What do you say, Bunny?” hissed Quoyle.

“I want to make a box with a lid and two bits of hinges.”

Everyone laughed except Quoyle, watching Bunny, who flushed red with mortification.

“Then,” said Quoyle, “we'll say thank-you Skipper Alfred for the fine square and get off to home if there's going to be time for after-dinner carpentry.” Had she heard what he said about the man nailed to a tree?

And in the car, made Bunny put the square flat on the floor in case of a catastrophic ditch in the road.

17

The Shipping News

“Ship's
Cousin, a favored person aboard ship . . .”

THE MARINER'S DICTIONARY

PHOTOGRAPHS of the Botterjacht on his desk. Dark, but good enough to print, good enough to show the vessel's menacing strength. Quoyle propped one up in front of him and rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter. He had it now.

KILLER YACHT AT KILLICK-CLAW

A powerful craft built fifty years ago for Hitler arrived in Killick-Claw harbor this week. Hitler never set foot on the luxury Botterjacht,
Tough Baby,
but something of his evil power seems built into the yacht. The current owners, Silver and Bayonet Melville of Long Island, described the vessel's recent rampage among the pleasure boats and exclusive beach cottages of White Crow Harbor,
Maine during Hurricane Bob. “She smashed seventeen boats to matchsticks, pounded twelve beach houses and docks into absolute rubble,” said Melville.

The words fell out as fast as he could type. He had a sense of writing well. The Melvilles' pride in the boat's destructiveness shone out of the piece. He dropped the finished story on Tert Card's desk at eleven. Card counting waves, fidgeting through wishes.

“This goes with the shipping news. Profile of a vessel in port.”

“Jack didn't say anything to me about a profile. He tell you to do it?” His private parts showed in his polyester trousers.

“It's extra. It's a pretty interesting boat.”

“Run it, Tert.” Billy Pretty in the corner rapping out the gossip column.

“What about the ATV accident? Where's that?”

“That's the one I didn't do,” said Quoyle. “Wasn't much of an accident. Mrs. Diddolote sprained her wrist. Period.”

Tert Card stared. “You didn't do the one Jack wanted you to do and you did one he don't know you did. Hell, of course we'll just run it. Proper thing. I haven't seen Jack in a flaming fit for a long time. Not since his fishing boot fell onto the hot plate and roasted. Tell you what, you better leave your motor running when you come in tomorrow morning.”

What have I done, thought Quoyle.

“Don't get your water hot about Edith Diddolote. She's in Scruncheons with her sprained wrist and her fiery remarks.” Billy's diamond pattern gansey unraveling at the cuffs. The blue eyes still startled.

“Bloody hell, about time you got here. Billy's up at the clinic getting his prostate checked and Jack's on his way down. He wants to see you.” Tert Card snapped open a fresh copy of the
Gammy Bird
. Shot black looks from his gledgy eyes. At his desk, Nutbeem lit his pipe. The smoke came up in white balls. Outside the window fog and a racing wind that could not carry it away.

“Why?” said Quoyle apprehensively. “Because of the piece?”

“Yep. He probaby intends to tear your guts out for that Hitler yacht piece,” said Tert Card. “He don't like surprises. You should have stuck to what he told you to do.”

The roar of the truck engine, the door slam; Quoyle went sweaty and tense. It's only Jack Buggit, he thought. Only terrible Jack Buggit with his bloody knout and hot irons. Reporter Bludgeoned. His sleeve caught on the bin of notes and papers on his desk; paper sprayed over the desk. Nutbeem's pipe twisted in his teeth, tipped out a nugget of burning dottle as he unkinked the telephone cord by letting the receiver hang low and spin. Looked away.

Jack Buggit strode in, ginger eyes jumped around the room, stopped on Quoyle. He hooked his hand swiftly over his head as though catching a fly and disappeared behind the glass partition. Quoyle followed.

“All right, then,” said Buggit, “This is what it is. This little piece you've wrote and hung off the end of the shipping news—”

“I thought it'd perk the shipping news up a little, Mr. Buggit,” said Quoyle. “An unusual boat in the harbor and—”

“ ‘Jack,'” said Buggit.

“I don't have to write another one. I just thought—.” Reporter Licks Editor's Boot.

“You sound like you're fishing with a holed net, shy most of your shingles standin' there hemming and hawing away.” Glared at Quoyle who slouched and put his hand over his chin.

“Got four phone calls last night about that Hitler boat. People enjoyed it. Mrs. Buggit liked it. I went down to take a look at it meself and there was a good crowd on the dock, all lookin' her over. Course you don't know nothin' about boats, but that's entertaining, too. So go ahead with it. That's the kind of stuff I want. From now on I want you to write a column, see? The Shipping News. Column about a boat in the harbor. See? Story about a boat every week. They'll take to it. Not just Killick-Claw. Up and down the coast. A column. Find a boat and write about it. Don't matter if it's a long-liner or cruise ship. That's all. We'll order your computer. Tell Tert Card I want to see him.”

But no need to say anything to Tert Card who heard everything
over the partition. Quoyle went back to his desk. He felt light and hot. Nutbeem clasped both hands over his head and shook them. His pipe twisted. Quoyle rolled paper into the typewriter but didn't type anything. Thirty-six years old and this was the first time anybody ever said he'd done it right.

Fog against the window like milk.

18

Lobster Pie

“The
lobster buoy hitch . . . was particularly good to tie to timber.”

THE ASHLEY BOOK OF KNOTS

THE BOY in the backseat had plenty to say in wide, skidding vowels that only his mother understood. Quoyle got the sense, though; adventures ran through Herry's talk, a kind of heady exultation in such things as a blue thread on his sweater cuff, the drum of ocherous rain into puddles, a cookie in a twist of tissue. Anything bright. The orange fishermen's gloves. He had a wild sense of color.

“Gove! Gove!”

Or the blue iris in Mrs. Buggit's garden.

“Vars!”

“Nothing wrong with his eyesight,” said Quoyle.

Here was a sudden subject for Wavey. Down's syndrome, she said, and she wanted the boy to have a decent life. Not his fault.
Not to be stuffed away in some back room or left to cast and drool about the streets like in the old days. Things could be done. There were other children along the coast. She had asked about other children, found them, visited the parents—her brother Ken took her in his truck. Explained things could be done. “These children can learn, can be taught,” she said.

Fervent. A ringing voice. Here was Wavey on fire. Had requested books on the condition through the regional library. Started the parents' group. Specialists from St. John's up to speak. Tell what could be done. Challenged children. Got up a petition, called meetings, ah, she said, they wrote letters asking for the special education class. And got it. A three-year-old girl in No Name Cove had never learned to walk. But could learn, did learn. Rescuing lost children, showing them ways to grasp life. She squeezed her hands together, showing him that anyone alive could clench possibilities.

What else, he thought, could kindle this heat.

She asked Quoyle for a ride to the library. Friday and Tuesday afternoons the only time it was open. “See, Ken takes me when he can, but he's fishing now. And I miss my books. I'm the reader. And I read to Herry, just read and read to him. And get for Dad. What he likes. Mountain climbing, hard travels, going down to the Labrador.”

Quoyle got ready Friday morning, put on his good shirt. Cleaned his shoes. Didn't want to be excited. For God's sake, giving someone a ride to the library. But he was.

The library was a renovated old house. Square rooms, the wallpaper painted over in strong pistachio, melon. Homemade shelves around the walls, painted tables.

“There's a children's room,” said Wavey. “Your girls might like to have a few books. Sunshine and Bunny.” She said their names tentatively. Her hair combed and plaited; a grey dress with a lace collar. Herry already at the bookshelves, pulling at spines, opening covers into flying fancies.

Quoyle felt fourteen feet wide, a clumsy poisoned pig, and
every way he turned his sweater caught on some projecting book. He tumbled humorous essayists, murderers, riders of the purple sage, sermonizing doctors, caught them in midair or not at all. Stupid Quoyle, blushing, in a tiny library on a northern coast. But got into the travel section and found the Erics Newby and Hansen, found Redmond O'Hanlon and Wilfrid Thesiger. Got an armful.

They went back by way of Beety's kitchen to get his girls. Who didn't know Wavey.

A ceremonious introduction. “And that's Herry Prowse. And this is Wavey. Herry's mother.” Wavey turned around and shook their hands. And Herry shook everyone's hand, Quoyle's, his mother's, both hands at once. His fingers, palms, as hot as a dog's paws.

“How do you do,” said Wavey. “Oh how do you do, my dears?”

Pulled up in front of Wavey's house to the promise of tea and cakes. Sunshine and Bunny fighting in the station wagon to see the yard next door, menagerie of painted dogs and roosters, silver geese and spotted cats, a wooden man in checked trousers grasping the hand of a wooden woman. A wind vane that was a yellow dory.

Then Bunny eyed the plywood dog with its bottle-cap collar. Mouth open, fangs within the lips, the nose sniffing the wind.

“Dad.” She gripped Quoyle's collar. “There's a white dog.” Whimpered. Quoyle heard her suck in her breath. “A white dog.” And caught the subtle tone, the repetition of the awful words, “white dog.” Then he guessed something. Bunny was inducing a thrill—working herself up. Girl Fears White Dog, Relatives Marvelously Upset.

“Bunny, it's only a wooden dog. It's wood and paint, not real.” But she didn't want to let go of it. Rattled her teeth and whined.

“I guess we'll come for tea another time,” said Quoyle to Wavey. And to Bunny he gave a stern look. Nearly angry.

“Daddy,” said Sunshine, “where's their father? Herry and Wavey?”