The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie Page 11

  “Move aside, please. Could you move so we can get out of here?”

  Suddenly everyone was checking their phones, putting on coats, setting money beside plates.

  “A body,” someone said, pushing past.

  When the waitress approached, Quark stepped boldly in her path. “What happened?”

  “They found her.”

  “Who?”

  “Phoebe,” she said, shaking her head as she continued walking out the front door, still carrying the coffee pot like some kind of ghost, herself, trapped in the rituals of a life she’d left behind.

  Rather than press through the sudden rush to exit, Quark remained drinking his chocolate soda, slurping through the straw. They were weeping, putting sweaters on inside-out, forgetting their hats beside abandoned meals, unfinished omelets with cheese melting from the cuts, coffee steaming in cups, and green melon balls perched beside strawberries that glistened like miniature hearts. As if death were an extraordinary event arrived in Bellfairie like a hundred-year curse they had forgotten.

  “Oh, Quark, can you believe it?”

  He had not noticed Dory come stand by his side to watch the mass of people stream past the diner. When had the day turned so bright? He looked away from the light, and discovered that she was staring up at him with tears in her eyes. When she inhaled deeply he did as well, sucking in the cold revival of the chocolate soda which was very good, he thought.

  18

  A massive cloud expanded dark wings, like a doomed angel hovering above the mob, cordoned so far from the scene they might as well have remained in the diner with their coffee and eggs, their hope of being a part of something that mattered.

  “Fell from the bluff,” they said. “Or jumped,” they murmured. “No, pushed.”

  Slurping his chocolate soda, Quark moved through the crowd, causing a bit of a sensation when they parted for him until he stood beside the yellow police tape. Nothing human could be seen of the mass that lay at a distance, neither wisp of hair, nor glimpse of flesh. She might have been a pile of clothes, or a garbage bag washed on shore instead of a dead girl marooned on the rocks.

  Quark had watched enough crime shows to understand what tide and time could do to evidence, yet was still surprised at the urgency displayed by the officers who arrived from other municipalities (judging by the various insignia on their uniforms) and bossed their way through the throng.

  Have they no sense of futility, he wondered as they breached the divide, lumbering across the beach towards the sheriff who stood beside the body, watching the waves, as if only he understood that reinforcement had come too late to matter.

  It was then Quark noticed the woman hobbling across the sand in high heels, twisting and floundering in her narrow skirt, a beaded necklace flailing over her sweater and whipping her chin. When someone called from the crowd she turned, her mouth agape.

  It was almost imperceptible—perhaps imagined—but Quark thought she leaned slightly forward to lock eyes on him. As if, through some magical element, he had reached across space to dangle his finger above her mouth, it closed with the gentle defiance of a sea urchin, their connection fully severed by a policeman she tried to beat away, and another, and another. The crowd was hushed, the only sound the waves until she let out a piercing cry.

  Quark lifted his face to the winged cloud pressed across the sun. Like the work of a celestial lepidopterist, he thought, regretting he had not pursued the boneless art.

  Lately, so much of life was about regret. He regretted the time he hadn’t spent with Thayer as much as the time he had. He regretted that he had returned to Bellfairie. He regretted the girl. He regretted not insisting she get into the truck as much as he regretted stopping for her at all, and he regretted joining the curious horde. He should have realized how dangerous it was to stand amongst them.

  His reverie was broken by the dull rhythmic click of stones. They had begun stacking the cairn that marked where a body was found, even though it was at some distance. Because of the tide, he thought. It was difficult to bend while keeping both hat and soda from succumbing to gravity. He grabbed the nearest pebble, gray and unremarkable.

  Once again they gave him a wide berth as he made his way, hushed except for the child who exclaimed, “Look, mom. See. I told you. A giant!”

  Quark did not feel so grand, however. He was just a man, after all, another one like the rest. After placing his pebble on top of the stack, he paused for a moment, but couldn’t think why he had and, when a woman came to wait behind him, left.

  It snowed on his way back, a flurry of salty flakes entirely melted by the time he walked up the long drive to the house, so squat and ordinary it was hard to believe a ship stood behind it. He almost thought he imagined her, but there she was, her masts piercing the cirrus remnants of wings.

  There was only so much he could do. Quark’s customers might initially confuse his skill with mad science, but eventually the limitation of his craft became apparent. While it was true he could give the appearance of animation to the dead, he could not give them life. Even Mocha developed a dull, dry film over her eyes Quark periodically wiped with a damp cloth, confronted by the glassy stare.

  He wanted. He wanted so much. He wanted to heal everything between the boy he’d been and the man who raised him. He wanted to save the girl, remember his mother, defend himself, refuse the albatross, and forgive everyone. He wanted to do the right thing at the right time in the real world, and not just in his imagination. He wanted to be a hero, or at least good.

  He wondered if the girl’s grieving parents hoped for her return. Maybe their love was so strong they wouldn’t mind the flies, the disturbed sleep, the puddles and smoke or whatever elements her spirit left in her wake: a baby’s cry, a red smear of lipstick, a mocking laugh. Maybe they wouldn’t mind any of it, if only she would come back. Quark sighed at his own inadequacy. What he wanted most from the Old Man’s ghost was nothing more than the impenetrable distance that had separated them when he was alive.

  19

  Quark worried, the next morning, on his walk into town, that his lack of distress about the girl might be a sign of some corrupt element in his nature. He understood her death was a sad circumstance but could not grieve for her. People die every day, he reasoned. Every hour, every minute, every second. Dead, dead, dead. There. Another person dead. What was he supposed to do, live in a state of perpetual mourning? He, still alive, had tasks to complete, errands to run, responsibilities to execute.

  The girl still smiled from posters tacked to light-posts and affixed to storefront windows though, occasionally, all that remained were four squares of tape on the glass, marking the border of her absence. Many pedestrians wore black, and a few wiped away tears. Yet, life continued, even as the rules of this new reality were unclear. A stranger held the door to the post office open, but when Quark tipped his hat in appreciation, the man turned glum, apparently remembering the solemn situation.

  “Quark,” the postmaster shouted as though through a gale. “How you doing, son?”

  “I am here to pick up Thayer’s mail. I would also like to close his post office box.”

  Without comment, the postmaster slipped through the curtain behind him, exposing bins of envelopes, and packages wrapped in brown paper. Quark listened to the voices in murmured conversation before a hand parted the drape, and a different man stepped out, smiling broadly beneath an impressively curled moustache.

  “Quark? I thought you left weeks ago. Don’t you recognize me?”

  “I am sorry, I do not.”

  “It’s Hank. Hank Pauly, your old classmate.”

  He had such a friendly face. Even back when he’d been one of the tormentors, he’d sported deceptive dimples.

  “Yeah? You’re remembering now, ain’t you? I woulda recognized you anywhere. You ain’t changed at all, excepting maybe got even taller.”

  He might have been the worst of the bunch, relentless, really.

  “I heard about your Ol
d Man. Sorry.”

  Quark nodded.

  “Wanted to help with the ship-build, but I never got over there. Sick kids. Shit like that.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Quark that any of his old tormenters would have had something to do with the ship. It was disturbing to think of them so near when he was unaware.

  “Here you go.” The postmaster stepped through the curtain with a small bundle. “This was in the box. You don’t gotta check now. I already looked. This is all of it.”

  Quark was shocked to see a half-naked woman on the magazine cover.

  “Yeah, that might cheer you up some, son.” Both the postmaster and Hank laughed.

  “Thank you for your assistance.”

  “Aw, come on, don’t be like that. Most folks enjoy a friendly exchange. Don’t mean any harm by it. Anyway, that’s the reason Thayer never wanted mail delivered.”

  “What reason?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The reason. You said that’s the reason he didn’t want mail delivered.”

  “Yeah?”

  “’That’s the reason,’ you said. What’s the reason? I would like to know why he had mail sent here when he could have had it delivered to the house. I am trying to understand why he did the things he did.”

  “Hey now, calm down. You ain’t gonna have one of your fits, are ya?”

  Quark felt over heated. It was impossible to know how to dress. One hour held the chill and dread of late November, while the next was all blue sky and summer.

  “I merely want to inquire what you meant by the reason. You said my…Thayer had a reason for not having mail delivered to the house, and I am curious what that reason was.”

  The postmaster and Hank exchanged a look. “Well, ‘cause of me, I guess. He got sorta lonely the last few years and could make me laugh, you know. Your Old Man used to like a good joke, didn’t he?”

  Quark felt appalled by the notion that Thayer not only had a sense of humor, but shared it with the dopey postmaster.

  “From now on, please just deliver mail to the house.” Though Quark directed his comment to the postmaster, both men nodded solemnly. He held the magazine firmly tucked under his arm. The only thing that would have made the entire enterprise worse would have been dropping the naked woman on the floor.

  He did not drop her, however, not then or on the long, hot walk home, even when crossed by a small gang of boys who said something he couldn’t hear, followed by a very audible, “Oh that’s just Frankenquark. My dad says he’s nothing to worry about.”

  Exhausted, Quark collapsed into the bed to peruse the magazine, hoping to discover the mysterious element that motivated others. While he looked at the naked women in disturbing poses, he thought about how seldom he’d been touched, unsure if all those clawed-hands on his shoulders offered as recent consolation counted. He felt relieved not to have ever been confronted by the spectacle displayed on the pages he turned with increasing horror. Finally, having only incited confusion and shame, he closed the magazine and watched the ship instead. What kind of man was he? None of the definitions seemed to apply. It was a distressing thought, but he felt calmed by the ship’s presence just as—all those years ago—he’d found solace in the trees from which she was made.

  20

  Quark initially mistook the ringing for the bells tolling in their watery grave. But no, it was the telephone. Who would call, he wondered as he hurried into the kitchen, worried he wouldn’t get to it in time, stumbling as he picked up the receiver. He didn’t mean to shout.

  “Hello?”

  “Quark?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Maude. From the funeral home?”

  “I mailed the check last week.”

  “This is about something else.”

  The flies had returned. He felt both discouraged by their tenacity and mesmerized by their dance as they darted in and out of the late afternoon light.

  “Quark? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand you’ve been looking for a captain. Not sure you know, but I have experience with a ship like yours. Summer work, when I was young. I’ve been in all kinds of seas, going out since I was a girl. What I’m trying to say is I’d like the position. I can’t think, and I bet you can’t either, of another person better prepared for shepherding the dead. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I heard you ain’t much of a sailor.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Well, let me take care of her and you can concentrate on your grief. I’ll navigate while you focus on the remains.”

  “I am not planning to go on the trip.”

  “Oh. Well, all right. It would be an honor for me to take her out. You got no idea how many shitheads around here wanna do it but are afraid of a corpse and a curse. I can put together a crew too, if you like. I got friends in the business, and none of ‘em are afraid of ghosts. A ship like yours…well, I never thought I’d get another chance, and back then I didn’t fully appreciate it. The way a ship like yours moves is as close to being a part of the sea as a person can get. Without getting swallowed by it, I mean.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “You know, fuck it. I suppose you want someone who never cries, right? I spose—”

  “I am pleased to learn of your interest.”

  “You want someone more like your old man. Well, good luck with that, ‘cause I heard…wait. What? What did you say?”

  “Your tears are of no significance.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean as pertains to the position.”

  “You mean…right. All right.”

  “I do have one question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What happens if someone dies?”

  “If someone dies?”

  “Will that impede your availability?”

  “You mean, like if someone needs an undertaker?”

  “Yes. That is what I am referring to.”

  “We’re only talking a day trip, right? Sunrise departure, back before dark?”

  “Yes. That’s correct.”

  “My assistant is new, but she can handle things for a day. If she can’t, I fuckin need a new assistant.”

  “All right.”

  “You saying we’ve got a deal?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then. All right. Good. You won’t regret it. I’ll take care of her, and him too. Just tell me when and we’ll be there.”

  “I must secure a way to transport her to the dock. Once that’s confirmed, I will notify you of the chosen date of departure.”

  “You won’t regret it, Quark.”

  “I won’t?”

  “I promise. And you know what they say about an undertaker’s promise, right?”

  “Actually, I—”

  “Thank you for making this shitty time so much better.”

  It was then Quark understood. Why hadn’t he realized sooner? She was the undertaker. She must have attended to the girl’s remains. Of course she was upset!

  “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Sorry about the girl.”

  He waited for a response but all he heard was a vague whispered noise, like the sound inside a seashell. He wondered if there was something wrong with his ears. How would he know? What if people had been saying important things to him all his life that he never heard?

  “I will notify you of the day of departure once it is arranged,” he shouted.

  The only response was a dial tone, which was puzzling. On another day, he might have taken offense, but Quark decided to focus on the pleasant feeling of accomplishment. He had a captain and a crew, his difficult mission almost complete.

  It won’t be long before the Old Man is returned to the sea where his corpse will sink and the ghost can roam his drowned kingdom, he thought, pleased.

  Emboldened, Quark retrieved the slim phone book with the incongruous picture of palm trees on its cover, using his finger to track columns m
ade complex by oversized ads placed without deference to alphabetization. When he located the number for Riddle’s Tow and Plow Company he was so disoriented by optimism that he failed to consider the implications of the name until his request had been laid out: the ship in the backyard, the need for a way to get her to the dock.

  “Frankenquark? It’s me, Brian! Don’t you remember?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Quark tried to sound amiable. “How could I forget?”

  “Yah, Tony said he saw you at the diner.”

  Quark had to hold himself very still. There was only one tow company in Bellfairie. He had to make it work.

  “Yes, I saw him too.”

  “Right. And Gooseneck? You seen him? I suppose you heard about what happened to his girl?”

  “His girl?”

  “Yah. Right. That one that gone missing.”

  “Was she his girlfriend?”

  “What? Fuck Quark, you got a sick sense of humor. Talking that way ‘bout his daughter.”

  To think that Gooseneck had grown up to be a man with a daughter was shocking. Gooseneck! Out of all of them!

  “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. She’s dead.”

  “Sick bastard is all I’m saying. Doing that to a fifteen-year-old girl.”

  “It is my understanding she was trying to fly away.”

  “Yah? Well I don’t know what you…hey, hold on a minute.”

  It sounded like he cupped his hand over the phone to shout something to someone named Roadkill. Quark was thinking about Brian Riddle’s unpleasant habit of assigning nicknames when he came back on the line and asked what day had been chosen for the launch. Distracted, Quark said the first thing that came to his mind, Thursday.

  “What? Why you gonna do that? No one sails on Thursday if they got a choice. Don’t you remember?”

  Quark was unable to recall why Thursday was a problem, but there was no use arguing about it. Friday was out too because that was the day of the crucifixion. It didn’t matter your religion, either. The sea (and much of Bellfairie) was ruled by an odd confluence of Christian paganism. He might have suggested Saturday—there was nothing wrong with Saturday, exactly—but rather than prolong the conversation, he said she’d go out on Sunday.