The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie Read online

  She spoke with such nonchalance, Quark felt hesitant to admit he didn’t know what she was referring to. What hallucinations? Was this something he was supposed to know about?

  “I’m not sure I have decaf.”

  “It’s all right. Forget it. Seems like the storm might be passing.”

  “I’ll look.”

  There was one box of tea in the cupboard and it wasn’t decaf. Nonetheless, Quark set the kettle on the burner. Though the thunder and lightning had subsided he was disturbed by the thought of being left alone with the rain. He dropped the fully caffeinated teabag into a mug and carefully tucked the incriminating box to the back of the cupboard.

  Hallucinations? What hallucinations? He tapped the box just to be sure it did, in fact, exist.

  Determined to ask Coral what she meant, he found her perched at the end of the couch, finger jabbing at her phone, a scowl on her face. He decided not to interrupt. He needed to organize his thoughts, always difficult to do during one of his headaches. He returned to the kitchen, and stared out the round window—so lashed with rain he couldn’t see anything but the wet dark—until the kettle whistled.

  “I’m sorry,” he would say. “I’m not sure what you are referring to. I do not have hallucinations.”

  He was taken aback, however, to find her no longer sitting on the couch but standing by the plank table, frowning at the stack of letters.

  “Oh! I thought maybe you were writing a novel, or something. I didn’t mean—”

  “Here’s your tea.” After catching her so obviously transgressing his privacy, Quark no longer felt bad about the caffeine. He gave her the mug, which she cupped with both hands. “Just some letters to the good citizens of Bellfairie.”

  She nodded. He wondered if she suspected what he had done. Though how could she? Had she even taken a sip? He neatened the pages, tapping the stack against the table. When, after a good deal of time, she said nothing, he raised his face, surprised to find her watching.

  “Sit,” he said. “You should sit.”

  He pulled a chair away from the table. She looked from it, to the front door then sat. He started to sit across from her, but she said, “I would be more comfortable if you were on the couch.”

  He thought it was an odd request, but what did he know about women? He did as she asked, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “I regret I don’t have any cake to offer.”

  Frowning at the stack of letters—caught again—she turned to look at him. “No. Thank you.” She sipped her tea, peering over the mug’s rim at Quark, which made him uncomfortable. He pretended sudden interest in the corner where the figurehead once stood.

  “I hope you aren’t giving up the ship, Quark. You can’t blame yourself for something that happened so long ago. I’m sure it’s been difficult. Everyone, that is almost everyone, understands. What happened to you was…. Well, obviously I don’t know what it was like. What it’s been like. I don’t know all your symptoms. I shouldn’t assume that I do.”

  “My symptoms?”

  “People who are struck by lightning have all kinds of symptoms, actually.”

  “Yes, yes,” Quark said, confused by the change in topic. “They talk to ghosts.”

  “What?”

  “My…Thayer always said someone struck by lightning can talk to the dead.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  It was almost imperceptible, but Quark had much experience observing small alterations of expression in people, and he thought her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “Aunt Charlotte doesn’t think you remember. She thinks you’ve forgotten all about it.”

  “All about what?”

  “Being struck by lightning. I told her that’s not possible. I mean you have the scars to remind you.”

  Quark remained with his hands in his lap, the expression on his face, he hoped, nonplussed. He’d had years of practice with such duplicity, after all, not wanting to invite the Old Man’s wrath by revealing confusion or uncertainty.

  “Then again,” she said, “memory loss is one of the affects.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes. Memory loss, hearing loss, hallucinations, seizures, headaches, all of it.”

  Quark suddenly felt as though the storm had relocated to his own head. “I’m sorry. Are you saying I was struck by lightning?”

  “You don’t have to apologize. Everyone knows it wasn’t your fault. Are you all right?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What don’t you remember?”

  What an impossible question. How was he supposed to answer? How could he know what he couldn’t remember? Once he had a cat, and then he didn’t. He used to build small graveyards out of stones, carved a flute from bone, folded paper into birds he tossed from his bedroom window; he remembered all that. But he had a mother—or so he was told—and all he recalled of her was a vague, uncertain recollection of a woman waiting by the door, a voice asking him to walk on the bluffs.

  Suddenly the room was so bright Quark thought the house must have been struck, though Coral sat sipping her tea as if nothing had changed. He couldn’t figure out how to proceed. The rain made a sound like stones against the glass, and he felt as though pebbles pelted his head.

  “Quark? Quark? Please stop shaking your head.”

  “No, no, no, no.”

  “Do I need to call someone? Should I call a doctor?”

  With great resolve, he was finally able to make it stop, but the effort left him exhausted. “That is not necessary. I am fine. Everything is perfectly fine. I just need to lay down now.”

  “What about soup?”

  “Soup?”

  “I could make you some chicken noodle—”

  “Chicken?” Quark barked, frightening both of them. “Thank you,” he amended. “I’m Pescatarian.”

  “Pescatarian?”

  “I don’t eat birds. No one in Bellfairie eats birds. Is that some kind of trick?”

  “Whoa, hold on there. You’re starting to sound a little paranoid. Plenty of people eat birds, Quark. What do you think happens on Thanksgiving? I’m just saying don’t put your dietary restrictions on everyone else, okay? This is America. Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll make you some soup. Don’t worry about it. It hardly takes anything to make good soup. Whatever you have will be enough. By the time it’s done, the storm will be over. I’ll leave it in the refrigerator, and you can heat it up when you’re hungry.”

  He walked away right in the middle of her saying something about potatoes. In the dark shelter of the bedroom he sat on the edge of the bed to struggle through the torment of unlacing his shoes then kicked them off, and laid back, so thoroughly racked with pain he dared not move further, not even to locate the pillow.

  He didn’t know how long he slept before he was awoken by the tinny melody of a cell phone. He wondered if Mrs. Winter had called to inquire about his well-being. Though his head still hurt he found that, by moving slowly, he could turn on his side to relax into the comfort of the worn indentation of the old mattress. A narrow strip of light emanated from beneath the closed door, but he was overwhelmed by the aroma of onions. He closed his eyes, hoping he could will himself to leave the taunt of nausea, even if accompanied by the unfamiliar solace of someone in the kitchen making his supper.

  He was awoken again when the door popped open just enough to reveal a slice of silhouette.

  “Are you awake?” she whispered. “Would you like some soup?”

  “No. Not at this moment. Thank you.”

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  Honestly, he wasn’t sure he would be, but guessed she didn’t mean the question broadly. “I’m quite adequate.”

  “The storm stopped a while ago. I’m going to leave. Did you say something? Do you need anything?”

  “Of course not.”

  He decided to pretend he’d fallen back asleep, altering the volume of his breath until he heard the sound of her foots
teps cross the wooden floor, the front door opened then closed. He counted to ten before stumbling to draw the lock and return to bed, no longer made seasick by the aroma that permeated the house.

  He positioned the pillow under his head and stared into the dark. “What am I?” he whispered, daring to hope the spirits would reassure him he was good but all he heard was the cawing of gulls.

  “Quawk. Quawk. Quawk,” the jury said, as if his name was synonymous with guilty. He folded the pillow up to cover his ears but, still, heard them calling his name.

  24

  Quark awoke to a bright sky and a sun dart that lit a singular point on the dresser, causing something there to sparkle. It took a few seconds before he remembered the gold heart he’d found on the Whitman property, glittering like a fallen star, extinguished while he watched.

  He slowly turned his head to gaze at the ship framed perfectly in the window. Was it just an illusion, he wondered then quickly reminded himself of all the people who had commented on her presence. If she was an apparition then much of Bellfairie suffered the same malady of perception.

  As often happened after one of his headaches, Quark felt taxed by the weight of his own body. He eased carefully out of his bed, meandered to the bathroom and then to the kitchen where he inspected the soup Coral left in the refrigerator, popping the old Tupperware lid to confront an unpleasant sludge of potato and carrots, dipping his finger into the glop to prove it was there and not simply a dream created out of his sad hope for affection.

  Quark had a lot of questions he was unable to answer without assistance. When he walked out into the rain-washed day, his hat tilted back so he could enjoy the sunshine on his face, he wondered why the previous night’s revelations made him feel in danger of floating away. Was the sensation just an effect of skipping breakfast? Or was his existence so composed of illusion that, as he stripped himself of everything false, he would find only absence where a life should have been?

  When he arrived at the small park it was deserted but for a distressed gull pacing beside another collapsed in the rocks, its neck at a disjointed angle, wings spread uselessly beneath its body. He steadied himself against the uneven terrain to investigate, squatting for a closer look. When he heard the guttural cry, he thought it came from the surviving bird before realizing that it came from him. What was he so upset about?

  “Quark? Quark? Is that you?”

  Mrs. Winter stood in front of her house. He hoped she hadn’t witnessed his display of anguish. It was embarrassing how easily he was overcome. The Old Man would have been irate if he had lived to see it.

  “Are you all right?”

  Quark wasn’t sure he was. He abandoned the gull and its pacing mate, walking slowly as a child in trouble.

  “What a lovely surprise,” she said, looking like she meant it. “Come in, come in.” She left the door open for him to follow. The room was dark and overheated from the small fire in the hearth, though the open windows created a pleasant confluence of ocean air and wood smoke.

  “I didn’t realize the day was so lovely,” she laughed. “Woke up with winter in my bones. You don’t know this yet, but old age is a cold season.”

  Had Thayer suffered a similar chill, Quark wondered. Should he have done more to help? Had he been as bad of a son as the Old Man was a father?

  “Are you all right?”

  “I was just thinking about my…Thayer.”

  “Yes, well,” Mrs. Winter peered up at him. “He was your captain, wasn’t he?”

  Quark, who had never thought it was a wholly accurate description, had to admit he felt adrift.

  “I know!” she said, as if they had been in discourse. “Why don’t we have tea in the garden? This might be the last beautiful day. Will you help?”

  He assumed she was trying to make him feel like he mattered but after the tray was loaded with teapot, saucers and cups, silver spoons, sugar cubes, lemon slices, paper napkins and scones, he discovered how challenging it was to maneuver down the back steps, across the yard to the table beneath a leafy arbor. When he finally sat on the hard chair (it was made out of iron, a bewildering choice for comfort) Quark found his view encompassed both the garden and the cemetery he’d played in as a child. He had no memory of enjoying the park, but recalled several instances of weaving through headstones reading names and dates, words of faith and sorrow, pointing his wand at each grave, trying to raise the dead.

  “How nice to sit and watch you drink strawberry tea again. I remember how you liked it sweet.”

  He added a sugar cube and, after stirring it with a silver spoon that had metal roses twined up its stem, took a sip. It tasted all right, though he was amazed to think it had ever been a favorite.

  “My niece says you aren’t feeling well.”

  He felt disturbed to consider others talking about his personal business. The scone was quite delicious, however, and he reached for another.

  “You seem fine now.”

  “I am not used to people knowing more about my life than I do.”

  “Oh, well. No one knows their whole story. It’s impossible. We, most of us, have felt some responsibility to carry yours ever since your accident.”

  “I don’t remember an accident,” Quark said, feeling as though he’d just made a shameful confession.

  “Oh? Not even that?”

  He resisted the temptation to shake his head, uncertain he’d be able to stop.

  “Surely you must have wondered about the scars?”

  He hadn’t. He just bore the marks—a pattern similar to winter trees across his arms and chest—the same way he bore his hair, his fingernails, his great height, his unfortunate face, his skin. He learned a long time ago that any taxonomy of his own body quickly became a distressing meditation on amputation, and a somber reflection on beauty and its opposite.

  She peered at him beneath a glowering brow. “I think it’s best you hear it from me, don’t you agree?”

  He suspected she was right. Eyeing the distant headstones that had provided so much entertainment when he was young, he nodded.

  “Many people don’t realize lightning can strike on a clear day like this, but it can and does. A single bolt contains up to one billion volts of electricity. Can you imagine? One hundred lightning bolts strike the earth every second. Did you know that?”

  “Oh, yes. I know this story.”

  “What story, Quark?”

  “How the ship of bells went down. How the men, women and children drowned. How survivors said that rescuers held up lanterns on the shore to guide them to safety, but it was actually the reflective glare of sun on quartz. It was a sunny day only a mile away from the stormy one, and they were rescued by the rocks.”

  Quark found Mrs. Winter’s expressions difficult to read. He thought she looked disapproving, but her voice was kind.

  “That is all true, Quark, though it is not what we are talking about. You were always…when you were young, you were quite creative. Other boys your age were playing with boats and baseballs while you were walking all over Bellfairie in your father’s old Stovepipe hat, waving that fishing pole at everyone and everything.”

  “I was a magician.”

  “Yes. That’s right. See, you remember some things. A magician, and a mere boy. You had no way to know. It could have happened to anyone. It was a beautiful afternoon. The storm came later. That’s when Thayer went to look for you. I’m sure you realize what an effort that was for him. Ever since his wreck he did not go out in storms. But he went out for you, and carried you back into town. You were still unconscious. Only later did he learn that you’d gone to walk with her. That’s when he realized she was missing.”

  “Who?” Quark asked, though he had a bad feeling.

  “Do you want me to say it?”

  He nodded.

  “Your mother. You were with her on the bluff, dear, when you raised that fishing rod—”

  “My magic wand.”

  “Everyone knows you meant it as so
mething good. You were always turning people into birds and whatnot—”

  “I’m not sure I—”

  “Like I said. Such an imagination!”

  “I still don’t—”

  “Lightning. Right out of the bluest sky. Many of us saw the flash. Before we found out what had happened, we thought it was a sign of something good.”

  “Are you saying…”

  “It struck that wand of yours, just as you pointed it at her. Quark? Can you hear me?”

  “I killed my own mother?”

  “It wasn’t you. It was the lightning. A tragedy.”

  “But I—”

  “You were a child. You were playing.”

  “Did anyone see me do it?” Quark asked, hoping he’d discovered a dispensation.

  “Oh, no one saw it occur. Thayer searched everywhere for you, right in the middle of that storm, which had turned quite violent by that time. He was the one who found you, naked as a little bird and unconscious. He picked you up and carried you home. You were the one who told everyone how you raised your wand and pointed it at her. I can’t remember why, exactly, only that it was for something good, which no one has ever doubted. You were always a sweet boy.”

  “I was?”

  “Yes, I know folks like to say that the lightning changed you, made you well…the way you are.”

  “The way I am?”

  “It didn’t though. I mean, naturally the scars were new, and your distress in a storm but those fits of yours and the rest of your particular ways has been your nature since you were a small boy.”

  “My fits?”

  “That head shaking and whatnot. In case you ever wondered. I know it’s made things hard for you, but not all people are the same. I explained this to Healy though I’m not sure he understands. Don’t you worry now, just ignore what everyone’s saying.”

  What was everyone saying? Later, Quark wondered if things might have been different had he investigated, but she’d advised him to ignore the scuttlebutt, so he decided to begin immediately. A man can only hold so much, he thought, watching an errant gold leaf swirl down from the sky, surprising himself by standing to reach for it, though when it fluttered past his fingers he was left clasping air.