The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie Read online

  He eyed the urn in his hands, and nodded.

  “I chose it cause of the ships. But, like I said, you can have whatever you want.”

  It was bronze, and etched around the perimeter. He was surprised by its weight.

  “I’m very sorry. Thayer deserved better.”

  She looked like she was hoping for some kind of response but he couldn’t figure out what that might be and, after a moment, she began walking towards the hearse.

  “Wait.”

  She turned but continued taking small backwards steps.

  “Yes? Is there something else?”

  “I hope you will come to the funeral.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I am serious,” Quark said, only then remembering he hadn’t confirmed any of it.

  “I just thought with what happened…”

  “Bring a friend. If you like.”

  She tilted her head, as if trying to make sense of something crooked. “I’m sorry about everything that’s happened, Quark. I really am. But you can’t expect me to just forget what you said.”

  He was confused. What was she referring to? Rather than get bogged down in conversation, he lifted the urn, to remind her of what she had done. She didn’t say anything, only pivoted to step into the hearse.

  Quark watched the vehicle make the difficult maneuver in the muddy drive. The fancy car would need to be washed so it would look nice for the girl’s funeral.

  He stood for a while, thinking about the introduction he’d read in his library book about the author’s husband’s heart plucked from the ash, and fought over.

  Who would ever want even such a small part of me, he wondered and, though he tried to resist, shook his head against the answer.

  *

  Clutching the urn against his chest, Quark slogged through the house. The whole place was a mess, but the kitchen was the worst. The window shattered, glass littered the sink and shards glinted from the mire of a mud-splattered floor made treacherous by pots and pans. He stepped carefully across the room to close the door, but it hung from a broken hinge and would not budge. He stared at the blackened earth and seared wood where the ship once stood, before turning back inside.

  It was cold, the air redolent with the scent of smoke. There was so much to take care of, but Quark needed a few minutes to come to terms with the state of his life. Weary with grief and a long night without sleep, he stumbled towards the couch, closing his eyes as he sank into it, opening them wide upon absorbing an unpleasant dampness, shocked to discover the old chair occupied.

  “Hello?”

  He assumed one of the firemen had been left behind. What other explanation could there be for the soot-covered figure sitting with bowed head? Yet, when he raised his face, familiar eyes peered out, two cobalt lights in the dark.

  “Is it you?”

  The Old Man or, more accurately, what remained of him, nodded, unleashing black flakes that fell with a lazy drift.

  “What happened? Are you all right?” Quark asked and immediately steeled himself against the derision soon to follow. But, other than the eyes, it was impossible to find any familiar features or expression in the specter.

  “What happened? Why are you like this?”

  More dark flakes fell from the thing, diminished, Quark realized, by movement—subtle as the shadow of a quivering leaf—where a mouth should have been.

  “Wait. Don’t try to speak. I think you are falling apart.”

  The ghost emitted a low, buzzing sound, unleashing a shower of embers that flickered out as they fell.

  “Please. I’m not sure you realize what is happening.”

  The spectre shook the dark, disintegrating orb that might once have been a head.

  “Stop! You are making it worse.”

  Whether by force of intention or impetus, it did not stop, and Quark fell into its rhythm, shaking his own head, and moaning even while wondering, in the midst of that brutal union, if he, too, was falling apart.

  When that was finished, all that remained of the Old Man was a blot of soot, which Quark stepped forward to inspect.

  It wasn’t the first time he walked into a puddle in the aftermath of a visitation, but it was the first time he bent down and dipped his hand in the water to lick the salt from his fingers in a desperate act of communion.

  Unable to decide if he should wash or preserve the stain, Quark lifted the cushion for a closer look, and gasped. The Old Man’s shipbuilding book’s cover and pages were bent in such a way it seemed reasonable to surmise it had been tucked into the crevice between arm rest and cushion, fallen into the forgotten space with three pennies, a crumpled tissue, several downy feathers, and strings of lint.

  Quark turned the cushion over to sit. Holding the book in his lap, he worked to flatten the pages, staring out the window rather than risk a glimpse before he was ready. Finally composed, he tried to think of something to say, like a prayer, but nothing came to him. He took a deep breath and opened the book, brushing his fingers across the pages filled with drawings—the Old Man’s sketching hand was a heavy one—tracing little ships, infinitesimal suns, and crude whales, like Braille touched by someone who had never learned to read it. He did this page-after-page until arriving at the only one marked with words. The sight of Thayer’s sharp, square print seemed almost a visitation, more personal than the spirit of the man—or the man—had ever been.

  Place your acorn with its cap on the side two inches deep in the ground. Cover it with dirt. That’s how you build a ship.

  31

  When someone knocked at the front door, Quark worried the boys had returned with tricks like the one he’d fallen for as a teenager, a small bag of dog shit set on fire that he heroically stamped out. The Old Man had been so furious when Quark tracked it into the house he had to wash the floor with a toothbrush. He opened the door (only a crack, ready to bear his full weight if it needed to be closed in a hurry) but it was only Dory.

  “I just heard. I am sick about what happened. Just sick.”

  He waved her in, then quickly shut the door.

  “Jesus, Quark. You all right?”

  “Yes. I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

  “I came as soon as I heard. Mind if I sit?”

  Neither the damp couch nor sooty chair seemed suitable. He pulled one of the straight-back chairs away from the plank table. She seemed to think there was something amusing about that, but didn’t comment as she unbuttoned her coat and set her purse on the floor beside her white shoes.

  “I can’t stay long. It’s very busy at the diner today.”

  “Yes. Well.”

  “Folks coming into town for Phoebe’s funeral, and all. Well, you can imagine, I’m sure.”

  “Is today Saturday?”

  “Yes, it is, you poor thing. You sure you’re all right? You look a little peaked.”

  “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “Oh?”

  “I haven’t been myself lately. I lost track of time. I lost track of everything.”

  “Well, I’ll keep this short. Before you say anything, I want to apologize for going off on you the other day the way I did. I was under distress, you know. Cause of Phoebe.”

  “I hope it’s not too late.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need it tonight.”

  “Need what?” she asked, her voice sharp.

  “I want to keep it simple. Fish, coleslaw.”

  “Quark, what are you talking about?”

  “The catering arrangements. For Thayer’s launch.”

  “What? I heard there’s no ship left.”

  “He is still dead.”

  “Well, yes but—”

  “And I have this.” Quark indicated, with a sweep of his hand, the urn, just then noticing how the lid was set crooked.

  “Is that…him?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But I thought…”

  “They made a mistake.”

  “Jesu
s.”

  “Yes. Well.”

  “The thing is Quark, with Phoebe’s funeral and all, I’m not sure anyone will come.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Why don’t you take a load off?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sit.”

  He was eager for her to leave but, rather than incite a confrontation, pulled out another chair he placed directly across from her only realizing, after he sat, that he’d created an uncomfortable atmosphere; so near, their knees almost touched. He considered making an adjustment but worried doing so would be awkward.

  “How many folks you expecting?”

  “Oh. I don’t know. Five? Six?”

  “Well, maybe. Cause of Phoebe’s funeral, you know. But let’s just round it up to a even ten. If you have extra, you can freeze it. Always nice to have a fish dinner, don’t you think?”

  Quark nodded, though he would have much preferred a stash of vegetarian lasagna. Actually he would have appreciated a big plate of lasagna right at that moment, even cold. He hadn’t eaten yet, and was quite hungry.

  “So, we’re talking potato salad, coleslaw, cod, rolls and cake, right? I think we should throw in a few slices of pie. Some people are cake people, and some are pie people, you know. Coffee, water. Tea, I suppose. You always get the odd tea drinker. Just a general fish dinner, sound about right?”

  He nodded.

  “You feeling okay? This would be a shock for anyone. I remember how bad those headaches of yours used to get.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. All through school you had them. I had a little crush on you, you know. Oh, don’t look so afraid. I’m over it, obviously. But you and me back then, I thought we were kind of alike, both being outsiders and all. You should hang fly strips, Quark.”

  “I don’t like to kill them.”

  “See, that’s what I’ve been saying.”

  “Do I pay now?”

  “That’s why I’m telling you, as your friend, sort of. I know you wouldn’t harm even a mosquito, but there’s been a lot of gossip. I want you to understand I know it’s nonsense. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”

  He considered shaking his head but, worried where that might lead, held very still. “I do not. Sorry.”

  “I’m not sure you realize how people misjudge you, cause of your size and, well, you know. You do have your defenders, though. Me. And Charlotte. Before she died, of course. Yarly. Though he isn’t a talker, in general. The folks who really know you, is what I’m saying. I don’t wanna upset you more on top of everything you already been through, but I think you have a right to know.”

  “All right.”

  “People. Some people. Well a lot of people to be honest, think you killed Phoebe. They say you killed Thayer too. And your mother. Now they’re saying you killed Charlotte. Where’s it going to end? Suddenly you’re like the angel of death, or something. Some say you were the cat killer all along. There’s even a rumor going around that you strangle birds with your bare hands.”

  “Who said that? Was it Tony?”

  “What?” Dory’s head twitched, as if someone had just snapped fingers against her nape. “No. Why would you think that? Kids saw you at the park.”

  “I would never.”

  “Well, of course you wouldn’t. That’s my point. I just think you should be aware, is what I’m saying. You’re having one of your headaches right now, aren’t you? I can tell cause of the way your skin color goes kind of green, and you start breathing funny. You want aspirin? I got some.”

  “Thank you. They don’t work on me.”

  “Tylenol?”

  “Nothing helps. Sometimes I just need to eat.” As if for emphasis Quark’s stomach growled. He might have considered it divine intervention had he believed in such things.

  “You wanna ride? To the diner? I can have you set up with a number five in no time. Wouldn’t that be nice? On the house?”

  “I don’t need charity.”

  “Who said anything about charity? It’s called solace.” She leaned over to pick up her purse. “There’s a big draft in here, by the way. It’s coming from the kitchen.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I can drive myself.”

  Trying to be polite, he thanked her again for stopping by to tell him what was on people’s minds as he walked her to the door, relieved to close it after she stepped outside.

  Then began a search for his keys during which he felt increasing despair he suspected was not commiserate with the situation. After all, they had to be somewhere, didn’t they? Or was all the material of his life slowly disappearing?

  In the truck! Of course! The keys must be in his truck.

  Surprised to discover Dory’s small car remained parked in the drive, he was standing beside it, proving to himself that it was not an illusion, when she came from the back of house, her shoes covered in soot.

  “Oh, I just had to look! It’s horrible, horrible,” she said.

  “Yes. Well.”

  “I heard it was arson. How could anyone destroy something so beautiful? I don’t know what has become of Bellfairie. I really don’t.”

  He nodded and again said how much he appreciated her telling him of her concern then got into his truck, but the keys weren’t there, either. Embarrassed, he decided to wait until she departed, but she stood with her arms crossed over her chest, watching. He rolled down the window to ask if she needed something.

  She pointed at the truck’s tires. “You wanna ride?”

  Quark slammed the door much harder than he intended. It was not always easy to control himself. All four tires were deflated and, upon inspection, he saw they were slashed.

  “You ready?” she asked. “You got everything?”

  Quark didn’t want to explain about his hat. He said he had everything he needed, surprised when she didn’t comment on its absence. Scrunched uncomfortably in the passenger seat, feeling like the giant some people thought he was, he startled back at the blast of music she quickly muted with a jab of her finger.

  “What a shitty thing for someone to do,” she sighed, the usually easy maneuver of turning the car around made difficult by muddy ruts left behind by the fire truck. “Legwart and Charlie said it was bad, but I figured they were exaggerating.”

  “Who?”

  “Leg—coupla the guys. Firemen. They came to the diner afterwards.”

  “Do you mind if I roll down the window?” he asked.

  “Great idea. I’m gonna roll down mine too. Might as well enjoy this before it gets too cold, right? Take a whiff of that sea air. I know things look bad now Quark, but whenever I feel terrible I just close my eyes and take a deep breath. First Phoebe, then Charlotte, and yeah, she was old, all right, but she was the kind of person who you’d think would live to be a hundred at least, you know? And now your beautiful ship, burned to the ground.”

  Quark leaned his head towards the open window, closed his eyes, and imagined he was flying.

  “Also, Thayer.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You were just listing everyone who died.”

  “Oh. Right. Of course. Thayer.”

  He drew his head back to look at Dory. Years ago her lips had reminded him of strawberries. Maybe they still would, if she hadn’t applied that orange lipstick which, smeared past the borders, created a sad-clown look.

  “Jesus, whyn’t you take a picture?”

  “Sorry.” He turned to watch the road. “Do you really think Bellfairie has changed?”

  “You’re joking, right? Remember how it was? Remember that time Charlotte made it snow in our classroom? I always wondered how she did it. She made me believe in magic. For a while.”

  “You remember that too? Do you remember the other things?”

  “Like that time the guys were making fun of you, calling you some silly name and your Old Man killed that albatross?”

  “What?”

  “He shot it out of the sky to show them how good
his aim was. Said he was gonna do that to them if they didn’t stop teasing you.”

  “He never told me that part.”

  “Yeah, he dragged that bird right through town, trailing blood, and singing at the top of his voice, like he wanted everyone to see what he’d done.”

  “He was drunk.”

  “But still.”

  They drove the rest of the way in silence. Quark didn’t even realize his head was shaking until Dory parked, and explained that she really had to get back to work. She was sorry, but she couldn’t wait for him to stop.

  How insubstantial everything is, Quark thought. For so long he believed the Old Man had cut down the oaks out of spite, only to learn there had been a plan all along, a plan for something larger than both of them, a ship dreamt of before Quark was even born. One minute he thought the Old Man had never loved anyone, and the next thought maybe he had. Once there had been an Albatross, its wingspan twelve feet across, soaring across the sky, shot down as a warning to cruel boys. From that corpse, Quark had learned to make song, even as he feared the brutality of its cost.

  Sitting in the car, growing cold with the windows closed, he stared at the Birdman statue with its great wings and talons raised to the sky where a gull came to rest, and then another, and one more.

  When Quark got out of the car, the gulls squawked his name. Who is dying now, he wondered, following Dory’s trail of ashy footprints into the diner.

  *

  Quark hoped to discreetly slide into a booth, but the only available space was at the counter, and he wasn’t going to make a scene about it. Besides, with the help of the large mirror, he could spy on the patrons dressed in mourning clothes, so much black he felt like he was dining with crows. The strangers seated nearby paused in their egg yolks to impart sideways looks, which made him wonder if he had been talking to himself, a bad habit he thought he’d vanquished years ago. When he covered his mouth with his hand, he was startled by the scent of smoke.

  “Quark? Can you hear me?”