The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie Read online

  The waitress, the one whose name he never could remember, slid a number five he didn’t recall ordering across the counter. “Sorry. I heard about what happened,” she said, patting his hand, one quick tap, before ambling away.

  It was almost too much. He could not lift that hand—though it was the one he usually ate with—for fear of shedding what remained of her touch. He sliced clumsily into the waffle with the side of his fork, concentrating not to make a mess.

  After the man on the right departed, the waitress pocketed the tip then topped off Quark’s coffee, bitter-black just how he liked it. A new patron slid onto the stool, cleared his throat and asked if something was burning. The waitress leaned over to whisper to the stranger who said, “How sad to lose your home.” Quark wasn’t sure if the comment was directed at him. After all, he hadn’t lost his home. He wasn’t even sure he’d ever found it. Before he could figure it out, the man picked up his cup and followed the waitress to a recently vacated table. No one came to fill the unoccupied space. When the woman seated on Quark’s left departed, he found himself quite isolated in the midst of the busy diner.

  He wished he’d stayed at the house. He never imagined he’d miss it, or the flies which settled momentarily on his skin before darting off again, leaving him with flickers of irritation that made him feel alive. It didn’t make sense to miss such annoyance, but he did. He suddenly longed for Thayer’s ghost and the old chair where he used to sit to stare out the window just as Quark had come to do, himself, waiting for something he had not yet been able to define. The chair was ruined of course, suitable only for the dead: the mother he barely remembered, and Wayne who had been kind to him for a while, his beloved pet, Cheryl, Mrs. Winter with her secret formula for making snow, Phoebe with her unborn child, and Mocha who Quark had never known alive (though he sometimes dreamt about the little dog running through sunny fields) and all the animals. Suddenly, Quark began to weep, quietly at first, and then with abandon; cupping his hands over his eyes, not caring if he disturbed anyone.

  For a while the diner noise continued—the conversations, the cash register clicks and bells, chairs scraped across the floor, the metallic clang of utensils, a crack of laughter, a baby’s yelp—but it wasn’t long before a hush landed on his shoulders like an invisible shawl, followed by a low buzz.

  At first he thought it came from flies—as if his longing had called them to him—until he realized it was the murmur of Sushi’s patrons: the dead girl’s relatives, the curious, the lost, the waitress with the forgotten name, everyone whispering. Only the baby, swaddled in black, cooed pleasantly, staring at the ceiling as though something fascinating floated there.

  “Why don’t you just admit it and apologize? Why not just get it over with? Hey! Stop acting like you can’t hear me.”

  Initially, Quark was confused, but it soon became clear the woman was talking to him. He didn’t understand why she thought he was acting like he couldn’t hear, and had no idea why she was so angry, or how to improve the situation. “I’m sorry,” he said, cringing at the whine in his voice.

  “Did you catch that? Everyone heard him, right?”

  He recognized many of the scowling faces, though not all of them. A man dressed in a well-fitted black suit, his dark hair cut with precision, glared at Quark as if they’d always been enemies.

  “Leave it, Betty. Angela went to get Healy.”

  “I will not leave it. I told you, didn’t I? I heard him say he did it! But no, Dolly said, not Frankenquark. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. I told you. I told you he confessed.”

  He scanned the crowd, hoping to locate a friendly face as Tony Kindall, cleaver in hand, emerged from the kitchen followed by Chef. Quark felt hesitant to turn his back on them but what did he think would happen? This was where he’d grown up! He’d worked in this very diner! These were his people. His gaze landed on a boy whose expression fluttered from freckled innocence to scorn.

  “We seen him strangle a seagull with his bare hands. He was going to drink its blood, and when he saw us he hollered, so we got out of there but then he was staring through the candy store window like, well, you know, staring.”

  “Tommy, I told you—”

  “It’s the truth, Mom. Why won’t you believe me? Everyone else does.”

  Quark turned to the woman, certain she saw his innocence even as he saw something of her own, quickly smote by a resigned expression. Of course. She was the boy’s mother. Her loyalties rightly resided with her son.

  “Yeah,” another voice chimed in. “We saw him sitting in his house, all hunched over and holding his head like he felt really guilty about something.”

  “When did you…” a woman asked, but her voice trailed off. In the gap between accusations Quark was surprised to discover Mrs. Whitman, sitting in a booth, scowling at him.

  “I always knew you were trouble,” she said.

  He bowed his head.

  “I was relieved when Wayne stopped playing with you and started spending his time with regular kids like Hank and Brian. Then you moved away and hardly came around even to visit Thayer which, well the nut don’t fall far from the tree, is what I always say.

  “And that was that. I didn’t give you any more thought until Wayne passed and I received condolences from every person in his class. Every. Single. One. Except you, and I thought well, it just goes to show, don’t it? It just goes to show.”

  “But, Mrs. Whitman, I didn’t even know—”

  “Goes to show what?” a stranger asked, raising his finger over his coffee cup to signal Dory for a refill, which she delivered with one eye on Quark as if afraid what he might do next.

  “He said his specialty was bones.”

  “What?”

  “I was out doing laundry and all of a sudden there he was lurking around my yard, and I don’t know why I did it, I guess cause I felt sorry for him but I invited him into the house, and that’s when he said his specialty was bones.”

  “There’s been a misunderstanding. I never—”

  But no one was listening. Everyone was murmuring, and staring at him. Even the black-swaddled baby looked at Quark with wide eyes. The small bell above the door rang, signaling the arrival of a woman who appeared oblivious to the atmosphere until she raised her face. “Oh,” she said. “I guess you already heard. Henry Yarly. Who would of believed it?”

  “What about Henry?” Dory asked.

  “Dead.”

  The bearer of this bad news turned at Quark’s anguished cry.

  “Oh! I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re his friend, aren’t you? You’re the one I saw, right? You were down that way, headed towards his house. Sheriff’s looking for you.”

  “I had nothing to do with his death.”

  “No one’s saying anything like that. He just wants to ask some questions. Normal business when someone dies. They always want to talk to the last person who saw ‘em alive.”

  How can anyone be so clueless, Quark wondered, watching her walk across the diner as though it were just an ordinary day. She had almost made it all the way to the counter, apparently with the intention of sitting on one of the unoccupied stools when she slowed to a stop. “Wait,” she said. “Did I interrupt something?”

  Tony used the cleaver to wave her back. “You don’t wanna get too close to him,” he said. “Looks like we have a serial killer in our mitts. I knew something was up when he was in here, threatening Phoebe.”

  “I never—”

  “Everyone heard you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dory asked.

  “I told you—”

  “No. You never—”

  “He came in here ‘n pointed a knife at her.”

  “I didn’t. I mean. Not like that. I wanted my breakfast. It was a misunderstanding.”

  “Why didn’t you do something?”

  “Why are you getting on me? He’s the one. Besides, I called Healy. He came and talked to him.”

  “And Phoebe? What about Phoebe?
”

  “You know how she was. Kind of bitchy. I don’t mean no disrespect. Whoa. Hold on there, Quark. Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I would like to pay my bill now.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I won’t accept charity.”

  “Charity?” Dory spun away from her husband. “Who said anything about charity? Not everything is about you, Quark. Why do you always think everything is about you? Like when Phoebe went missing and you got angry cause I couldn’t wait on you right away!”

  “I have never—”

  “Soon you will go to your watery grave.”

  Mrs. Neller sat at a table, wearing her coat and hat. Quark couldn’t tell if she had just arrived or was on her way out, though he decided it probably didn’t matter. “That’s what he said to me. I was minding my own business, trying to keep my spirit up even though I’d just purchased flowers for a dead girl and her baby too, when he walks by and goes, ‘soon you will go to your watery grave’ and I felt like I was being mocked by death, himself. I’ve been locking my door and sleeping with a fishhook tucked under my pillow ever since.”

  “Mrs. Neller I—”

  “Then I come in and see him here this morning like he’s got nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I never—”

  “Haven’t you done enough?” Dory spoke so softly that several diners leaned forward to hear.

  “I told you. I told you, didn’t I?”

  “Shut up, Betty.”

  “I saw you talking to Yarly,” a man said.

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “Yeah, well what’s that got to do with it? I saw you. Where’s Chef? There you are. Right? Right? You walked him outta here cause he was having one of his fits and I was sittin’ over there and I saw him almost walk right into Yarly like no one else in the whole world matters but him, you know how he is.”

  “Henry Yarly is my friend.”

  “And now he’s dead.”

  “I am not dead,” Quark said, which had a quieting affect on the room. Those who had been leaning forward sat back in their chairs, shoulders slumped. A few people picked up their forks and poked at their eggs.

  “No one thinks you’re dead,” Dory said. “Do you even understand anything that’s happening?”

  Before he could stop himself, Quark was shaking his head no, which went on even after the sheriff arrived, giving everyone a cold look as he walked across the diner, pausing to tell Tony to take the cleaver back into the kitchen.

  “I got my rights,” Tony said.

  “Yeah, well I got my badge.”

  Tony kicked the swinging kitchen doors open, which was impressive until they swung back as he stepped through, momentarily trapping him like a small fish in the bite of a larger one, rescued by Chef who pushed him into the kitchen and did not return when Tony did, wearing his gun, glaring at Healy.

  Quark finally wound down. “There’s been an awful misunderstanding.”

  Healy opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the bell announced another arrival. She, too, was dressed all in black but of course she, more than anyone, had earned the terrible right. Even so, she scanned the establishment as if daring anyone to challenge her. When she saw Quark she made a guttural noise like an animal stuck in a trap, and lunged. Several people held her back long enough for Healy to step in front of Quark, blocking him.

  “Hold on now, Shelia.”

  “He ain’t worth it,” someone said.

  “Settle down! Everyone needs to calm down,” an excited voice shouted.

  “I’ve got kids here. Let me through. Coming through.”

  Quark watched a family weave through the tables, hats askew, coats unbuttoned. What do they think is going to happen, he wondered.

  “I have a right. I have a right to speak.”

  “Of course you do, Shelia,” the sheriff said. “But you sure this is what you want to be doing right now? Don’t you wanna be home, preparing?”

  “No. No, I don’t want to be home ‘preparing’, as you say. For my daughter’s funeral. I don’t mean to be disrespectful. You have been real decent about all this, but now you need to be quiet. Angela told me what’s going on here.”

  “Nothing’s going on here, Shelia.”

  “Something’s going on, and I think it’s about time is all I have to say.”

  “Maybe you should—”

  “Shut up, Dory. You been defending him all the while. It’s my turn to talk.”

  “I—”

  “He was there. I saw him.”

  “Where?” Healy asked.

  “He was down there that day when you found my Phoebe.”

  “Well, a lot of people—” Healy began.

  “No. My girl is dead. My grandchild too. And he was down there acting like he was at an amusement park or something.”

  “Now, Shelia—”

  “Standing there, drinking your shake and watching everything like it was wonderful entertainment.”

  “I don’t drink,” Quark began, but was interrupted by Healy.

  “It would be best for you not to speak.”

  Quark tried. He tried very hard not to say anything, but so many lies had been spoken, so many terrible things he could not simply ignore.

  “I don’t,” he began, and again Healy interrupted.

  “I’m warning you, Quark.”

  “But I don’t drink shakes,” he said. “I don’t even like them.”

  Letty Andrews, who was passing by Sushi’s at just that moment, later reported that the place erupted with a noise so terrifying, she hurried home, locked all her doors, and called the sheriff every ten minutes, feeling more distraught each time no one answered (she had always suspected some hideous fate to befall her) until, finally, after seven tries, Healy picked up and said, “Don’t worry about it, Letty. It’s all under control. Just a big misunderstanding.”

  “But it sounded like something violent was happening. And I heard there’s a serial killer in Bellfairie.”

  “I was there,” Healy said. “It’s under control. I can assure you Bellfairie is perfectly safe. You are in no danger at all. There’s no killer in Bellfairie any longer.”

  She asked him to explain but all he said was, “You are safe. I’ll see you at the funeral.”

  32

  Had not Healy stepped in, Quark felt certain they would have attacked him with their butter knives and grease-smeared forks, or Tony with his gun.

  “Go straight to your place,” the sheriff said. “Don’t talk to anyone.”

  “But I have not paid my bill, and this is the second time. I don’t want people to think I’m a—”

  “My treat. Go home. Stay there. Don’t even think of showing up at Phoebe’s funeral. I’ll stop by later.”

  Quark saw the faces contorted with hate, and deemed the whole thing absurd. Why, after the terrible things they believed he’d done, had they arrived at their point of intolerance over his confessed aversion to shakes? It didn’t make any sense.

  Or did it? Maybe there was an explanation for everything wrong in his life that he’d been unwilling to consider. Perhaps he really was some kind of unacceptable creature. Maybe Thayer had seen that from the very start, and been right to treat Quark like something that needed to be tamed.

  He walked the whole way home with his head bowed, careful of the bird scat and sea spiders that scuttled away from his large feet as he trampled over the old blue spine of a buried dragon, pondering how to make his way through the world without harm, only raising his face after he had made his way up the long drive to the back of the house, so distracted he’d lost track of all the reasons for his sorrow. Dismayed by the ruin, he stood at the edge of the blackened skeleton that had once been Aurora, wondering if something would occur to him, an epiphany that would create meaning out of his life, but that brief flutter of hope only left a crevice of despair.

  The back door hung on its hinge, both difficult to open and vulnerable to bre
ach. Struggling to lift its base from the ground it wedged against, Quark noticed an odd shape protruding from the earth, an acorn. Had he been possessed of any extra store of good humor, he might have laughed. Instead, he picked the nut up, rolling it in the palm of his hand.

  The toolbox was missing. Luckily, a shovel remained abandoned on the ground like a worthless thing. He walked around the house a few times, as if surveying but, really, had an idea from the start that he would settle for a spot in front of the picture window to dig. The muddy remains of his yard—after the onslaught of fire hose—had already begun to harden. It felt good to press his foot into the blade’s edge. He made the hole wider than necessary for the humble acorn he placed, on its side, and buried.

  It took fifty years for a great oak to reach maturity. Maybe he would return, he thought. By then he would be an old man. Maybe he would come back to sit in the chair and stare out the window at the tree he’d planted. Maybe that little acorn contained hundreds of boxes for just as many secrets, or flocks of birds with coarse-grained wings, a small boat, ship boards, a monster’s mask, or a table around which a family would tell the story of the felled tree and the man who planted it and, maybe by that time, he would be at peace.

  *

  The rest of the day was spent preparing to leave: sweeping up glass, fixing the door, taping up the window. The rooms smelled like smoke, which Quark did not consider entirely unpleasant. Some of his best memories were of enjoying a fire in the midst of a cold night, and the light in the dark. Occasionally he paused to watch for Healy who had promised to stop by, but you couldn’t always believe what people said. The day was almost over.

  Quark donned one of Thayer’s sweaters, dismayed to discover it riddled with holes. Apparently, the Old Man’s entire wardrobe was in tatters. How hard would it have been to visit a few times a year to make sure he was eating and had warm clothes to wear?

  “I never meant to be such a bad son,” he said to the urn on the plank table.

  He hoped Thayer would forgive him, but the opportunity for conversation had apparently passed. Now, when Quark wanted them most, the ghosts were gone, the flies too. All he had was a house full of memories and regret, stacked boxes of junk, an empty ditty box, embossed urn, an entire life gone like that.