The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie Read online

  “And my mother?”

  “Well, she tried. But she spent too much time staring at the sky. Too much time weeping. She fell asleep at inappropriate moments. She forgot to feed you once or twice, and lost track of you a few times. I don’t know if you remember your experience in the heron’s nest, but you were perfectly fine. Never mind what anyone says. They were not going to eat you. Herons can be quite protective.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It was only a few hours.”

  Quark couldn’t think straight. His stomach hurt.

  “So. That’s how you came to be living with Thayer. It was meant to be temporary. Well, you know how mourning is. Grief eats up hours, and if a person isn’t careful, entire years are consumed.

  “The last time I saw Starling was her final afternoon on earth. Oh, how I wish I had foreseen what was to come! But it was an ordinary day, and I am an ordinary woman. No. That’s not right. It was a beautiful day. Exquisite. The sort of day where one expects good things to happen.

  “She said she was going to Thayer’s place to pick you up for a walk. Her cheeks were rosy, her hair swept into saltwater curls. We didn’t talk long. I remember thinking things were going to be all right for you two. I have always felt terrible for not preventing it. But how could I? I see so clearly now what happens next. Well, I don’t need to say any more to you, I guess. The next morning she was dead.”

  Quark felt his hand slap against his chest, palm flat over his wild heart. Was it too much to ask that he have the life he believed in? It felt a violence, it really did.

  “Quark? Are you all right? Does it still hurt?”

  “I’m adequate, Mrs. Winter.”

  “Adequate?”

  “I need to go.”

  “This is a shock. I’ll make strawberry tea. I remember how much you like it.”

  “Thank you, but I need to go.”

  He stood, tipped his hat and turned on his heels to leave, but the old door was stuck. No matter how hard he pulled, it wouldn’t give.

  “Here, let me help,” she said, just as it opened with a pop.

  Quark heard her say his name, softly, but pretended he didn’t. He focused on walking down the stairs, avoiding even a glance in the direction of his old playground where headstones tilted towards the bay as if the dead had been chipping away at their graves. Instead, he concentrated on the sunlit children in the park chasing balls and sailing toy boats.

  Ever since that day when she told the story about the bird people, Quark had wondered why. Why didn’t Mrs. Winter want to leave Bellfairie when he would have happily jumped off the bluff to join them? Then again, only he had been raised by Thayer, and maybe that made all the difference. Quark adjusted the brim of his hat low over his brow, too distraught to make eye contact with anyone. On the muddy bank, a gull paused in the midst of pecking at the remains of a fish, a rope of silver flesh dangling from its beak, watching him pass.

  8

  Sushi’s had, inexplicably, run out of oysters.

  “There’s a whole ocean right there,” Quark said, pointing his knife in the general direction. He had not meant it as a threat, though he was old enough to know one should not go waving knives about.

  He’d been initially pleased to find a booth available, heartened by the comforting aroma of coffee, bacon and eggs, but Dory wasn’t there, and his waitress was the pregnant girl. Her lips were startling red, bright and lush as the island flowers Thayer often talked about though, in her case, the effect was hostile. After unwisely waving his knife about, she spun away, surprisingly graceful in spite of her girth, leaving him to stare out the window at the Birdman statue being scrubbed clean after another assault of vandalism (obscene words spray painted on its base) his focus redirected when he heard, then saw, the squad car scream to a stop in front of Sushi’s.

  He turned to assess the restaurant’s interior, wondering what he’d missed while everyone else had paused in their meals to look at him. Quark suspected they hoped he’d use his size to thwart danger. When Healy entered the diner, however, all the faces—shot with a sudden sunbeam that pierced the windows—turned toward him, instead. Relieved, Quark sank into the booth with a plan to collapse into the amoeba shape he’d taken shelter in as a child and, so occupied, didn’t notice the sheriff’s approach.

  “Quark. Can you hear me? Sit up and listen now. You scared Phoebe.”

  He was confused, first wondering why Healy was worrying about something so minor, before comprehending. “I just wanted the number five. I didn’t mean to frighten anyone.”

  The sheriff stared at Quark for longer than was comfortable before launching into a lecture. A person couldn’t just wave a knife around, especially if that person had “such an imposing physique.” Further, he needed to understand that the community was “on edge these days” with the rumors of a murderer in their midst.

  At that point they were joined by the manager (designated as such by the pin neatly affixed above his shirt pocket) a man with narrow eyes and a precise haircut, who caressed his chin like a cartoon character.

  “Quark? It’s you, isn’t it? Hard to miss, I’d say. Haven’t changed at all. Except maybe got even bigger.”

  Quark tried to assume an amiable expression even as he read the name printed in small dark letters beneath the title on the tag.

  “Tony?”

  “You remember me, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Quark tried to sound as if it didn’t matter. “Tony Kindall.”

  “Dory said you were back.”

  “Yes. I am here.”

  Though the tenor of Tony’s laugh had changed from the cruel mirth of his youth, something of its jagged edge remained, and when he spoke, he did so without humor. “You scared Phoebe.”

  Worried any response would be wrong, Quark held still.

  “I think this is just a misunderstanding,” the sheriff said.

  “Yeah, well now that I see who it is. Tell you what?” Tony raised his voice loud enough for the eavesdroppers. “I’m gonna let it go. I heard what’s going on with your old man. I understand you feeling pissed. All I ask is you behave yourself, all right? We can’t afford to lose wait staff. I think it would be best, all around, if you leave. I ain’t saying you can’t come back. Let’s just let things cool down some. All right?”

  Quark nodded.

  “It’s been a long time, ain’t it? But, hey, once things settle down, you should come by the house for supper. Get the old gang together, huh?”

  Healy’s expression was disappointingly bland, apparently unable to discern the threats lurking behind everything Tony said. Quark nodded.

  “Well, all right.” Tony turned to the sheriff. “I’ll explain to Phoebe. She’s been kinda bitchy, actually. Dory says cause of hormones.”

  By the time Quark walked out of the diner, a small group of people had gathered to see what all the fuss was about. Wanting to reassure them all was well in Bellfairie, he tipped his hat in their direction which initiated a suspicious murmur. They behaved, he thought, as if he might be possessed of dangerous capabilities when, in reality, he was only a hungry orphan. Perhaps a silly term for a grown man, Quark thought it neatly described the desolation of his life. After all, there had never been someone waiting at the door with warm bread and jam, or candy in her pocket.

  Or had there? For as soon as he mourned the lack he pictured a woman standing beneath the oaks, conjured—he assumed—like that morning’s ghost, from longing.

  Hunched against the misery of his life, Quark thrust his hands into the pockets of the ill-fitting pants, and turned down Market Street, which is how he came to be carrying two paper bags full of groceries up the broken glass drive, famished and stunned to see a woman standing by the door. He felt a momentary surge in his chest before recognizing Coral.

  “Do you need help?”

  “Thank you, but that is unnecessary. I can manage.” His right hand was particularly cramped. He wasn’t sure he could make it up the steps without
dropping a bag.

  “Really, you should let me—”

  “What are you doing here? Where’s your car?”

  “I needed a walk. You know, after all that cake. Sheriff Healy asked me to—”

  “I haven’t eaten yet.” The bag began to slip, and he propped it up with his knee.

  “Here, let me at least get the door.”

  Blinking against the change of light, Quark hurried inside to set one bag on the narrow counter and the other on the small table, before peeking around the kitchen doorway to see that Coral remained at the threshold to the house, a silhouette against the bright sky. Not sure what to do about her, he began unpacking the groceries. A loaf of sliced bread. A jar of peanut butter. Six russet potatoes.

  “Quark? I have some news about Thayer. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I haven’t had breakfast,” he called as a fly buzzed narrowly past his face. “Come in. Shut the door and come in.”

  He unpacked the tofu, carrots, onions, cauliflower, turnips and saltines but left the package of toilet paper in the bag rather than call attention to his bathroom needs.

  “Good news. They found him. Thayer. Sheriff Healy’s bringing him home.”

  “Here?”

  She lifted a foot to frown at the sole of her flip-flop. “Can I sit down a minute? I think I might have stepped on glass.”

  Quark wasn’t sure what was expected. After all, wasn’t the chair obvious? He pulled it away from the table and waved his hand over the seat like a conjuring magician. She sat, but not before giving him a funny look he wasn’t sure how to decipher.

  “Turns out he was with Henry Yarly. You know Henry, right? Apparently he thinks he has to keep everyone’s secrets. Anyway, Healy, oh, Jesus Christ, no wonder.” She lifted her hand, a sliver of glass held between thumb and finger. “I’m all right. You don’t have to be…see, it barely broke skin.”

  Uncomfortable with her naked foot, Quark turned away. “Better check the other one,” he said, setting aside three potatoes then adding another, in case she was hungry.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. I mean what are the chances?”

  “He spread glass all over the road.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because of the ghost. She comes and stares at the house. My mother, I guess. He wants to keep her out. I don’t know why.”

  “But that doesn’t make…” she stopped in mid-sentence and slipped off her other flip-flop.

  Quark offered a saucer, which she looked at quizzically until he said, “for the glass.”

  Later, after she was gone, he tossed out the shards, three glass slivers spotted with blood.

  There was a brief period of consternation when Quark discovered neither salt nor pepper to be found but, rather than have a fit, he ate the unseasoned potato wedges at the plank table, staring across the room at the Old Man’s empty chair, trying to comprehend his return.

  After finishing his breakfast Quark stood to watch out the front window, noting how the driveway sparkled like a mirage or barely remembered dream. He would never get used to the absence of trees. He could never forgive it. Weary of the ravaged view, he decided to take his coffee to the backyard, stepping out of the kitchen into a strange world where a tall ship rose against the sky like a fairy tale.

  He had no idea how long he remained there, staring at the ship in that stony yard, the late morning fog woven through her ribs, singing briefly in a breeze, the wood still finding her stretch. Not finished yet, but an accomplishment all the same. Quark couldn’t decide if he was impressed or dismayed. How long had it been going on, the Old Man building an ark? Surely it proved his mental capacity, didn’t it? No one could build such a thing from the workings of a mind in chaos, could they?

  Curls of shaved wood unsettled by the breeze tumbled past Quark’s feet, across the yard, and beneath a long work bench protected by tarp. He paused beside the display of old instruments—adze and wedge, hammer, chisels, gouges, knives, and drills—like a man at a yard sale with a serious interest in tools as if that, and not the ship, was the material of greatest interest.

  Only after he returned with his second cup of coffee did Quark dare confront her. He estimated she was a fifty-five-footer, composed of cedar, fir, and black locust, but mostly oak. Here were the branches he’d climbed, finding comfort in the shelter of leaves. Here were the trees he loved, the severing of their relationship based, not on the destruction he couldn’t abide, but on a creation he had never imagined.

  How does one recognize a clue, anyway, he thought, out of all the flotsam of life?

  Quark drank his coffee and waited. Who knows how long he sat on the same flat rock he used to pretend was a table for magic tricks, considering the mysterious vessel, before he heard the unmistakable sound of tires on gravel, car doors slammed, a curse?

  He found himself hurrying to the front of the house, like a man happy to greet his visitor, but felt a tug of reluctance when he saw Thayer meandering towards the door. Sheriff Healy, leaning against the squad car, nodded and Quark nodded in return. Unsure where to begin, he said “hey” three times, before the Old Man looked up from beneath unruly brows. The blue cast of his gaze, diluted by time, gave him a slightly haunted look which, combined with the wild hair, mustache, and beard made a crazed Santa or, as was appropriate, an old sea captain who swallowed anchor, as the saying went.

  After fixing Quark with that long look (which filled him with guilt for the transgressions he’d made, invading the Old Man’s closet, wearing his clothes, discovering the ship in the backyard, brushing his fingers along her hull), Thayer opened his arms wide, as though to measure half a fathom, or so Quark thought, before realizing it was the beckoning of a hug.

  The Old Man still possessed surprising strength. Quark was relieved when finally released.

  Only after Thayer shuffled into the house, did Healy step away from the car, fixing Quark with a steady gaze. “You’re not leaving, right? He can’t be alone. I told him he could stay with me but he wants to be here. With you.”

  Quark nodded as if this was all perfectly natural though he felt strange. What was the feeling? Something like happiness. To be chosen.

  “I don’t know how long I can remain. I have my work.”

  “What is it you do again?”

  “Taxidermy.” And, when the sheriff frowned, “I preserve animals so people and museums can keep them.”

  “Is that right? You make a living at that?”

  Quark nodded.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Do you do…pets?”

  Quark knew that there were two kinds of people, those comforted by his work and those who weren’t but, worried that even an innocent falsehood would be discerned by a man whose job it was to recognize lies, he nodded.

  “Yeah?” Sheriff Healy shook his head. “Well, takes all kinds, don’t it?”

  Quark hated the way his hand enveloped the sheriff’s and the momentary surge of strength his clasp incited. Other men were threatened by his size, though he never felt up to the competition. The end of almost every handshake was accompanied by a bemused look. It was to the sheriff’s credit that his expression remained neutral even as he turned away.

  Quark watched the squad car roll slowly down the drive. Stopped at the crossroad, the signal light blinked far longer than necessary—there was no traffic to wait for—before making the turn.

  Quark eyed his truck, still parked where he had left it, then opened the door and followed the Old Man into the house.

  9

  Thayer sat at the plank table, an open bottle of rum by his elbow, two shot glasses poured. One of his eyes had grown rheumy while the other remained bright, like a broken lighthouse, Quark thought, surprised by the wave of sorrow he felt as he sat, pretending grave interest in the rum he gulped in one horrible swallow.

  “C’mon, boy, down the hatch, heh?”

  The Old Man scowled, and after his own glass had been dispensed several times began to argue with himself.
He was the luckiest man who ever crossed the sea or the unluckiest who ever lived. He had nine lives or nine tragedies. He had been saved by a horse, swept overboard in a gale, lost his ship, terrorized by a ghost, ate bad mussels, kissed a witch, almost died from a tattoo, was nearly hit by lightning, lived.

  “You know what happens when a bolt strikes you, don’t you son?”

  “Someone hit by lightning,” Quark began, but the Old Man leaned across the table to deliver a rum-soaked response to his own query.

  “A man hit by lightning talks to ghosts. He doesn’t just see ‘em. He talks to ‘em like they ain’t dead, or like he’s one of ‘em.”

  “You are the only person,” Quark said (as though he were intimate with many) “who thinks not being hit by lightning was an unfortunate event.”

  “Well, what would you know about it?”

  Quark peered into his glass, inhaling the scent of vanilla, cinnamon and clove. What did he know? Really, what did he know about anything? And why was he so frightened of an old man with trembling hands and wavering focus babbling about ghosts, witches and storms?

  “The sea never did call your name, did it, boy?”

  He learned early he was not made for it, suffering nausea even on the pier if the day was windy enough. Thayer paid others to bring Quark out until everyone knew all it took were a few whitecaps before his skin turned gray. No amount of orange slices could prevent the inevitable, apparently limitless vomiting. He became a joke, though even he understood it was not meant unkindly. People in Bellfairie often showed affection through humor. Unfortunately, he rode the teasing as well as the waves. He hadn’t thought about the humiliation in years, but the woozy drunken feeling brought it all back.