The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie Read online

  If contemplation of murder hadn’t been enough to reassure himself that temperance was necessary, standing in the small kitchen, contemplating the arc of tongue necessary to procure a single drop of rum from a sliver of glass, was.

  There followed a miserable period Quark was never able to fully reassemble. Lost in the debilitation of regaining sobriety, he discovered, was like being lost in the drunken hours, except that the latter state offered a pleasant stupor (as long as it was replenished) the prior state did not.

  The pounding took permanent residence in his head, inescapable except during nightmares from which he awoke in his childhood bed, disoriented by finding himself facing the wall instead of the window, or sprawled on the couch (which held a distressing stench of urine) or kitchen floor, once curved in fetal position in the bathroom.

  Undaunted, the visitors (fairies? demons?) returned with cakes, casseroles and pies.

  “I’ll leave it here, with the rest. No, no don’t get up. You’ve had a shock. Grief is a ship without a captain. We know how you loved him.”

  Someone did the dishes and swept the floor—he never could recall who—while he sat in the old chair, staring out the window. Someone sang to him, or sang, at least, a song about roses buried beneath a shroud of snow.

  At last the day came when he awoke in the Old Man’s bed, encased between sheets that smelled vaguely of lavender, wearing a clean T-shirt and sweat pants. Disturbed to consider who had dressed him, Quark decided to believe he’d done it himself. He rubbed his hand over his chin, surprised to discover it clean-shaven, relieved to find no blood on his palm or pillowcase, which suggested he’d actually achieved equilibrium before taking the razor to his face. He judged, by the light diffused through drawn drapes, that it was early. Invigorated, he eased out of bed and padded, barefoot, into the kitchen where Tupperware and glass bowls were stacked beside the sink. He noted the remnants of masking tape, though the names had been smeared to illegible blots of ink. Had he really believed fairies brought their wicked enchantment to him in containers marked for safe return? He might have shaken his head had he not worried where that would lead. Instead, he continued his inspection, pleased to discover bread in the stocked refrigerator, coffee in the tin, salt and pepper shakers poised on the small table.

  Driven by a desire for fresh air, even greater than his appetite, Quark stepped into the backyard. For a moment he thought he’d been right after all—magic had occurred—before a swift glance offered evidence of human hands at work. He formulated an equation between the pounding he’d suffered through, the tool belt-wearing Bellfairians he’d dismissed as nonsensical, and the fully assembled ship. Stones and woodchips poked the soles of his feet while he remained transfixed, inhaling the scent of cedar mixed with the floral note of oak, the vibrant aroma of fir.

  She wasn’t just enchanting because she had risen in his yard like some kind of ghost ship, but because, through completion, she had become animated. Even the dark-haired figure at the bow, who Quark knew was carved from wood (her face pressed into the sky like a woman leaning towards freedom) stared at him with one cold eye, as if assessing.

  How had he missed what had been so obvious? His visitors hadn’t been there to entrap, but to offer this marvelous, generous gift. Was it possible he had been wrong about Bellfairie? Was it possible he had been wrong about his life? Was it possible he had been wrong about everything?

  That night Quark was awoken by a flicker of light, as though someone had lit a match beside the bed. Peering into the dark, he saw moments from his past. There he was, on the bluff, the fishing pole/magic wand raised to the sky. There he was, laughing with youthful glee so infectious the grown man found himself smiling too. There he was, staring out that round window filled with stars. And there he was, sheltered by the sturdy branches. All his life Quark had thought joy was something that landed on a person like a butterfly that had never landed on him, but maybe it had been there all along and he would have seen it, had he only known where to look. There he was, carving in a circle of light like a boy with a halo while, nearby, someone hums and when the footsteps approach he doesn’t even look up. How had he forgotten for so long? There was a time when he was not afraid.

  15

  What a mess life is, Quark thought as he sorted. It was baffling that a man, who had so little, had so much! It occurred to him to walk away from all of it, clean out the refrigerator, turn off the lights and come back in the spring. He might have done so, had he not still hoped to find the shipbuilding book. It was promised to him, and he wanted it. In the meantime, trying to decide what to keep and what to give away was much more difficult than he had anticipated. Even the most mundane items, a spoon—a spoon!—caused a crisis. It was just a simple utensil, the one Thayer preferred for his chowder and stews, distinguishable from the others by its broad handle marked with wear. Several times Quark tossed it into the resale bin only to fish it out again.

  Eventually, he decided to confront the freezer stuffed with newspaper-wrapped bundles, peeling back Sunday comics dated from his childhood to reveal mottled meat the color of a bruise, obviously long past edible. He didn’t bother to look closely at the rest before throwing it into a heavy trash bag he stashed by the side of the house. Two days later, the odor was so bad he finally felt inspired to clear the glass, using a shovel to push stones and shards to the side of the long drive, then changed the flat and loaded the truck bed with garbage he took to the dump. Hungry after all that, Quark was tempted to stop at Sushi’s, but worried that one such deviation might incite another; buying rum at the Emporium for instance. He drove straight back to the house.

  Though the nights were cool, he took to sleeping with the windows open, trying to repair the overwhelming scent of decay that had begun to permeate the house. The briny ocean air did little to dismiss the fetid dark that never went away entirely, not even when he turned on the lights causing flies to rise from their private recesses. Even a bright morning sun couldn’t dissipate the interior gloom, or ameliorate the stench.

  Perhaps none of it was new; neither the stink, nor the dreariness. After all, one thing he clearly remembered from his childhood was an overwhelming desire for escape. How often he dreamt of leaving Bellfairie, the house, the Old Man, everything!

  When Quark awoke one morning to the disturbing perfume of cherry vanilla scented tobacco he might have thought he’d imagined the death had he not washed the body, himself. He hoped he imagined the pipe’s acrid odor that used to drift upstairs where he lay in his bed pretending he had a different family. He wondered if he had merely caught a whiff of historic smoke trapped, until then, in the folds of the drapes or beneath the Old Man’s pillow.

  Yet, when Quark pressed against the mattress to sit up, he was reminded of the discomfort such maneuvers had caused in his youth. He cautioned himself not to panic. There was no reason to attribute the pain to anything occult. After all, he’d been quite physically active since his arrival in Bellfairie. It had merely caught up with him, he thought as he stepped into a puddle.

  When he was finished shaking his head, Quark continued to the bathroom. Careful of the dangling bulb that hovered above his scalp, he stripped off his bed shirt to inspect the small, finger shaped bruises—like little dark moons—that had appeared overnight between the branches of his scarred skin. Cold, he donned the shirt, turned off the light, and stepped out of the bathroom into another puddle.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked, both relieved and disappointed when no one answered.

  After wiping up the puddles, Quark decided a man wasn’t meant to remain housebound day-after-day, and could go mad trying. He needed to trust his own willpower to resist the temptations of the greater world. He reminded himself how, all those years ago, he had left Bellfairie to make his own life. People always thought he was strong—maybe even frightening—because of his size, but Quark knew his real strength was internal.

  It felt strange to stroll by the mailbox at the end of the drive, as th
ough doing something illicit, but by the time he walked past the Emporium, Quark had begun to feel like his old self again. He tipped his hat at the storefront window, unsure if Felix saw him, though the sheriff, cruising past at just that moment did, and pulled over to talk. They exchanged pleasantries about the weather, which was unusually mild for so late in the season. It seemed an amiable conversation until Healy inquired about the funeral arrangements.

  “I am planning a burial at sea. It is what he wanted.”

  “I’m not sure you’ve left yourself enough time for that,” the sheriff admonished, as though Quark had a hand in the arrangement of seasons. “Don’t you have a job to get back to?”

  “Fortunately, my work can wait.” Quark surprised himself with his own wit though, judging by Healy’s bland expression, he did not understand humor. “My clients are all dead.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Not the humans. Of course. The animals.”

  The two men stared at each other until Quark tipped his hat and continued on his way, quite hungry by the time he took his place at Sushi’s counter.

  “Really?” Dory asked when she poured his coffee, as if in the middle of an exchange. “I thought you left weeks ago.” She leaned so close her bosom nearly rested on the counter, and Quark was suddenly reminded of the time he’d spied her half-naked, all those years ago, when he’d hid behind a boulder at the beach. Of all the memories he hoped to find, why did the ones he wished to forget resurface so persistently?

  “I will be leaving soon. After the sea burial.”

  “Burial at sea? You sure you wanna get into all that?”

  “I’m trying to do the right thing,” he said.

  “Well, of course you are.”

  He could not continue to look at her so he turned away, only to discover the pregnant waitress watching, her bright red lips in a smirk as if she knew all his secrets, which was impossible. She was a mere girl, nothing to be frightened of. Pretending not to care, Quark leaned on the counter, inadvertently knocking his coffee cup over with his elbow.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Dory said, plucking a rag from her apron, pausing to smile at him though her gaze held a warning. Even as a child she’d worn an expression of duality, wariness and trust.

  “I will leave after he has returned to the sea. It’s what he wanted.”

  “Well, all right. Calm down. I’m just saying, what about cremation? You could sprinkle him, you know, in your yard, pour some off the bluff, take the rest with you and get out of here. Get back to your life.”

  “He always said he wanted to return to the ocean. That’s where he’s going.”

  She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Yeah, he used to come in here, those last few weeks, and order the sweet waffles, you know with strawberries and whipped cream. I remember him saying about going back to sea, though I didn’t have any idea about that ship of his. It just goes to show, don’t it? You think you know a person and it turns out you don’t! I guess he thought he had time to finish it. Just goes to show.”

  Quark, whose memories of Thayer’s appetite revolved around the bitter taste, decided to order his number five prepared sweet, as homage. Dory gave him a curious look, but he didn’t feel compelled to explain his need to consume whatever he could of the man who raised him. Usually content to simply sip his coffee while waiting, that morning he leaned over to pick up an abandoned copy of Bridal Bliss which, he discovered, was mostly composed of advertisements. He was surprised by the options offered, twelve-tiered cakes, elaborate bouquets, bubbles, and doves “to be released as a symbol of your love,” which he thought sounded nice.

  Quark’s mood was so improved by the time Dory slid his plate across the counter that he smiled though she moved on without response. Sadly, right from the first bite he found the new combination objectionable. Strawberries didn’t make any sense with oysters, and the whipped cream was an unnecessary flamboyance. Even after he scraped away the offending elements, the waffle was ruined by association. Hunched over his plate, he wondered if the whole thing had been some kind of set-up, one last mean trick left by the Old Man.

  16

  Dory told Quark that the small library, located snugly between post office and tavern, had a public computer from which he could access the regional newspaper. The Bellfairie Clapper, he had been dismayed to learn, was no longer delivered as it had been when he was a child, tossed in the general direction of the house at dawn. He wasn’t a Luddite. He had a computer for various bookkeeping issues with his work. From time-to-time he enjoyed an evening of watching old movies. Still, Quark was filled with longing as he remembered running barefoot to search for the bound paper, damp with dew, to hand to the Old Man who always said, “Special delivery, eh?” followed by the snap sound of the rubber bands undone. Back then the morning sun glimmered through leaves and the house shimmered green as though they lived under water.

  Even the librarian was different. Well, of course. Quark was well aware he was not the only citizen who moved away, his life not the only one touched by death. Still, he was sorry he had never properly thanked Mrs. Eel who had been particularly kind to him when he had taken shelter there one brutal day, his tormentors in pursuit.

  The new librarian was young with short dark curls and a penetrating gaze. He wondered if she was pretty. She was clearly efficient and accommodating, setting him up with the computer and explaining that he had half an hour if anyone else was waiting. No one happened to be doing so, but she wrote the time down on a pad of paper anyway, and he signed his name beside it.

  The desk was small and the monitor rather large, but Quark liked how it was situated in a corner where he could spy both the librarian and the front door, yet no one could see his work unless they snuck up behind him. It wasn’t that he had anything to hide. He just liked his privacy.

  “For Burial at Sea,” he typed. “Captain Thayer, the sole survivor of a shipwreck more than six decades ago.” That should keep away those who believed in curses. Just put it right out there from the start. “Will pay top dollar.”

  Quark wasn’t sure what “top dollar” might be but his situation had always been modest, and he’d been able, over the years, to set some money aside. He’d had a dream, “a small dream” as he called it, of buying the little house he currently rented. It wasn’t easy to give that up but what else could be done? He had a responsibility he intended to execute with grace. He knew well what it was to be the recipient of unloved duty. He wanted to be a better man than the one who raised him.

  All he needed was one person willing to take on the task of finding a crew for the ship’s solemn voyage. And return, of course. He added, “Payment upon completion.” He had just hit enter when he heard his name, startled to find Mrs. Winter peering at him, so close he could smell the lavender perfume he recalled from his childhood, which brought with it an unexpected time warp and what was she doing at his house, in whispered conference with Thayer?

  “Quark? Are you all right? You’re not having one of your fits, are you?”

  He held his neck very still. “I am quite well. Thank you.”

  She snorted, causing the songbirds tucked in her hatband to quiver. “What’s that you’re doing?”

  “I am searching for a captain. To take out my…Thayer’s ship. For burial at sea.”

  “Oh, yes. I heard you were up to something.”

  “It’s what he wants.”

  “Yes. He keeps insisting.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Mrs. Winter sighed. Quark scanned the small room to see if anyone was disturbed by the confrontation, but the only other person present, the librarian, remained focused on her own computer, scowling at the screen.

  “Don’t you have a home you need to get back to, Quark? A job? People?”

  “My work is very accommodating.”

  “What is it you do again?”

  “Taxidermist, at your service.” He tipped the brim of his hat.

  “Is that right?”
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br />   Unsure how to extricate himself from her gaze, he nodded.

  “Why don’t you stop by again? I have that strawberry tea you like. There’s always chocolate around the house. I don’t know if you enjoy chocolate? My niece is a fiend for it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Winter. That would be nice,” Quark said, and meant it, though he neither recalled the strawberry tea she referred to, nor enjoyed the way chocolate coated the inside of his mouth. “On what date and at what time should I arrive?”

  “What an odd question.” She shook her head so vigorously the bobbing birds appeared ready to take flight. “Come the next time it rains, of course.”

  “When it rains?”

  “Remember? How you always visited during storms? Don’t you remember?”

  Quark had only one memory of a rainy day in his childhood and it did not feature Mrs. Winter. “Should I bring anything?” He’d seen people offer to do so in movies, and assumed it was the right thing to ask, but she stared at him with such scrutiny he wondered if he’d said something suspicious.

  “Just bring yourself.” She peered at him a moment longer and then, with an abrupt nod, turned away. He watched her walk to the foyer where she placed a gloved hand on the old door, which swung open without apparent effort. She stood there for a moment, as if unsure where to go next, the silhouette of a woman with birds on her head. Through a trick of the light—the shadow caused by the closing door, perhaps—it looked for a moment as if the blue songbird flew from her hat into the sky before she continued on her way.