The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie Page 9

  He turned back to the computer, trying to recall what else he’d meant to research. It struck him as funny when he finally remembered and typed in his own name. Quark, he learned, was an elementary particle. He wasn’t sure what that meant. It certainly didn’t sound like the star Mrs. Winter had referred to. Well, what had he expected? She was an old woman with birds on her head, and bound to be confused.

  No one had ever seen a Quark, which felt like a further diminishment unless—and here he suspected he reached for meaning—his father had offered the name out of some sort of fascination with the mystery of existence.

  Further confusing things was the fact that Quarks (this rumored thing, this idea) did not exist in isolation but always clung to another. So far removed was he from such attachment, he laughed.

  The librarian looked up from her work and said, “God bless you.”

  Quark was confused until he realized she’d mistaken his laughter for a sneeze. Embarrassed, he turned back to the computer. He decided to try again, and typed in “Quark star,” pleased at the pictures that appeared, pretty crystalline circles of light. She’d been right, after all. He had been named after a star.

  Or at least the idea of one. For, as it seemed to be with all things Quark (other than cheese) the star was also a hypothesis, formed either inside a neutron star or within the death of a massive one.

  Something about that felt right, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. Searching for an explanation, Quark was stunned to discover he also shared his name with a Star Trek character. He sat back with a gasp then checked to see if the librarian was angry at him for all the disruption, but she remained absorbed in tapping computer keys. He turned back to the screen to assess his own reflection superimposed over the creature’s face. It was not an exact match, but there was enough alignment between their low-drawn brows, close set eyes, and stick-out ears that he wondered if the story of being named after the star was just something Mrs. Winter had made up to make him feel better.

  This unpleasant rumination brought with it the torment of his childhood, the cruel taunt preserved through the years, re-employed during his current visit. They were children. He shouldn’t let their squeaky-voiced barbs upset him.

  It took a great deal of courage for Quark to walk over to the librarian’s desk and wait for her to acknowledge his presence, which she did without looking up.

  “You don’t have to sign out. No one is waiting.”

  “Actually, I wonder if you could help me locate a particular book. If it is not too much trouble.”

  She looked up then, and he wondered what he had said wrong, before she smiled in a way he could not decipher. He hoped it meant she was happy.

  “What title are you looking for?”

  “Frankenstein,” he whispered.

  “Oh. We have that,” she said as though it were a stunning development. “I can show you right where it is.”

  He followed her into the stacks where she brushed her finger with its bitten nail over the spines until it stopped on a thin red volume.

  “Have you read it before?”

  “I have not. I have meant to do so for quite some time.”

  “Well, you are in for a treat. It’s one of my favorites.”

  He wondered if she was making fun of him, but she returned his stare with a direct gaze and a soft smile.

  “I am going to read it now,” he said.

  “Here?”

  “Not here. At the house.”

  “You have to check it out first.”

  He followed her back to the desk where she asked him questions about his address before handing him a card on which she had printed his name in neat black letters.

  “I know it’s old fashioned, but that’s the way Bellfairie rolls.”

  He hesitated, unsure how to proceed. He didn’t want to be brash. By the time he decided to tip his hat in gratitude, she had returned to her work. He took the book and left.

  Back at the house Quark spent nearly an hour catching the flies that proliferated in his absence, slamming a cup over each one, gently sliding paper between rim and surface, turning the whole thing over with one hand while keeping the cover secure with the other. In this manner he made the difficult transition outdoors where he released each buzzing pest to the world.

  Finally finished, he collapsed into the old chair, annoyed, at first, by the book’s lengthy introduction though it soon became so fascinating the story, itself, seemed initially dull. Soon, however, he became absorbed in the tale of a quest to create life. He could relate. After all, his vocation was to give the appearance of animation to the dead. Sometimes, before he turned on the office lights in the morning, he felt the animals watching, and twice he thought he heard the rustling of feathers after he stepped out of the room, though he never found any proof to warrant his suspicion that death was not the impenetrable border others said it was.

  He was so startled when he found the name (well into the story) that he exclaimed, and then looked around the room, anticipating retribution. But he was alone. He read the passage again, and a third time out loud.

  All those years! Most of his life, in fact, Quark had thought they were calling him a monster, but Frankenstein was a character to be admired, in spite of his sloppy work. A scientist! Clearly, the man should have shown more compassion to the victim of his research, but what person wasn’t flawed?

  Quark marked his place in the book with one of the Christmas holly napkins, pleased to return to his obligations with this new understanding. He spent several hours, as he sorted through the clutter, in an unfamiliar physical state that reminded him of the drunken one, though he remained sober. Rather than a blurred world, everything was bright.

  Before beginning dinner preparations he stopped to sit and stare out the window at the long drive, trying to identify what he was feeling, other than drowsy, and began to suspect it was joy.

  *

  He awoke to an enchantment of silver streaks darting through the sky.

  Raindrops, he realized, falling so softly they might have been ghosts of a different storm.

  “Run,” a voice whispered. “As fast as you can, or you’ll never get away from here.”

  Later, Quark would think the panic he felt was bizarre but, in the moment of experiencing it, he only knew the insistent need for escape. When he picked up his keys he clenched them so tightly that, once safely in his truck, he studied the impression in his palm as though reading it to unlock the mystery of his life. He thought he heard the whisper again as he turned the key in the ignition but when he paused to listen, there was only the sound of rain—falling hard by then—and a distant grumble of thunder.

  The panic subsided as he rumbled down the long drive, becoming a mere remnant by the time he turned onto Seaside Lane, devoid of traffic, the shoreline wild with waves, his vision obscured by the swipe of windshield wipers. Quark was surprised that, from the safety of his truck, he found Bellfairie in the rain to be quite pleasant, the shabby buildings reflected in oily puddles like watercolors made with disappearing paint.

  “Don’t you recall how you always visited?” Mrs. Winter had asked. Why couldn’t he remember? A sensation like a stone poked, not in his shoe but his brain, though he didn’t have time to inspect it further, his reverie interrupted by the appearance of a hooded figure on the sidewalk.

  For a moment he thought she was one of Mrs. Winter’s bird folk but, as he slowed to get a better look, Quark saw a familiar face scowling beneath her hood. He drove a little further, put the truck in park and leaned across the seat to roll down the window. She turned to sneer at him, bright red lips a bloody slash in her snow-white skin.

  “Oh, I recognize you. You work at the diner. Would you like a ride?”

  “No,” she said, without stopping.

  He slowly eased the car forward but got too far ahead. Watching in his rearview mirror, he formulated a plan. “Get in,” he would insist, but she crossed to the other side of the street.

  Feeli
ng guilty and somehow accused, Quark reached across the wet passenger seat to roll up the window, suddenly uncertain about his mission. What was he doing, anyway? Why didn’t he just leave? Keep driving and never look back? He thought again of his desire to be a better person. He thought, also, about the missing ship building book. Probably nonsense, anyway. And yet, who was he? Who was the man who raised the orphan? Who was the man Quark had called father? Was it unreasonable to hope that the Old Man’s book might provide answers?

  What is my life? Quark wondered, turning off the ignition but remaining in the truck’s cab to assess Wintercairn’s undesirable location between park and cemetery where trees reached like claws above the dead. He held his breath as he ran to the house, careful not to slip when he lurched up the stairs. What was the old saying? Something about breathing near a graveyard. It was foolish, of course. Children played in the park all the time, and most of them lived long lives. He, himself, had enjoyed the graveyard as a boy. Nonetheless, he kept his lips locked, knocking with increased urgency until Mrs. Winter opened the door. Eyes wide, she reached for his wrist to pull him inside with a surprisingly tight grasp.

  “Quark? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, I’m very well. You asked that I come the next time it rained.”

  “Have you eaten yet?”

  He wondered if there was a correct answer, but trying to sort it out while dripping onto her fancy carpet seemed futile. He shook his head, closing his eyes against any distress his confession might cause.

  “Is that your answer?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, try not to look like you’re being led to an execution. No one’s going to force you.”

  The last time Quark had been invited past the front room of anyone’s house was as a child. The thought incited random blotches of memory, plastic soldiers climbing blanket hills, Wayne’s mother saying, “Now what’s he done?”

  “You coming? Quark?”

  The narrow hallway was lined with framed botanical prints and paintings of birds, some captured in a state of transformation between avian and human. He walked through the dining room with the ornate wallpaper—blowzy, bone-colored flowers against a backdrop of gold and red—into the kitchen where Mrs. Winter stood before the stove on a small footstool decoratively painted to look like a toad, stirring the contents of a large cast iron pot. No wonder people thought she was a witch. What if he had misunderstood all along and she wasn’t good?

  “Quark? You all right?”

  He caught himself on the verge of shaking his head. “I am fine.”

  “Hope you like chowder. You’re not one of those vegetarians, are you?”

  “Pescatarian. Fish. No meat.” He noticed the scowl this induced but paid it no mind. So this is how people live, he thought, the table set with bread and butter, the room filled with an appetizing aroma and no flies.

  “Quark?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you remembering? All the time you spent here?”

  He felt bad that he wasn’t.

  “Well, don’t worry about it. Come on now. Here you are.”

  Not wanting to ruin everything with a spill, he carried the bowl with both hands, eyeing the chowder for signs of a tempest, walking so slowly that Mrs. Winter had served herself and was seated before he arrived at the table, triumphant as a pilgrim.

  “You really are very peculiar,” she said. “I remember that about you.”

  Quark thought of the sea urchins he used to play with in the tide pools, the way they curled into themselves if he pointed too close to their vulnerable centers.

  She didn’t say grace, which was all right with him. The Old Man used to recite a short prayer before every meal: “Our Lady of the Sea, be good to us, the world is wide and our house is so small,” but it had never made the food taste better, and it certainly hadn’t stopped the pain.

  A flash of lightning blazed the room, momentarily suspending them in its violet web.

  “Quite a storm,” she said, her eyes focused on her spoon. “See anyone out in it?”

  “Just Snow White.” Quark felt himself blush. “The one who works at the diner. She’s with child. I don’t know her name.”

  “Oh. Phoebe.”

  Mrs. Winter was so diminutive that she sat perched on a large cushion, like some kind of aged child at the table who, when she reached for the loaf of bread, appeared in danger of toppling over. Quark struggled with trying to decide if he should offer assistance or not. By the time he came to the conclusion that there would be no harm in a gentle nudge of the bread board in her direction, she had grasped it herself, leaning into her soup and causing a splotch of chowder to blossom over her heart.

  “Phoebe reminds me of your mother.”

  Spoon poised at his lips, Quark hesitated. He pictured the girl, sullen and unkind, so different from the mother he hoped for. He shook his head against the image. Mrs. Winter paused in the midst of buttering her bread to watch. With great concentration he willed himself to stop. Once that was taken care of, he sipped the chowder, which was delicious, even if under-salted.

  They ate (mostly in silence) Mrs. Winter would later say. Two people “Just appreciating our supper. Nothing strange about it at all. Some folks are talkers and some aren’t. I would say he isn’t a talker. For the most part.”

  Afterwards, they retired to the parlor where he stoked the fire. When he turned from the hearth he found her peering at him, as if confused how he’d come to be there.

  “Don’t you remember anything?” she asked.

  “Not much.” He turned to adjust the logs, trying to position them for a slow burn. It didn’t take long, but by the time he achieved a promising flame, she had dozed off. Her skin had a porcelain cast to it, the same sheen as his favorite cup and saucer set on his work table back home, composed of ash and crushed animal bones.

  What is beauty, he wondered. What is love?

  When he stood to go, he had the idea of leaning down to kiss her forehead. He had never kissed a living person, and the compulsion frightened him. Instead, he tiptoed across the room, hoping to avoid initiating a squeak from the old floor. He mustered all his strength to open the door, careful to pull it closed softly behind as he stepped outside into a glistening world.

  He drove home with the truck window rolled down—it was cold, but the damp air smelled like raw honey—thinking of all the things he’d wished he’d asked. By the time he parked in front of the house, he decided none of it mattered. So, he had questions. He had great gaps in his memory. Who didn’t? Who could recall everything? In the end, what mattered? His past, with its gaping wounds, or the present in which he found himself called by name and fed by others? He went to sleep, untroubled by the buzzing flies or scent of pipe tobacco and, later, when awoken by the ghost, he simply rolled over.

  17

  Phoebe was missing. Wherever Quark went—Emporium, grocery, and diner—the air fluttered with her name. Mrs. Winter left messages around town that she was looking for him. He returned from one errand to find a small plastic bird lying on its side on the top step to the house, like a calling card. Why? What did she want, he wondered, though he had his suspicions.

  What difference did it make that he’d seen the girl the night she disappeared? They’d barely spoken. Rumor had it her boyfriend said she left in the midst of an argument about the baby. “She walked right out into the storm” was reported several times, in ominous tones.

  Quark knew what others would say if they learned he’d spoken to her. He might have been confused about many aspects of life in Bellfairie (and elsewhere) but he’d watched enough police procedurals to feel certain he would be suspected of something terrible, which is why, when he heard the knock at his front door that afternoon, he did not rush to answer—hopeful of another lasagna to appease his mourning—but crouched beneath the kitchen table. Mrs. Winter was not the sort to mind protocol, however. She let herself in. He thought he heard her call for Thayer, but so what if she did? It took a
while to remember who was dead, Quark reasoned. After all, he had once mistaken the sound of a barking dog for Mocha even as the little fellow rested in taxidermy-state and, just the other morning, had caught himself setting aside two mugs for coffee with the Old Man.

  “Are you hiding from me?”

  “What a pleasant surprise,” he said, pretending to pick some infinitesimal thing up from the floor.

  “Put the kettle on. We need to talk. I have been looking everywhere. Did no one tell you?”

  She unpinned her hat with its depleted flock, draped her coat over the chair and heaved herself to sit, tapping her fingers as she watched him try to scrub a dusty film from the kettle.

  “Stop. Just fill it up and set it on the burner. Who cares if the outside is clean or not?”

  Quark had come to enjoy being in that house without experiencing judgment, but it seemed petulant to continue. He placed the kettle on the burner then turned to properly greet his visitor. “Welcome,” he said, “How can I assist you?”

  “Don’t be coy. You are well aware why I’m here.”

  He opened the cupboard to search, without optimism, for tea, pleasantly surprised when he located a small box tucked in a dark corner. Worried she would criticize again, he surreptitiously wiped the dust off with the hem of his shirt.

  “You need to tell Healy what you saw.”

  “I didn’t see anything. Everybody knows she was out there. That’s all I know too.”

  Mrs. Winter’s expression was such a mirror of the girl’s that night—the straight slash of lips beneath narrowed eyes—that Quark experienced a fleeting sensation of seeing what the young woman might have looked like had she aged. It reminded him of what Felix said about a dybbuk, the dead that come to rest in a living body.

  “Mrs. Winter, I…” Quark began, but was interrupted by the kettle’s whistle. He set the mugs in the sink for a careful pour. Boiling water was quite painful, he knew.

  When she said, “honey” he thought it was meant as an endearment, and was moved, if only for a moment, before she added, “I would take honey if you had any.”