by Mary Rickert
“Well, son, mostly I agree. Most everyone does. The judge agrees, which is a good thing all around. But now there is that issue, you know.”
“What issue?”
Sheriff Healy frowned and leaned back, his eyes steady on Quark’s face. “What do you remember about your mother, son?”
“Nothing.” Quark thought of the stories the Old Man used to tell about the unnatural stillness before the storm that took his ship and all else on board.
“Quark? Are you listening?”
“Sorry, I—”
“You must have some memories.”
“No. How could I? I was a baby when she died.”
“You were eight, son.”
“I was— What?”
“Have it right here.” The sheriff tapped an open folder placed square on his desk.
Quark shook his head. “You’ve made a mistake.”
The sheriff tapped the page once more. “Eight.”
Quark felt his jaw drop.
“Everybody knows he was hard on you, son. Nobody blames you for staying away so long, but if there’s anything you been too afraid to tell—”
“No.” Quark shook his head, the way he used to as a kid. “No, no, no.” He knew he was acting strangely but it took several beats before he could stop, and by then it was too late; Sheriff Healy was appraising him like someone reconsidering a purchase.
“No,” Quark said. “What are you asking?”
Sheriff Healy cocked his finger at Quark. “Well, all right, then. Just keep in mind. If you recall anything, even a small thing, it might help find Thayer. You’d be surprised what I can do with a little clue.”
“I will be sure to notify you if I think of anything.”
“Well, you do that. In the meantime, try not to worry. Everyone’s looking. Probably just sleeping off a bender somewhere.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t believe it was true, but wasn’t sure if the sheriff did or not. Quark nodded and, once again, found himself tipping his imaginary hat as he made a hasty exit. It was a cool day, the sort of chill that went to the bones. In the distance, Quark could hear the metallic clang against mast that filled him with longing.
He decided to leave. It wouldn’t be as if he were abandoning the Old Man, not really. No one was abandoned in Bellfairie, everyone minded one another’s business too much; though no one had minded his. He shoved his hands into his jean pockets, awkwardly hunched into himself, thinking about the autumn sun, the sound of yearning, and the taste of salt water taffy when he got a whiff of sugar pouring out the air vents of a store featuring caramel apples. He was tired, his bones ached, and how was it possible he’d forgotten his own mother?
“You really are some kind of freak,” the Old Man said, more than once.
A grown man can’t cry in the middle of the street even in Bellfairie, unless at the scene of a terrible wreck, a suicide perhaps, or a car accident in which a loved one died. Quark knew this, even as tears rose to his eyes. The terrible thing wasn’t forgetting his mother, or remembering the Old Man’s taunts. The terrible thing was what the Old Man said next, only once, when he was drunk; but still.
“You really are some kind of freak, Quark, yet I love you.”
He dipped his head beneath the gray sky, and turned down the nearest side street, immediately removed from the depressed shops and occasional baffled tourist (no one came to Bellfairie on purpose; it was always a wrong turn in someone’s life). He walked with downcast eyes all the way back to his truck, which remained parked on broken glass, lopsided with the deflated tire. He stood for a long time, looking at the house in the yard of stones. There was never any doubt, never any real doubt he would find the skeleton key beneath the rock, collapse on the old couch without even taking his shoes off, or that he would not say he was home, but that he was here, and he would not say he loved the Old Man, or that that the Old Man loved him, but that once he said he did. It wasn’t much, Quark knew. Probably wasn’t even enough. But it’s what he had. Not all his memories were bad.
He dreamt the Old Man tapped him lightly on the shoulder and said, “I’m drowning.” It was a dream, not a portent, and even if it were, what did it portend? In the language of dreams the Old Man taught everything could mean its opposite; a dream of a wedding meant a funeral, for instance, unless it didn’t. Dreams could be predictions, omens, mysterious clues to the shipwreck of the mind, or utter nonsense. Yet, as he lay there, eyes closed, Quark’s shoulder tingled. He wondered if the borders had been breached and if that was why he felt he was being watched. His heart beat wildly with the old fear as he opened his eyes, peered into the dark and jumped back—or what he could do while reclined—thrusting neck and shoulders into the old couch, gasping at the female figure standing in the corner before he recognized her for what she was: a dark-haired woman with bulging eyes carved from wood, a figurehead meant to protect vessel and crew at sea.
Though he wouldn’t say he forgave the Old Man, the thought of him alone out there—in trouble—disturbed Quark. His work in taxidermy provided him a special knowledge of the fragility of bones and skin; he had no illusion about the danger he himself had been in. It was unacceptable to treat a child like a mortal enemy; there could be no excuse. Yet, Quark reasoned, what happened once did not need to be multiplied by every day of his life. He rubbed the back of his neck.
He was so tired when he collapsed on the couch he hadn’t taken in his surroundings; the room still furnished with the Old Man’s chair faced toward the picture window, the round table beside it, the planked wood table at the far end, near the kitchen. All the ordinary furnishings of a modest home anywhere, as far as Quark could tell; he had been in so few other houses.
He guessed he’d slept through the entire afternoon and night, evidence of an exhaustion not warranted by a single disrupted sleep, but Quark often suffered restless nights, something inherited from the Old Man. Strange that the first good rest he’d had in weeks happened in Bellfairie.
It occurred to him to sit in the Old Man’s chair. Once gold, even the dim light could not hide the wear, aged into a piss yellow; nubby against Quark’s hand when he rested his palm on the armrest.
How many mornings had the Old Man sat staring out the window as though his own eyes provided light to guide the shipwrecked home?
A small, unidentified movement drew Quark to look closely through the early morning fog. He abandoned the chair to walk nearer to the window. One can imagine so many things. She was only there for a moment, hovering, as the Old Man said, above the glass, a woman he might have remembered.
Or a Rorschach composed of mist and desire.
What did it matter? What did any of this matter?
She was gone.
So what if the Old Man’s larder held a disturbing array of unpalatable items: the moldy bread, the unidentified frozen meat wrapped in brown paper? Quark was happy for the excuse to plan a return to SuShi Palace for a reprisal of the previous morning’s excellent breakfast.
All he wanted was something to wear. What had he been thinking to come without a change of clothes? He stood at the threshold of the Old Man’s room noting how it, too, was cast in tarnished gold; the narrow bed draped with faded yellow spread. The floorboards squeaked as he walked to the far side of the room where dingy drapes were pulled shut. He considered opening them to let in the light and backyard view, but what if the Old Man should suddenly return? Better, Quark reasoned, to step out of the forbidden space without leaving a trace of trespass beyond the reasonable endeavor of looking for something to wear. He searched through the Old Man’s closet, as bare as a monk’s; a few old shirts, jeans, a tie rack from which hung the Old Man’s belts made of knotted rope.
At some point the sincere search turned into excavation. Coming upon the old leather-bound book in the dim light of the dusty room scented vaguely of camphor, buried in a drawer beneath socks and underwear, Quark felt only mildly curious, expecting lists of numbers and dates, accounts of weath
er; he gasped at the pen-and-ink drawings of ships, whales, and wrecks careening across the pages. He turned to the front of the book and read the inscription: “All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full.”
Who was this man who quoted Ecclesiastes? Who was this man who drew so delicately? Who held Quark’s hand when he was a small child walking to school? Who beat him savagely without apology but confessed to murders never committed? Who was this man? Where had he been and where had he gone? Who was he?
Quark found himself drawn to the witches’ house, situated between the small pond where children cheerfully sailed toy boats, and the cemetery where headstones tilted against the bay beyond. Only one woman from Bellfairie, Sarah Winter, had been convicted and, while townsfolk assuaged their guilt by noting that she was sentenced elsewhere, the fact remained that not a single resident of the quaint community of decent folk came to her defense; just as no one helped Quark when he was young. Why was that, he wondered. Why did everyone feel responsible for Thayer and no one for him? Quark thought he’d let go of all that bitterness but found it stored beside the memories he had of the one person who treated him right.
Mrs. Winter, descendant of the convicted witch, used to substitute at the Our Lady of the Sea grade school, though she never followed lesson plans. Instead, she told “histories,” as she called them, about Bellfairie. Different from the ones the Old Man told; his were riddled with superstitions and myths while her stories were sourced in fact, like the one about the disastrous period when so many men and boys were lost at sea that for one generation Bellfairie was mostly populated by women and children. Quark remembered that story, in particular, for the comfort it used to bring.
He didn’t believe Mrs. Winter, ancient even when he was young, would still be alive, but thought it possible the house had been passed on to another family member. He knew things were different elsewhere but in Bellfairie people referred to family names rather than street addresses, much to the dismay of UPS and FedEx drivers. For as long as Quark could remember, the red clapboard house had been called Wintercairn, and he dared to hope that Mrs. Winter, with her propensity for stories, might have told some about him, or his mother, or the Old Man.
He knocked on the wooden door, which opened without the usual warning of locks being turned and chains undrawn that accompanied such events in the greater world. Quark was caught with his hand raised in a fist, flabbergasted by the appearance of the attorney who stood before him, wearing a wedding dress.
He tried to smile. “I come in peace,” he said.
She squinted, her head at a tilt. “Quark? What are you doing here? Wait. You’re not obligated to tell me anything. Memory is unreliable.”
“I didn’t know you live here. I thought . . . I remember when Mrs. Winter was my substitute teacher. She knew the history of Bellfairie and I thought—”
“Oh, you came to see Aunt Phoebe?”
“I know she can’t be alive but—”
“Don’t let her hear you say that. Quick, come in. I don’t want anyone to see us.”
Once his eyes adjusted, Quark found the small room, furnished with books, flowered chairs, and a red loveseat, surprisingly pleasant. No bones or boiling cauldrons, no cobwebs or swooping bats, no children’s fingers in glass jars, or generations of Bellfairie’s missing pets, though a three-legged white cat sauntered across the hardwood floor, her narrow tail erect.
“Sorry. These old houses have low ceilings. How tall are you, anyway?”
“Six foot five. Last I looked.” She did not seem to understand he made a joke and Quark forged on. “Is that your wedding dress?”
She glanced down at the drape of white lace pooled around her bare feet. Quark steadied himself against the sarcasm sure to follow. Is that your wedding dress? He hated small talk.
“I thought it would look better. Ever since I was little, my aunt said I could wear it, but now I’m not so sure.”
The sleeves that belled over her wrists caused her to look amputated, the waistline landed at her hips, adding pounds, and the chest area puckered in a most unfortunate manner, making her appear deformed. Yet the lace reminded Quark of cherry blossoms and the neckline, which gaped widely as though she had been swallowed by the garment, revealed an attractive clavicle.
“I know a little about sewing,” he said, “for my work. A few adjustments and it will look very nice.”
“You think? Are you a tailor?”
“Taxidermist,” Quark said, eyeing the three-legged feline, his professional assessment awakened.
She bent over and scooped up the cat, who glowered at Quark beneath lowered brow. “I’ll see when she can talk to you. We’re pinning the dress, but—”
“No, no, no.” Quark shook his head as he began to back toward the door. “Don’t bother, I’ll—”
“Quark, stop. Wait. I’ll just be a minute.”
She turned with the white cat tucked under her arm switching its tail. In spite of all he knew to be true, Quark found himself thinking she looked like a good witch, even if ineffectual. He shook his head at himself. This was what happened in Bellfairie. He was being sucked into its crazy.
“Yes. I remember you. Still shaking your head against the world?”
“No, I . . .” Quark felt himself flush. Stop shaking your head, he thought and, after a few more beats, did.
“I don’t recall you being so tall.”
Quark didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t be rude.
“I suppose you’re here about Thayer.”
“Yes, I—”
“Heard he confessed to murdering half the town.”
“Is this a bad time to talk?”
“Who said it was a bad time? Oh.” She glanced over her shoulder. “They don’t need me. They just include me to make me feel like I matter.”
Quark wasn’t sure how to proceed.
“This is where you say, ‘don’t be silly, of course you matter.’”
He felt his face flush.
“That’s what I always liked about you: even as a boy you were unusually sincere.” She shook her finger at him. “No bullshit. I like that. Come on then, why are you here?”
Quark nodded. That was the question, wasn’t it? Why am I here? “I remembered how you knew all the history and I thought maybe you could tell me something. A clue. To find him.”
“Thayer?”
“Or if you know anything about my mother. I don’t remember much. In general.”
“Oh, Starling.”
Though Quark knew the obvious association, it was the first time his mother’s name brought to mind a small bird and the sound wings make in that initial moment of flight. He felt, suddenly, sad. Mother, he thought.
“First, Thayer did not kill her. As I’m sure you, of all people, can attest. She was a darling child, the sweetest dimpled girl this rock ever knew. What’s the old saying? She was the light in her father’s eye. You understand. Those were different times; she roamed the town like no child these days is allowed. She used to stop by often for my ginger cake and cream. How that child loved cream! I used to call her Kitty! Oh, the darling girl.” She dabbed the corner of her dry eye though there was no fraud in the sorrow, Quark was sure.
“Thayer was mostly at sea, you know, and Starling was largely raised by her mother until the tragedy.”
“The tragedy?”
“So many tragedies in your family, Quark. People around here pride rationality but even the most stubborn Bellifarian thinks your family is cursed.”
“Cursed?”
“Stop, Quark. I can’t tolerate this new fashion of repeating single words as a parlay in conversation. It’s an insult to my intelligence. Are you listening or not?”
“I haven’t eaten breakfast yet and—”
“Of course I don’t believe in curses. Don’t look so surprised. I know what people say about the Winters. I may not believe in curses but I do believe in fools and Bellfairie has more than its fair share, Quark. I’m sorry to say, t
hough I’m sure you’re well aware, your grandfather is one of them.”
“Oh, I don’t know my grandfather.”
“What? What’s gotten into you? Why are you talking like an idiot?”
Quark mustered all the benevolence he could access. After all, Mrs. Winter was old.
“Did he hit you in the head once too often? Is that it?”
“Who? What . . . I don’t even—”
“Your grandfather. Thayer!”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Winter, but Thayer is my father, not my grandfather.”
“Quark. Come here. Come closer. Give me your hand. Now, look at me.”
Although he towered over her, Quark felt like a boy again, looking down into Mrs. Winter’s hazel eyes.
“You were my favorite student, Quark. Not like those other boys. Like I said. Sincere.”
She squeezed his hand gently.
“Everyone knows he was changed by the tragedy. Broken. Made strange. Er. But I had no idea he never told you. Quark, listen to me. Thayer is your grandfather.”
Quark didn’t realize he was trying to pull his hand free until he felt the tightening of her clasp.
“Stop. Stop shaking your head. Listen. I’m sure he had his reasons for letting you believe otherwise all these years, but this isn’t difficult to prove. There are records.”
“But if he’s not my father, who is?”
“Everyone loved Starling. She was popular with all the boys, but Thayer—”
“My grandfather?”
“Yes, Quark, try to keep up. I know you’ve had a shock, but this is important. And who knows? I might not be here next time you arrive with questions. I’m not immortal, you know. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Thayer. He doted on her.”
“On my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Winter are you saying that my . . . that he had an improper impulse toward—”
