by Mary Rickert
“No, Quark, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying Thayer doted on his daughter, Starling, and there was nothing improper about it. Who would have guessed he would be such a good father? But he was.”
Quark hated Bellfairie. That’s why he left as soon as he could. The place was full of meanness, superstition, and God-fearing atheists, the sort who don’t believe in heaven’s rule but looked up at the sky to ask for help whenever there was trouble, the kind of people who’d make a kid feel special—cared for, even—while knowing secrets about that child’s life, like how his father was really his grandfather and his mother . . . “What changed him?”
“Quark, maybe you should sit with your head between your knees.”
“When did he stop being a good father?”
“Oh, as soon as you came along. Over time, he just got worse.”
He had to leave. 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?”
“I’m adequate, Mrs. Winter.”
“Adequate?”
“I need to go now.”
“I know this is a shock. Maybe you should stay. I’ll make strawberry tea. I remember you always liked tea.”
“No. Thank you, Mrs. Winter, but no. I need to go.”
He tipped his imaginary hat, turned on his heels and pulled at the heavy door, which did not give until she said, “Here, let me help,” which filled him with the furious power of a man whose strength is challenged by an old lady. The door opened with a pop and he walked out into the Bellfairie air, leaving her to shut the door. He heard her say his name once, gently, but he just kept walking.
All in all it was a dispiriting morning. SuShi’s had, inexplicably, “run out” of oysters, a situation Quark could not fathom.
“There’s a whole ocean right there,” he’d 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.
Dory had a day off, or was sick; at any rate she wasn’t there. Nor was the sheriff, though he arrived fast enough, the squad car sirening through town getting everyone excited. By the time all was said and done a small crowd had gathered outside the diner and, while Quark was soon acquitted, the little mob stepped away from him with a suspicious murmur when he walked past; a hungry orphan. Perhaps a silly term for a grown man, he thought it nicely described a desolation he’d felt all his life. There had never been, or at least he had no memory of there ever having been, someone waiting at the door with warm bread and jam, or candy in her pocket.
Or had there? For as soon as Quark mourned the lack, he pictured a dark-haired woman with a sad smile waiting in front of his house, conjured, he assumed, like that morning’s ghost, from longing.
The restaurant manager (a name Quark didn’t recognize, someone new to Bellfairie, he guessed) followed him outside to apologize. “Everyone’s on edge,” she said, “’cause of us not realizing there was a serial killer in our midst.”
She didn’t know, of course, that Quark was the “killer’s” kin. She offered to serve him anything on the menu free of cost “for his trouble,” at which point Quark once again requested the waffles with oyster sauce.
“We’re out of oysters,” she said, which brought them back to the brink of trouble.
“Never mind.” Quark tipped his imaginary hat, which caused her to take two steps back, a false smile on her face. He thrust his hands into the pocket of his father’s/grandfather’s pants. “Wyman’s Market still this way?” he asked.
Which is how Quark came to be carrying two brown paper bags full of groceries up broken glass road, exhausted by their weight, and just plain exhausted. Stunned to see the woman standing by the front door, he felt a momentary surge, as though something in his chest had taken flight, before he recognized the lawyer.
“Do you need help?”
“No, I’m fine,” he lied. His right hand was particularly cramped. He wasn’t even sure he could make it up the steps without dropping one or both bags.
“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,” Quark said. The right-hand bag began to slip. He propped it up with his knees.
“Here, let me get the door,” she reached across to open it.
He stepped inside, blinking against the change of light as he hurried to set one bag on the narrow kitchen counter and the other on the small table, then looked behind to discover she remained at the threshold, a silhouette against the bright sky beyond. Not sure what to do about her, he began unpacking the groceries: a loaf of sliced bread, a jar of peanut butter, a carton of eggs.
“Quark?”
He had almost forgotten about her, which made him feel unsettled. What was wrong with him? How could he forget everything so easily?
“I have some news about Thayer. That’s why I’m here.”
“I haven’t had breakfast yet,” Quark said as a fly buzzed narrowly past his face. “Come in. Shut the door and come in.”
Butter, bacon, cream, a roasting chicken, carrots, onions, a small head of cauliflower, russet potatoes, and a package of toilet paper which he left in the bag rather than expose his bathroom needs; she looked uncomfortable enough, standing in the kitchen doorway.
“Good news. They found Thayer. Sheriff Healy’s bringing him home.”
“Here?”
She lifted a sneakered foot to frown at the sole. “Can I sit down a minute? I think I stepped on something.”
Quark wasn’t sure what was expected. After all, weren’t the chairs obvious? He pulled one away from the table, and with a flourish, indicated she should sit, which she did, untying her shoe as she spoke.
“Turns out he was with Dean Yarly. You know he was a priest, right? Long time ago, but apparently thinks he still has to keep everyone’s secrets. Anyway, Healy, oh, Jesus Christ, no wonder.” She lifted her hand, thumb and pointer finger holding a sliver of glass. “I’m all right, Quark. You don’t have to be . . . see, it didn’t even break the skin. It was mostly in the shoe.”
Uncomfortable with her naked foot, Quark quickly turned away. “Better check the other one,” he said, laying six strips of bacon into the hot pan then adding a few more in case she was hungry too.
“I don’t think that’s necessary. I mean, what are the chances?”
“He spread broken glass all over the road.”
“What?”
“’Cause of the ghost,” Quark said. “She comes at night and stares at the house. My mother, I guess. He wants to keep her out.”
“But that doesn’t make . . .” She stopped in mid-sentence and unlaced the other shoe.
Quark offered a saucer, which she looked at quizzically until he said, “for the glass,” and placed it on the floor beside her feet. Later, when he tossed out the evidence, Quark counted three shards, one spotted with blood.
After she left, Quark ate his eggs, toast, and bacon at the table. There was a brief period of consternation when he discovered neither salt nor pepper to be found but, once he accepted his fate, the breakfast was good enough. Afterward he made coffee, which he decided to take to the backyard, stepping out the kitchen door into a fairy tale of some kind. He blinked and shook his head, but it was not his imagination. There was a ship in the backyard, or the bones of one at least.
He couldn’t decide if he was impressed or dismayed. How long had this been going on, the Old Man building an ark? Surely this proved his mental capacity, didn’t it? No one could build such a thing from the workings of a mind in chaos, could they?
He drank the first cup of coffee circling the ship, inspecting from all angles, finding it sure. The second he drank sitting on the same flat rock he used to pretend was a throne. He was often a prince back then, ruling an imaginary kingdom of eccentri
c residents, including a few talking animals, in the very space from which now rose the skeleton of ship woven through with sky. Quark decided not to try to make sense of it. Instead, he sat on the rock and drank his coffee while he waited for the Old Man’s return.
In real life Quark spent long hours at the taxidermy table, absorbed in his work. He was not easily distracted or made restless. Who knows how long he sat before he heard the unmistakable sound of tires on gravel, car doors slammed, a curse?
He left the empty mug and hurried to the front of the house; felt an initial tug of fear at the sight of Thayer meandering toward the front door, unaware of Quark’s presence or appraisal. Sheriff Healy, who stood by the side of the squad car, nodded at Quark, who nodded back before turning to greet the Old Man. Unsure what to call him, Quark said “hey” three times before Thayer looked up from beneath unruly brows. The blue cast of his gaze had been diluted by time but remained penetrating, giving 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 the anchor,” as they say.
After fixing Quark with that long look, which filled him with guilt for the transgressions he’d made, going through the Old Man’s closet, wearing his clothes, discovering the ship, Thayer opened his arms wide, as though to measure half a fathom, or so Quark thought before he realized it was a beckoning.
He stepped forward, arms at his side. The Old Man still possessed a surprising strength, though now Quark was so tall he could look over Thayer’s head at Sheriff Healy, who remained leaning against the car, arms crossed over his chest, watching.
Finally released, Quark saluted the sheriff, who responded by stepping away from the car. Stone and glass crunched beneath his boots as he walked toward Quark while Thayer mumbled his way into the house.
“You’re staying, right?” the sheriff asked. “He can’t be left alone. I told him he could stay with me but he wants to be here. With you.”
Quark nodded as this was all perfectly natural, though he felt strange. What was the feeling? Something like happiness, he thought, to imagine the Old Man had chosen him.
“I don’t know how long,” Quark said. “I have work.”
“What is it you do again?”
“Taxidermy.” And, when the sheriff frowned up at him, “I preserve animals so people and museums can keep them.”
“Is that right?”
Quark nodded.
“You make a living at that?”
He shrugged.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Do you do . . . pets?”
Quark hesitated. He considered lying but, after all, this was the sheriff whose dark eyes peered so closely at Quark he felt sure even the most innocent lie would be discerned. “Some.”
“Yeah?” Sheriff Healy shook his head. “Well, it takes all kinds, don’t it?”
Quark hated the way his own hand enveloped the sheriff’s and the momentary surge of strength this incited. It was a man thing. The way they were all threatened by his size, though Quark never felt up to the competition; his own grip always gentle. The end of any handshake Quark ever shared was accompanied by a bemused look. It was to the sheriff’s credit, Quark thought, that Healy’s expression remained neutral.
“It’s good you came, son,” Healy said, already walking to his car.
Quark lingered to watch Healy maneuver a Y turn around the Ford, still parked where it had been abandoned. The squad car traveled slowly down the broken glass road, then stopped at the crossroad longer than necessary. Finally the left turn signal blinked, and Healy continued on his way.
Quark looked longingly at his truck. If he’d fixed that flat he’d be gone already. With a sigh, he turned to the house.
Thayer sat at the plank table, an open bottle of rum at his elbow. Quark sat across from him, pretending grave interest in the brown liquid. He raised his glass in response to Thayer’s silent toast and gulped, in one horrible swallow, then set his glass on the table in unison with the Old Man. Quark hated the flavor. He did enjoy, however, the loosening that accompanied the rum. The Old Man scowled at Quark’s inability to keep up, but after his own glass had been dispensed several times, Thayer began the old argument 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 half drowned by a shark, swept overboard in a gale, lost his ship, terrorized by a ghost, ate bad mussels, kissed a witch, almost died from a tattoo, and nearly hit by lightning.
“You know what happens to a man when a bolt finds him, don’t you, son?”
In Quark’s pleasantly unknit state he felt tempted to ask the serious questions. But the lack of inhibition that considered the questions also depleted their urgency. Time enough, he told himself, and, I’m not leaving until I know the truth.
“Someone hit by lightning,” he began, but the Old Man leaned across the table to deliver a rum-soaked response to his own query.
“A man hit by lightning can see the future. Read minds. Talk to ghosts.”
“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 do you know?” Thayer asked. “What do you know about fortune?”
Quark peered into his glass, inhaling the scent of vanilla, a hint of cinnamon and clove. It smelled like something he would enjoy. But what did he know? Really, what did he know about anything? He glanced at the Old Man, an unintimidating figure with trembling hands and unfocused gaze. An old man now, literally, babbling about ghosts, luck, and regret.
“The sea never did call your name, did it, boy?”
Quark lifted the glass and swallowed the burn. He learned early that he was not made for it, suffering nausea even on the pier if the day was windy enough. The Old Man, exiled from the ocean, paid others to take Quark out until everyone knew all it took were a few whitecaps for his skin to turn chalky, and no amount of orange slices could prevent the inevitable, apparently limitless, vomiting.
Quark became a joke, though even he knew it was not meant unkindly. People in Bellfairie often showed affection through humor. Unfortunately, Quark rode the teasing as well as the waves. Folks learned to leave him alone. They also learned not to take him out on their boats, which was fine by him. He hadn’t thought about all this in years, but the woozy drunken feeling reminded him. He pushed the glass away with the back of his hand.
“What are you doing with that ship?”
Quark knew, from experience, that it was best to walk away from the kind of dead calm his question raised. Even so, he remained.
Thayer leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Did I ever tell you what happened out there?”
“Out where?”
“She went down—”
Quark sighed. How he hated this story of the Old Man’s last ride.
“Eight of us when she went down. Eight. Only one survived. Me. I swam three days. I was young then. Like you.” Thayer stopped, squinted at Quark. “Why’d you stay away so long?”
“I—”
“Did I tell you about the others? How I heard their screams?”
Quark looked down at his hands, and found them, in his inebriated state, shockingly large. It’s amazing, he thought, that I can do such delicate work with such monstrous hands.
“First I recognized the screams, but after a while one man’s screams start to sound like another’s and then they sound inhuman. Like birds. Like your name; squawking seagulls.”
“Why do you have to talk about this now? It was a long time ago. There was nothing—”
“And I swam away.”
Yes, because of the sharks, Quark thought. He sat through recitations of this story so often that when he heard a seagull’s mournful cry the first thing he thought was someone was dying.
“Why did you stay away so long?”
Quark rubbed his fingers across the gouge marks on the table.
He had learned to whittle there. First thing he made was a canoe the size of his thumb. He wondered what ever happened to it.
“What are you going to do with that ship?”
The Old Man’s eyes narrowed to chips of blue. Less Santa, much more the expression Quark remembered, sneering and cruel.
“What am I gonna do with that ship?” He mimicked Quark’s plaintive tone. “What do you think I’m gonna do with her? I’m going back to sea, boy.”
Quark turned to look out the big picture window, shocked at the bright blue sky cut by a lone seagull; a moment later Quark heard its mournful cry.
All life is, of course, a history of loss. A sturdy ship sails from home on a pleasant day, smoothly gliding across the sea until it slips over the horizon never to return. Mothers bear children, relinquished to a world that largely forgets how they were, truly one, a single body carrying two hearts, diminished by the strange mathematics of regeneration. Every life is composed of forgotten hours, the unremembered, the unknown and forever lost.
Quark was not a child, after all; though returning to his boyhood home had reacquainted him with the child he’d been in Bellfairie, awkward where it seemed he should have been most comfortable, lonely among his memories. All right, he had been odd boy out, Quark knew this. He had lived the consequences and accepted them.
What was this then? This terrible feeling that kept him awake, staring at the ceiling slanted over his bed, too close? Every time he drifted toward sleep he awoke with a start, his breathing labored. He wanted to push the ceiling away; how had he slept beneath it all those years like a boy in a casket propped open for viewing? What a thought! What a morbid idea! Yet, what was he to make of the great unmooring? His father was not his father. His mother was gone. She had always been gone. But, no, the sheriff said Quark had been eight years old before she left. Where was she? Somewhere in his mind, Quark felt certain, but how to find her?
