Shipping News, The - E. Annie Proulx [143]
Sunshine flexed a herring backbone and sang “birch rine, tar twine, cherry wine and turbletine.” Bunny and Marty sharing a chair, arms entwined, each with a bag of candy hearts saved from Valentine’s Day, allowed themselves one each. LUCKY IN LOVE. OH YOU KID.
At the table, Dennis fidgeted, up and down. Opened a drawer, closed it.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Beety. “You’re like a cat with his bum on fire tonight.”
An offended look from Dennis while Quoyle bit his lip. “Don’t know, woman! Seems like I’m looking for something. Don’t know what. That’s one thing.”
“You want more tea?”
“No, no, I’s full up.”
But there were things. No work for weeks, none in sight, he said to Quoyle. Not a good way to live, always anxious about income. Sick of it. Be different if he could do a little fishing. Up again, to pick up the teapot, look in it. Quoyle was lucky to have a job. Wasn’t there more tea to be had?
“It’s your father’s paper,” said Quoyle. “Can’t you work on the paper? God knows we could use you. Ah, we’re shorthanded every way.” Bungled his spoonful of sugar, spilling half on the good tablecloth.
“Christ, no! Rather have me arms cut off at the shoulder. I hates messing with little squiddy words, reading and writing and that. Like scuffing through dead flies.” He showed his blunt hands. “We’re talking”—nodded at Beety, whose eyes were cast down at [326] the moment—”about going to Toronto for a year or two. Don’t want to, but we could save up and then come back. There’s good work there for carpenters. There’s nothing here.” Drummed on the table, which set all the children off, small fingers trying to produce the hollow galloping. Dennis glared. Unconvincingly.
Beety and Wavey scraped the dishes, talked of Toronto. Beety’s voice as limp as a hot rag. How it might be. Would the kids like it. Maybe better if they didn’t. Maybe. Maybe.
Quoyle could hardly say, don’t go. Knew they would be lost forever if they went, for even the few who came back were altered in temper as a knife reclaimed from the ashes of a house fire. Poor Bunny, if she had to lose Marty. Poor Quoyle, if he had to lose Dennis and Beety.
When all were yawning, Quoyle carried Herry, more or less asleep on the living room carpet. Sunshine gripped Wavey’s hand because there was ice. The dog was first in the car and tried every seat.
“Wavey,” said Sunshine, “if you ironed a fish would it be as big as a rug?”
“I think, bigger,” said Wavey. “If unfolded.”
Dennis walked out with them. Rust pattered on the ground when Quoyle slammed Wavey’s door.
“When are you going to get rid of this old clunker?” Morose. Braced his hand against the station wagon until it started to move away. Watched their taillights dwindle, then walked across the road and looked. Nothing to be seen but the lighthouse’s electronic stutter. The sea flat as boards.
¯
In the sleeping house Quoyle ran a hot bath. He soaked in the water, pinched his nose and slid down into the heat. With gratitude. Fate could have given him Nutbeem’s molasses barrel.
Out of the tub he rubbed with a towel, wiped off the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. He looked at his naked self, steam rising from his flesh in the cool air. Saw he was immense. The bull neck, the great jaw and heavy cheek slabs stubbled with coppery bristles. The yellowish freckles. Full shoulders [327] and powerful arms, the hands as hairy as a werewolf’s. Damp fur on the chest, down to the swelling belly. Bulky genitals bright red from the hot bathwater in a nest of reddish hair. Thighs, legs like tree stumps. Yet the effect was more of strength than obesity. He guessed he was at some prime physical point. Middle age not too far ahead, but it didn’t frighten him. It was harder to count his errors now, perhaps because they had compounded beyond counting, or had blurred into his general condition.
He pulled on the grey nightshirt which was torn under the arms and clung to his wet back.